Creations in the Sand

Learning Curves

2009-10-06T14:15:00.001-07:00

Learned something about serving today.

I was on the phone with my cell phone provider needing a simple question answered. The gentleman helping me hadn't attuned himself to actually listen to my words.

Footnote here. I have a big "disregarded" button that I hate having pushed. I don't like being disregarded, or ignored or disrespected (my poor kids). I want to be heard and validated.

The poor man on the phone didn't really push my button, just leaned up against it a little bit.

So when he asked me if this was the first time I had called the provider about this question, I firmly disavowed him of that notion (politely of course), explaining that I'd already told him I'd been talking to another agent about this issue.

He then very politely asked if I had any more questions and got off the line.

I sat staring at the phone, thinking about how I heard him close down. Second time that's happened when I've spoken with salespeople this week, so I did a little self-examination.

I'm a coder by default. I tend to peek between the lines of what people are saying to ascertain motives and hidden objectives. It happens in a matter of milliseconds and I usually don't notice it.

That is until the Lord gently cleared his throat and pointed to those dad burned assumptions.

He conveyed that I'm on guard against being taken advantage of, or of being rejected by others. The lie is that if I can figure it out then I can protect myself. Yeah, like that works.

It is self-focused rather than others-minded. And he wants me to be about people, because He is about people. About loving them and serving them.

So what if someone has an agenda. That doesn't mean I have to buy in.

The last little thing he said with a wink and a grin was, "Isn't this fun?"

Yeah, actually it is.

Uncharted Depths

2009-09-25T13:17:00.001-07:00

I feel God calling me to new playing grounds. To deeper levels of intimacy and connection.

He's asking me to open my heart to Him. To really open my heart. No holding back that guarded five percent that I do with most people. My safety zone that I can hide in when I get fearful or uncertain.

He wants me naked and transparent in all my emotions. Not coming to Him after I've locked anger and resentment, or jealousy and envy back into that closet in my mind. The place I store all those ugly "not Christian enough" emotions.

That smoke and mirrors room that hides behind perfectionism.

He wants me to bring everything to Him. All the dirt and ugliness that I slog through. And I'm finding that incredibly difficult.

And terribly exciting.

There's that curl of anticipation, like when you find out that the boy you've had a crush on just might like you.

It's called HOPE.

Hope that God truly will embrace me when I stand near Him with the fruit of my fleshliness weighing me down.

Hope that the truth that I read in the Word about Him, will make that twelve inch drop from head to heart and flow into every part of my being.

Hope that I will truly begin to grasp the Nature and Goodness of the One who created ME.

Whose Mirror Are You Looking In?

2009-08-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

A year ago we acquired a playful, sandstone-colored ball of inquisitiveness, who could have authored the "curiosity killed the cat," saying.

Hudson's an indoor cat, a stance I took after our last indoor / outdoor cat had an unfortunate run-in with a passing car. But Hudson hasn't reconciled himself to this state of affairs. After a few tentative ventures onto the front porch when we took our dog out to potty (and failed to shut the door completely), he's been attempting to sneak outside.

Today his wildest dreams were realized when we left to go school shopping (I finally broke my tradition of racing to do it a few days before school starts) and someone left the front door ajar. My eight-year-old was flying solo, so he did the hunt through the house as we called for Hudson. But no caramel-colored cat came sauntering out.

We prayed and then TDH (tall, dark & handsome) slipped on his sandals and said he'd go looking for him. I was a bit surprised and touched. He and Hudson haven't exactly bonded. Though he didn't make it farther than the side yard where I found him pulling weeds.

I went to pick up our eleven-year-old twins from youth group, biting down several nails as I wondered how I was going to break the news. Especially to my tender-hearted daughter.

Halfway home, I took a deep breath and explained that the front door had been open while we were shopping and Hudson had gone on an adventure. Stricken blue eyes dashed toward mine and I quickly added that Hudson would likely show up in the morning when he was hungry. Not wanting to get hopes too high, I added that he might have packed a big knapsack and wouldn't be back for a couple days.

She calmed some, so I added, "He'll probably come back with a couple tattoos." A slight mile emerged and she said, "Yeah, he'll probably have shaved his whiskers."

I was grateful that they could see it as Hudson's grand adventure and not slide into gut-wrenching panic.

After dinner, TDH redeemed himself from the weed-pulling detour and after praying for Hudson's safe return, glanced out the front door and there he was, hunkered down below the porch, eyes wide and fearful. We gave him space and he launched himself toward the open door, body low to the ground, fast as a missile as if one of us would capture him and toss him back into the darkness.

It brought to mind a conversation I'd had with my daughter earlier in the day. She'd been tormented with guilt and shame by a choice she'd made earlier and had difficulty forgiving herself. Like Hudson, she couldn't see through her own poor choice to the love and forgiveness waiting with arms stretched out.

We talked through salvation and how Jesus on the cross took all sin on himself, receiving God's anger in our place. He lived out our jail sentence.

She pondered that and then with a bit of skepticism asked, "God's not angry with us?" I told her he wasn't. She processed that and then with a bit of wonder she asked, "Not even a little bit?" I told her that he wasn't angry in the least and that because of what Jesus did, we have God's pleasure and delight in us.

God then did one of those cool things He does for us, and in a nanosecond deposited a whole revelation into my mind. I saw a little girl standing in the righteous robes of Christ while the enemy of our souls stood nearby slinging mud onto her—rejection, anger, insecurity, hurt . . . and while none of the mud could stick, he held up a mirror and spoke lies that made her believe she was covered in the filth of hell.

But we don’t have to believe those lies. We can soak in the truth of our forgiveness and redemption—which is defined as our deliverance or rescue.

Jesus is the great Rescuer and God awaits us with arms stretched wide.

(Art by: Brielle Sand)

Temporary Blog Hiatus . . .

2009-05-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

Due to a couple of projects I will not be posting for a while. But I'm looking forward to getting back in the swing of blogging soon.

Grocery Lists

2009-04-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

Thankfulness. . .

The Word says that we enter God's presence with thanksgiving in our hearts. He's been impressing this on my heart over and over lately.

I remember when I used to sit down for my quiet time with the stress and burden of my troubles cloaking me. My mind a fog of frustration or trying to spin out solutions.

I'd have to intentionally clear out a space in my brain and get to my thankfulness. Thanking Him for our house, our car, our health, our kids—okay sometimes they were strictly on the prayer request list . . .

While thanking him for all those things is vital, I'm learning that entering His presence with thanksgiving doesn't necessarily mean pulling out a grocery list of thank you "to do"s while a huge pile of hurt and stress sits on our shoulders.

My time with Him becomes more real and intimate when I can say, "Thank you for being with me in this stress and hurt. Thank you that you have a path already laid out to navigate this situation I'm facing. Thank you that You have everything I need. Thank You that you provide the energy to be what I need to be for my family during this time. Thank You for the answers I know You have for these problems. Thank You that You never leave me alone to handle it by myself."

My thanksgiving can be for who He is to me in my mess.

There is such power and comfort and freedom in speaking truth about who He is and what He wants to do in the midst of my challenges and struggles, that I come away from those times renewed, throwing off the fear and discouragement.

When we give Him our burdens, He gives us joy and hope.

When Life Gets Rough

2009-04-21T10:11:00.001-07:00

I first noticed my emotions flat lining in February.

But it wasn't until I got a concerned note from my son's six grade teacher about a nose dive in missing assignments that I figured out what was going on.

We were nearing the six month anniversary of my father-in-law's death. According to grief experts it's a difficult milestone.

My reservoir was swinging toward empty but life's challenges didn't slow down to keep pace. They kept coming at full fury.

I wanted to pull over into an emotional rest stop. When I signed up to me a wife and mom, I forgot to ask about the vacation benefits (found out there's no sick pay either).

While the benefits of being a wife and mom far outweigh the challenges, those low spots can be pretty low and pretty lonely.

Quiet times can feel desolate.

It's easy to get caught up in emotional negativity. If I don't "feel" God near me, I could assume that I hadn't lived up to heavenly standards and he withdrew some of His love for me.

I know, if I hadn't been floundering in pain and defeat I'd have realized that is counter to everything Jesus said about our Father's heart.

But I'm learning a principle that I heard Graham Cooke speak about once: God is always present to our faith and occasionally we feel Him.

I love that. When life gets overwhelming, stand on what you know to be true.

God will never leave us nor forsake us. Amen!

Short Ponderings

2009-03-26T23:29:00.001-07:00

The kindness of God leads to repentance.

So when my kids disobey, my kindness toward them leads to their repentance.

Punishment (not talking about discipline), even when deserved and just, does not bring an inward change.

Love covers a multitude of sins and opens the doors to restoration and reconciliation.

The NOW Syndrome

2009-03-17T11:01:00.001-07:00

My husband is endlessly patient. He's kind of like God that way.

I'm not. Apparently I was taking a bathroom break when that gift was handed out.

So rather than patience, I have a syndrome. The NOW syndrome. I want an answer to my email NOW. I want to know what God is going to do in this situation NOW. I want your room cleaned NOW.

Life does not cater to my syndrome. People have their own lives to function in that, unfortunately, do not revolve around me. God . . . he just laughs at me, TDH is convinced of this. And my children certainly do not fall at my feet begging to know what I need them to accomplish right NOW.

Okay, there is someone slavishly devoted to my happiness, but I don't know if it counts since he is only twelve inches tall and covered in brown and white fur.

I can't stand waiting. And I'm talking about the important stuff—relational conflict, the teenage years, pregnancy . . . these things do not resolve themselves overnight.

I'm surprised I wasn't one of those kids who unwrapped her Christmas packages in the dead of night and then repackaged them and pretended surprise two weeks later. Okay, there was the baton I found one year under my mom's bed and practiced with daily behind locked door until she wrapped it.

What I've learned is that God wants to work things out in us in the waiting. To help us gain a deeper understanding of who Jesus is to us in that situation, so we can become more like Him to others. (I know, I've argued with him about it too, but He's not budging).

So the more we fight a situation or beg and plead to be delivered from it, the more we waste an opportunity to learn.

To learn about ourselves and to learn what God wants to be to us. He always makes provision for us, we just have to discover what it looks like and then hold on tight.

My default mode will probably always be impatience. But I'm learning to take a deep breath and look at things from a new angle, from God's angle.

Living in a Bubble

2009-03-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

I think people fear being alone.

Not alone as in the-house-is-blissfully-empty-and-I-can-curl-up-in-front-of-the-fire-with-a-good-book alone.

I'm talking isolation from human connection.

I used to have anxiety attacks as a young child. Looking back I see them as moments of mind jarring terror when I felt disconnected from love, from humanity.

Lost on my own island of isolation it didn't matter that I bumped elbows, shared couch space and co-existed with human beings on a daily basis. I felt a galaxy of unbridgeable, frighteningly empty space separated us.

Space in which my emotions felt too big for me and too heavy to share.

And sadly, I don't think I was alone in feeling this way. I think many people feel disconnected on some level.

I think this is why people create movements of thought (or religions) that are based on the belief that people are a part of the whole (the New Age movement is a big proponent of this). Everything and everybody is interconnected.

When someone feels truly alone, they are at risk for unhealthy relationships. They crave interconnectedness no matter how damaging. Better to be with someone who blame-shifts or abuses than to not belong to anyone.

To be isolated without God is to feel despair and search for connection to something.

And yet sometimes, even with God, we struggle with living in an isolated bubble of knowledge. Knowing God loves us, knowing people love us, knowing we have "value," and yet it might as well be a million miles from us, so unreachable from the glass we look through that it feels untrue.

Believing that no one can penetrate the isolation, the concept of unconditional love is so risky, so unbelievable to actually chance.

Sometimes we have to push beyond what our emotions feel and live instead by what we know is true.

Emotions can be unstable, unreliable measures of truth, leading us to peaks of euphoria and canyons of despair, tethered to nothing but the whims of circumstance.

But if you make the choice to live by what you know to be true (sometimes you have to take that step on blind, teeth-chattering, faith)—God loves you, others love you—your feet will stay grounded in reality.

And we can choose to reach beyond the bubble and learn that we really can live outside the fear that separates us from others.

Our Rock

2009-03-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

My oldest son's class earned a trip to the mountains for a day of skiing and snowboarding.

As we pulled snow pants and gloves out of the closet, I realized that I'm a rather fearful mom at times (yeah, like I didn't know that already). Worried that someone or something terrible lurks around the corner ready to rip my life to shreds.

I've had to face this in myself now that my kids are at the age where they can start experiencing some breathing room and freedom (without their mother following them with binoculars and a walkie talkie).

The night before the snow outing I lay in bed in near hyper-ventilating panic, my writerly mind racing through every horrible scenario I've ever read about or imagined happening (if you're not a fearful mom, count your blessings).

In that moment, God showed me two ways of living my thought life—in fearful chaos or in trusting peace. The choice was mine.

I could pull and pull on the threads of "what-if" and watch my life unravel through fear-drenched imaginations, or take those thoughts captive and live in truth.

And peace.

Sure, those things could happen. But the odds are against them. And truly, how does worry help us? It doesn't prevent a darn thing and it certainly doesn't soften the blow if it does happen.

Fear warps life and prevents freedom, is what it truly does. Its purpose is to bind us into a way of thinking we were not designed for.

So why live there?

We were designed to trust in our Creator. That doesn't mean that bad things won't happen, but it does mean that He's sifted our lives through His fingers and He'll be our Rock through all situations.

Hairy Legs

2009-02-26T10:21:00.001-08:00

I've always wanted to be a part of one of those couples who reads quietly in bed.

I even bought the bedside tables (with drawers for our enlightenment material) and cute little lamps.

I envisioned peaceful evenings where one of us would pause, finger marking the spot, and share insightful nuggets that would precipitate growth and emotional intimacy.

Reality is far different.

Exhausted from herding the short people through after school practices, homework, dinner, chores (need a cattle prod to get them through those) and general cleanup, I fall onto the couch next to my bleary-eyed hunk and stare at the scenes flashing across the TV.

We stay up too late because we're too tired to go to bed.

So rather than sharing insightful truths, we are treading sleep-deprived waters, frantically trying to make it to shore before we hit the teenage rapids around the bend.

The only growth I'm getting is the hair on my legs.

What I am learning is to roll with the punches. Life on the edge of insanity is only a season (a very long eighteen year season).

And one day we'll look at each other and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Goal Oriented

2009-02-24T09:53:00.001-08:00

I'm an ultra goal-oriented girl with a case of envy.

I envy those relaxed moms who can chuckle at life while playing a leisurely game of Shoots and Ladders with the short people while the bills are crying to be paid, the stuffed laundry hamper is starting to smell, and the ring around the tub is hosting a bacterial hula party.

Uusally by 5:00 pm when life is kicking me in the hind end—dinner has yet to be determined and I have to take one of the children to practice—my youngest son will pick that moment to give me a play-by-play of his hour long basketball scrimmage with his older brother.

I manage sporadic eye contact and impatient, "Mmm hmm, mmhmms," before I finally stop him and say, "Honey, I'm in a hurry, can you tell me in the car?" and then harangue the kids all the way to practice for not being ready when I needed to leave—completely forgetting my son's story.

I can get so focused on the goal (get there on time, clean the house, empty out those drawers, get the pictures in the scrapbook . . . ) that the kids float somewhere along the periphery.

The other day after noticing how harried my life gets and how impatient I can become, I pleaded with the Lord to help me to slow down and really listen to my kids. I want them to know they are the most important beings in my universe and not just a detail I'll get to when everything else is accomplished.

And it hit me. Make them the goal. Why not flip things around and make their well-being the goal of every interaction I have with them? And that goal trumps every other one on my list.

Pastor Wayne Cordeiro once shared this thought in a sermon. "Imagine that children have a sign around their necks that reads, 'Help me feel good about myself today.'"

We have such an impact on how our children view themselves. And I want that view to be a good one.

Lovely Not Ugly

2009-02-17T20:42:00.001-08:00

I've been reading an amazing book, Finding Peace for Your Heart by Stormie O'Martian. Stormie points out how critical it is to our emotional health to confess and repent of sin.

Because I know that when we receive salvation all our sins (past, present and future) have been forgiven, I don't spend a lot of time on the confessing part. I toss up my share of, "Sorry, Lord, there I go agains," but don't really focus on the confessing of it. Sometimes I even skate around my sinfulness because of the shame I feel for my behavior.

Then Stormie shared (and I agree) that though we are forgiven and our citizenship in heaven is certain and secure, unconfessed sin becomes a weight we drag around.

A little further along, she said that when we are victimized by others, our response to it can be sinful and needs to be confessed. I was still nodding until my gaze skidded to a stop on the sin of criticism.

I felt my defensive heels dig in. But Lord, I'm not trying to be critical, it's just when they . . . and I saw myself trying to justify why I had a right to criticize and judge.

Oh, yes, my rights. I wear them like armor. You see, on some level (yeah, that would be the fleshly one) I believe I have a right to be critical if I have been wronged by them (all those thems out there that spoke rudely to me, that cut me off in traffic, even the short ones who talked back to me after I told them to put their breakfast bowls in the dishwasher instead of the sink).

Stormie made it abundantly clear—quoting Bible verses no less—that I have no rights when it comes to this.

So I reluctantly started confessing and repenting. She hammered that one home too. No point in confessing (apologizing) if we have no intention of repenting (turning away from the sin and behavior).

So after pondering all this, I wandered to the kitchen to make myself a cup of late night cocoa (I was craving and it was the only chocolate in the house). I told the Lord that I realize I often avoid him because I don't want him to see the criticalness and judgment I have in me.

He pretty much said that was silly since he already knew it was there. So feeling like a kid digging her toes in the dirt, I asked, "So what do you think of me when I'm like that?"

I truly felt like he said, "I think you're lovely."

I blurted out. "But I'm so ugly in my sin." And I heard. "Don't call ugly what I call lovely."

He reminded me that all my sin has been paid for and his anger satisfied when Jesus took it upon himself, so what is left, is my loveliness.

Isn't that amazing? And it is for each one of us.

Valentine’s Dessert

2009-02-12T23:39:00.001-08:00

I was sitting with TDH watching TV the other night. This is a rare thing. Usually he is watching TV while I have my nose in a book.

Though he's usually just delighted to have me in the same room with him (even when I wear ear plugs—can't stand the noise of the TV while I immerse myself in another world).

An advertisement for Rachel Ray came on. She was describing the delectable and easy dishes you can make and serve up for your honey. I stared at the screen, Rachel in her white apron whipping together yummy entrées that would take me hours to make—or at least hours to clean up.

With my eyes lusting after some steamy dish she'd made, I wistfully mused, "I wish I had a cook." Then I turned to TDH and said, "I bet you're glad you have one."

A slow smile spread across his face, but he wisely didn't say a word.

So I'm going to take a side turn here and share a recipe I recently acquired (from a Costco newsletter, via a neighbor's Christmas open house where I had to stop myself from hiding this dish in my coat and sneaking it home). It is rich, rich, rich, and oh, so yummy! Happy Valentine's Day!

Brownie Pudding:

½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter (plus extra for buttering the dish)
4 extra large eggs (at room temperature)
2 cups sugar
¾ c good cocoa
½ c flour
seeds scraped from 1 vanilla bean (try 1 ½ tsp vanilla instead)
1 TBSP framboise liqueur (I didn't have this—um, what is framboise?)

Serve with vanilla ice cream or whipped topping

Preheat oven 325 degrees. Lightly butter a 2 quart oval baking dish.

Melt the butter and set aside to cool.
In bowl of an electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment, beat the eggs and sugar on medium-high speed for 5-10 minutes, until, very thick and light yellow. Meanwhile sift cocoa powder and flour together.

When egg and sugar mixture is ready, lower the speed to low and add the vanilla seeds, framboise (if using), and cocoa mixture. Mix only until combined. With the mixer still on low, slowly pour in the cooled butter and mix again, just until combined.

Pour the brownie mixture into the prepared dish and place in a larger baking pan. Add enough of the hottest tap water to the pan to come halfway up the side of the dish and bake for exactly 1 hour. A cake tester inserted2 inches from the side will come out ¾ clean. The center will appear very underbaked; this dessert is between a brownie and a pudding.

Allow to cool and serve with ice cream (or whipped topping).

Serves 6 (or two really greedy people!).

Magical Moments

2009-02-10T12:37:00.001-08:00

I'm on a writing deadline and apologize for not blogging last week. Today I'm posting a guest blog I wrote for another blogger.)

Books have always held magic for me. I walk into a bookstore with lust in my heart and money in hand, hurriedly threading my way between patrons, my eyes feasting on the colorful titles that line the shelves, searching for the right story to match whatever mood I happen to be in.

Just the smell of the ink on the new pages sends a thrill coursing through me and engulfs my time and attention for hours as each turned page takes me deeper into adventures previously unknown.

The end of a book is something to be both anticipated and dreaded.

Books are more satisfying than the richest dessert (and that's saying a lot for this chocoholic—though a good book and a slice of chocolate torte have sent me into raptures).

I first discovered the magic of books in the second grade. My tiny elementary school, with its three rooms and forty children encompassing eight grades, stressed the importance of reading. I unexpectedly reached a new juncture when I was forced to check out a book to read on my own.

I don't recall the titles in the series I fell in love with, but they had rich yellow covers that sent a wave of anticipation through me each time I discovered a new yellow spine hiding among the brown and ecru colored books that lined the bookshelves.

I read them all, over and over, these delicious yellow books that regaled the legends of the gods and goddesses of Hawaii. Being a model participant in my Sunday School class, it felt a bit daring to be reading something so pagan.

But these books transported me from the cold, rainy winters of Oregon to lush, balmy rainforests, warm lagoons with cascading waterfalls, and to the volcano where Pele wielded her power.

Those books opened a door that took me from an existence of shyness and isolation into a world where I became strong, confident and capable—the heroine who could solve any problem, who could say "no" with fire in her eyes.

These books started me on a path of learning about lands foreign to my landscape and showed me that books could take me to places beyond myself.

In a sense, books saved me and opened my eyes to what could be.

Destinations

2009-01-29T13:42:00.001-08:00

Too often I let my emotions carry me to places I don't especially care to visit, though I seem to have acquired frequent flier miles to a few of those destinations.

One in particular that has an easy chair with my name on its sandy beach is the Island of Self-Pity.

If you try to visit, you'll find that there are many blacked out dates. Yeah, those are all mine. I've reserved them for the evenings when I have to scramble to get dinner together after I've spent the day racing across the city delivering kids to practices and birthday parties. The house looks like a garage sale threw up all over the counters and the kids act as if I have the word "Maid" type-stamped across my forehead.

Funny thing is, I've actually lived there indefinitely at times. Once you arrive and unpack, it can be nearly impossible to dredge up the energy for the arduous journey to the distant land of Serving with a Grateful Heart.

Everyone talks about how wonderful that destination is. I really need to plan that itinerary, but with so many sightseeing opportunities like The Wishing Well of Feeling Sorry for Self, the Cliffs of My Own Tribulation and the Cave of Depression, why would I want to leave?

It's so much easier to let the River of Misery carry me along, than it is to paddle upstream, past all those Boulders of Frustration to the gate that can take me off this island.

Afterall, it's a luxury trip to the Island of Self-Pity. You can get there in a nano-second and at the push of a cell phone button even rouse support for the trip. A lot of moms out there will cheer your journey to Self-Pity. Many of them are already camped there. We all know that Misery loves Company.

There are a few critical travel tips to a successful departure. When you decide to leave, you must not risk a glance around. Race to that quiet place where you can get your Heart Restored. My departure always happens at the Gate of Praise and Worship.

The Gate of Praise and Worship changes the atmosphere of my heart. Though I've heard the Gate of Reading the Word and the Gate of Repentance and Prayer have been just as successful for Others.

Whatever path you choose, make it a joyful journey!

Letting Go of a Dream

2009-01-27T09:29:00.001-08:00

I wanted a dad who would be my mentor and my friend. Someone I could lean on and go to for advice. Someone who desired to meet me for lunch and listen to the goings on in my life with a proud smile and adoration in his eye.

I didn't know I wanted this until I reached adulthood. Up to then, I thought my life was normal. Like most people's.

But then I went to college and realized that normal was relative to . . . well, to whomever you were speaking.

Some dads were involved and some weren't. I'd never thought much about the fact that my dad worked long hours and didn't speak more than a few words when he was home. He didn't inquire about our lives or come to our childhood events, unless it was with a bored look and longsuffering sigh.

I knew I was loved. On the surface, anyway. Those three words seem to echo without a place to land when they are spoken without the investment of time or sacrifice.

But it left me with a longing for more. To find somewhere I could get those deep needs for love and connection met. Because of that desire, I went down painful roads and made choices that left scars rippling across my life.

My father made his own choices that broke up our family. It wasn't until much later that I heard a woman speaking and what she said moved into my heart in a way that brought immense revelation.

This woman said, "Parental love is like a hot fudge sundae. Everyone is designed to have it, but not everyone gets it. You'll never be free if you focus on what you should have had. The people who gain freedom are the ones who can accept that even though they're never going to get that sundae, they can have a bowl of ice cream and maybe some nuts on top or whipped cream."

I realized that for years I'd been looking for someone or something to fill that void. The void of my father's lost love. The love I should have had.

When she spoke those words, it felt like a missing puzzle piece settled into place. Freedom came with acceptance. I could let the dream go and begin looking forward to what I did have.

And I have a lot.

Big Fat Lies

2009-01-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Okay confession time. I'm going to go out on a limb here and be completely honest.

I'm an enmeshed parent.

If I ask one of the short people in the family to put something—say, a box of cereal—away, I'll occasionally get the shriveled apple look (you know, the one where they use all thirty-seven muscles of the face to convey complete disbelief that you would ask them to pick up the cereal they didn't leave out).

Then when I calmly explain that I wasn't asking if they'd left it out, I just want them to put it away, they continue arguing and telling me why they shouldn't have to put it away when their sister was the one that got it out.

By this time I wish I'd put the cereal away.

Finally, they put on the martyr persona. The lips press tightly together and the hands come up shoulder high in a stance of surrender to their idiot of a parent, and with exaggerated motions, they put the cereal away.

This is where the enmeshment part comes in. Since they are upset, I'm upset. It's as if the umbilical was never cut.

When I was growing up my dad made us believe that we were responsible for his feelings. Probably because he actually believed we were responsible for his feelings.

So I grew into an adult that felt responsible for everything.

I heard author Kevin Leman give an example about pleasers. He said that if a pleaser plans a family reunion and it rains, they believe it's somehow their fault for picking the wrong day.

I totally get that, as wacky as it sounds.

So I stood in the laundry room, the echo of my son's feet pounding up the stairs, and I wanted to cry. Mostly from the frustration of not being able to do it right, believing that if he was upset, it was somehow my fault.

I felt God haul me upright in His loving way.

The key word was "unhook." Unhook from my son's emotions. Those emotions are his responsibility. I can guide him and love him, but not own—or fix—his feelings for him.

The freer I am from feeling responsible for how my children feel, the freer they will become and the healthier their relationships will be.

Then when my son is grown and complains about how difficult parenting is, I will just nod my head wisely as if parenting him had barely caused a ripple in the serenity that was my life as a young mother.

And then I'll dig out the family videos.

Dark Secrets

2009-01-20T11:11:00.001-08:00

I think I have too many kids.

Oh, not that I don't love them more than both my arms and legs, or the entire universe for that matter. And it's not that I don't have the ability to meet their basic needs (though that might be debatable—once I arrived at a grocery store to discover that my daughter was wearing only one shoe. You'd think a mother would notice those things.)

I'm talking about more in the sense that a brain can only hold so much information, and once you reach, oh say, two or three kids, a dog, a cat, and a husband there isn't room for much else.

You start incurring errors.

Weeks after I had Kaden, our fourth bundle of heart-expanding joy, I sensed this might be a problem. One evening after I'd been watching TV snuggled up to TDH (tall, dark and handsome) for an hour or so, I shot off the couch.

You know that shock of alarm when you realize you left the oatmeal on high and now the pot is boiling over as you race to flip the burner off? Only I was racing for the driveway where my precious infant was snoozing away in the backseat of the car.

It wasn't the only occurrence.

During soccer season this year, I dropped Kaden off at practice and his ten-year-old brother stayed to help. I jetted directly to a parent meeting for my oldest son's wrestling program. All day I meant to call TDH and ask him to pick our youngest up from soccer . . . but spaced it.

It wasn't until I was driving up our hill twenty minutes after soccer ended that the boiling pot flooded my mind.

My cell was dead, so with no way to call the coach or my hubby, I hyperventilated through all the horrible scenarios that could have happened to my son. Though the rational part of my brain knew the coach would not look at my child and say, "Huh, your mom should have been here by now. Why don't you go wait over by the sidewalk and watch for her," as he hopped in his SUVand drove off.

But what can I say? I'm a writer, I live in the paralyzing world of what if?

I walked into the house, looked at my husband and like an idiot said, "Is Kaden here?" Okay, hindsight and all that. You don't drop an, "I don't know where our seven-year-old is" bomb on your husband without prefacing it with some details.

I briefly tried to explain, but all I saw was the back of TDH's head as he raced out the door, jumped in his pickup and with tires squealing, flew at mock 60 down our hill. I got on the phone but couldn't reach the coach. Finally reached another soccer mom who was still waiting at the field for her other son and hadn't even noticed how late it was or the fact that I wasn't there yet.

I sank onto the couch, relief flooding endorphins through my body and told her how I had started to panic about never seeing Kaden again. She interrupted and said, "And Logan."

I drew a blank. And then said, "Oh, yeah. That son too."

See what I mean?

Deadlines . . .

2009-01-15T20:55:00.001-08:00

I'm on a deadline and am juggling kids, housework (yeah, that balls has already hit the floor), and writing.

I thought it was Monday all day on Tuesday and it wasn't until I was laying in bed Tuesday night that I figured it out and realized I'd missed my Tuesday blog. Didn't do a whole lot better with today's blog, seeing how Thursday is almost over.

So, I'm headed away for a little writing retreat weekend thanks to my splendid hubby who will be ferrying children to three different ball games (actually coordinating with another parent as two of our children have conflicting game times), one child to a self-defense class and another to a birthday party.

I saw the resigned look in his eye when I laid out the schedule for him. I should probably pick up a bit of lingerie for the trip home. I'm sure that would bring the sparkle right back.

So pray for me if you think of it. It's tough getting back into writing. I dove back in for a bit a month or so ago, but found I still wasn't quite there. Grief is a curious thing, still holding onto parts of us when we think we're ready to get up and go.

Have a lovely weekend!

When Your Kids Tell You . . .

2009-01-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

. . . that you need to be more firm in your discipline, you know things are way off track.

As my oldest son and I strolled hand-in-hand through the store (yes, my twelve-year-old still likes to hang with his mom), he casually mentioned that I needed to be a stricter disciplinarian.

This isn't the first time he's mentioned this. And he did follow that comment up by saying, "I'm probably going to regret telling you that." And I believe he is in fact regretting it this very moment as he sits in his room grounded, but that's a story for another post.

So I've been pondering his words and have come to a realization.

When the kids were little, I was pretty reactive and easily frustrated (though in my meager defense I had three toddlers running around and a mountain of dirty clothes creeping from the laundry room—when the mountain comes to Mohammed . . .)

So I was exhausted and short tempered and my husband worked six days a week.

And I was a perfectionistic controller. Yeah, you see the volcano brewing, don't you? Exhaustion and the need for control and order are the main ingredients for spontaneous combustion. And I combusted on a frequent basis.

Added to this, I hadn't been raised around small children, so didn't understand how to discipline and had no one to learn from. The net result is that the consequences I implemented were often too strict for the offense. Which is something I truly regret.

Fast forward through years of growing and learning and seeing myself through a more accurate (though grace-filled) lens and I find that I'm now an uncertain mother.

I throw a potential consequence out there, like say, "If you choose not to change your attitude, then you won't be going to the party," and then second guess myself. Is it too strict? Is it fair? And when my child continues on his course of disaster, rather than give the consequence I just keep reminding him of it, hoping desperately that he'll toe the line and get to go to the party.

Or I'll threaten unreasonably steep consequences that I don't really mean, assuming that'll motivate them to get themselves under control. Like that ever works. And then I undermine my own parenting when I back pedal.

So when my son told me that I threaten and threaten and threaten with no follow through, I realized he was absolutely right.

Parenting isn't about doing it perfectly, but it is in great part about being consistent.

So I'm much more thoughtful about what comes out of my mouth. I first think through whether it's a consequence I'm willing to uphold. If I am, then I am fairly certain it's reasonable.

And heaven knows that when it comes to parents and kids, someone has to be reasonable.

Things Aren’t Always What They Seem…

2009-01-06T00:37:00.001-08:00

I hadn't done my grocery shopping for a while—the holidays, kids home on vacation . . . snow. So I finally dragged myself down to the dreaded store.

It's one of those warehouse type stores where the aisles are long and the prices are cheaper—and you bag your own groceries.

Besides intensely disliking grocery shopping, I hate waiting in the checkout line behind all the carts stacked with a month's worth of food.

But I was pleasantly surprised to find a short line and raced for it, cutting off carts left and right to slide behind the lone cart loading a small amount of packages onto the conveyor belt.

Smugly satisfied at my luck, I realized I'd forgotten an item. Fortunately, I was wearing my running shoes. I dashed an aisle away and searched for what I needed. Got distracted by an assortment of tempting goodies and then dashed back. And skidded to a stop.

My cart had been pushed out of line.

It lay up against the rack holding the batteries and tabloid magazines. I tried not to glare at the woman who had taken my spot and was unloading her engorged cart. I considered saying, "You moved my cart?" in a bit of an outraged tone.

But my better self spoke up and said to myself, "It's a scheme of the enemy. Forgive her and let it go." So I did and I determined to not even grumble about it to my husband when I got home. It felt good to use some self-control and let a bit of Jesus rub off on me.

I even glanced over at the woman in the line next to me and smiled. She pointed to my cart and said in an apologetic voice, "I moved your cart. Another lady said it had been sitting there a long time."

I think I kept my eyebrows from climbing and very kindly gave her a grin and told her it was fine. I even leaned closer and whispered, "I'm glad you told me because I thought it was her," and motioned to the lady ahead of me. Tracking with me, she nodded conspiratorially and said, "The meanie."

She was in a much shorter line (the lady in front of me still hadn't found the bottom of her cart), so I scooted over behind the confessor. She gave a guilty look and said, "I noticed your butter and realize I forgot to get some." I told her to go for it and she took off.

Butter was at the opposite end of the store, so I unloaded her small cart on the belt and started into mine just as she came huffing back to our checker. She gushed her thanks and when she finished paying asked if I needed any help.

My small choice to forgive and not walk in my flesh changed everything about the next ten minutes and made a connection. There's no way she would have confessed if she'd heard me lay into the woman I thought was the culprit. I wouldn't have if the situation were reversed. But then I can be a little cowardly when it comes to possible rejection, even from a stranger.

I'm going to try to keep my ears tuned to that small voice that speaks such wisdom. Who knows what connections might be made tomorrow.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

I'll be back next Tuesday . . . have a wonderful New Year's Day!

The Authentic You

2008-12-30T11:38:00.001-08:00

We had a beautiful snowy Christmas. I think my first one ever. Oregon's Willamette Valley isn't known for white winters.

I gazed out the window at the hushed landscape, every brush, shrub and tree covered with the fluffy stuff and smiled. Oregonians tend to get a wee bit tired of the gloomy days where a peek out the window shows tired foliage slumping with the wetness that drips onto the sodden ground.

But as the temperature warmed up, the snow melted and all that was underneath began to show through. Slushy, dirty snow replaced the pristine crispness of the day before.

It reminded me of how easily we try to pretty up our junk and put on a smiling face to show everyone that all is well in our world. But the façade cracks and our hurts and scars start to show through.

God didn't design us to hide who we are. He didn't create a world of perfection for us to try to mold ourselves into.

If we buy into the world's lie that we must look a certain way, or that our spouses or children must perform to a certain standard of excellence, we will hide behind a persona.

We will fear being authentic in case we don't measure up.

The fear of rejection causes us to isolate. Oh, not in the sense that we shun being around people or don't have close friends.

I mean in the sense that we don't bring all of us into those relationships. Do we love the core of who we are enough to trust others to accept us too?

I reached a cross road a couple years back where I was faced with that question. And the answer was a sad no. I didn't trust others with the real me, because I didn't like her either.

I had a rigid standard of excellence that I held myself to and rarely measured up. So I pushed those parts away and tried to be someone I thought others would accept. But it's difficult to live in fractured pieces—hiding the parts that you don't like or don't think others will accept.

It's not until you bring those parts into relationship with God and others (safe, trustworthy others) that you can be whole.

Bridges or Regrets

2008-12-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

I went to tuck my ten-year-old daughter in at bedtime and saw a mass of orange peels balanced precariously on the top of her headboard. My hackles lifted (we've had a few carpet issues from her forgotten fruit remnants).

What I had intended as a sweet mom / daughter huggy end to our day, became a frustrated diatribe about how annoyed I get when she continues to eat in her room when we've asked her not to.

Head lowered in shame and monosyllabic answers didn't get me any closer to understanding why this sweet child won't comply with a basic rule.

I stalked out of her room after an obligatory hug and a muttered, "Goodnight. I love you."

Several hours later as I headed for my own bed, I thought about our interaction. Remorse welled up inside. I wished I had built a bridge to her rather than berated her for doing it wrong . . . again.

I repented to the Lord. I told him how sorry I was for talking to her the way I did. And I heard the echo of my own words to her held gently in the Lord's hands. "Then why did you?"

In a nano-second God's mirror reflected my own attitude back to me. "If you knew it was wrong, then why did you talk to her that way?"

I answered Him with the only thought that came into my brain. "My flesh."

My flesh chooses sinfulness. Not because it wants to hurt someone or be disobedient but because it's my nature. I sensed His gentle nod and smile as the revelation hit.

Where I was taking my daughter's sinful choice as a personal affront, there had been nothing personal intended.

She has a flesh like me. Like you. We're fallen creatures in need of a Father's forgiveness and love.

And He's waiting with arms open wide.

Grace and Brussels Sprout

2008-12-18T00:23:00.001-08:00

My youngest son threw his dinner in the sink on the sly after we'd left the room. It was a huge bummer as we'd been planning on playing games as a family and he was now headed for an early bedtime.

When we explained his consequence to him, he was very upset and said, "But I forgot," adding with a hint of accusation, "I'm only seven."

How often we do that. Want to grow up and have more freedom, but diss the responsibility. Adam did it in the garden. When God asked him why he ate the fruit, his first words were, "It was the woman you gave me . . . "

We've been shrugging off responsibility since the beginning.

My blame comes out when I'm late or I lose my temper with the little people. The three-year-old in me stomps a foot and casts an eye upward. "If those kids you gave me would mind a little better . . . "

God probably shakes his head and says, "I know. I have the same problem with my kids."

Without grace and forgiveness we'd be sunk. We'd live in our funks and pity parties.

Sometimes God gives us a little squeeze and dusts off our knees while our lip hangs low (my seven-year-old has the pout perfected). Other times he'll give us some room to get a revelation about our me-focus.

The cool thing is, He always loves us. (I can't say I adore my children in the midst of a tantrum—if one of them threatened to run away, I might toss an empty suitcase their way).

When I'm living through a rough day, I cling to the verse, "His mercies are new every morning." I know that once my head hits the pillow, the day's ickiness gets erased and we get to start fresh.

My youngest found another way to grace. We thought he was headed for his toothbrush as we set the cards out for a fast and furious game of Nerts. But he wandered back into the room with a big smile, his cheeks stuffed with the brussels sprout he'd fished from the sink.

I know what you're thinking. I was thinking it too—I wanted to bleach his mouth out. But I figured he survived the time he chewed on the end of the toilet plunger as a toddler, so a few germs from the sink wouldn't kill him.

And we had a fabulous evening playing cards. Grace works wonders on the big people and the little ones.

Cruising and Testings

2008-12-16T00:08:00.001-08:00

TDH took me on a cruise to Mexico to celebrate my 40^th birthday. I was half the age of half the folks on that ship. Made me feel pretty young.

In fact, today my youngest son said, "Mom, how do you make yourself look 30?" I told my husband that if he'd said, "29", I'd have changed my will to make him the sole heir.

Truly, turning 40 was a piece of cake.

Now the trip down to the cruise ship was a whole 'nuther story.

You know how when you read in the Bible about God testing one of his kids, you want to smack the fellow and say, "Wake up! This is God we're talking about. He's on your side. Have a little trust, why don't you?"

Yeah, well, it's pretty easy to say that since we already know the end of the story.

When you nearly miss your once-in-a-lifetime-already-been-paid-for trip, trust can be a little more challenging to come by. That would be TDH speaking. Me? I thrive on traveling stress. Though this trip was a wee bit more stressful than I cared for.

We were fogged in from our departure city, but made it to our connecting flight. Then we waited, and waited, and waited on the tarmac. Finally, TDH snagged the stewardess who'd been up and down the aisle about fifteen times and with only a slight edge to his voice said, "Are we going to be taking off soon?"

You see, our flight was supposed to land in San Diego at 2:15. Last boarding of the ship was 2:30. Fortunately, the cruise terminal is only a mile from the airport, but we were cutting things a bit close.

The stewardess gave him a big smile and said, "Our pilot had a family emergency and had to get off the plane."

My traveling nerves of steel started to sag a little at that point. My poor husband, nearly had a nervous breakdown. But she reassured him, "We should have one here in the next five or ten minutes."

How do people lie with a smile, I want to know.

An hour and a half later we took off. We landed in San Diego at 3:40. We'd been in touch with the cruise line who told us they didn't know if the ship would let us on at that point.

We debarked the plane and ran people over to get to the baggage area. I considered leaving our bags on the carousel and hoofing it to the cruise ship, but TDH over rode that nonsense. We needed our clothes, after all.

I didn't start hyperventilating until we realized that our plane was not unloading its bags. Due to weather delays across the nation, there were planes ahead of ours off-loading their baggage.

Another frantic call to the cruise ship informed us that the gang plank would be pulled at 4:00pm with or without stragglers.

Finally, FINALLY, the bags from our plane started churning out. TDH and I exchanged nervous glances and willed our bags off first.

An announcement broke over the loud speaker. I don't pay much attention to those things. After all, I was about to leave the airport.

Unfortunately, that would be without my bags.

I noticed a flurry of people scattering toward the exits. I shot a look to TDH who was glowering at everyone. He told me through gritted teeth that there was an emergency and everyone had to evacuate the airport.

Evacuate the airport. WITHOUT OUR BAGS.

Security shooed everyone out. I looked at my watch. 3:48pm. I glanced back through the glass doors as the carousel continued to spit luggage from our plane onto the conveyor. Across the highway was the outline of the ship that was about to sail without us.

I'm one of those people who has decided that rules were made for people who can't think well for themselves. I apologize if that offends someone who loves to live by rules, but that's how I'm wired.

So I dashed back into the airport toward the unmoving security guard. I explained our predicament and asked if we could please just grab our bags and go. He said no, but then so kindly relented and helped us grab our bags and make it to the escalator that took us over to the taxis.

We threw money at the taxi driver and made it on the ship at 3:55pm. We collapsed in our room and didn't surface for two days. The stress wiped us out.

But, I learned something about myself. Even in the midst of the craziness and the certainty that we wouldn't make it, I was okay. I knew if we weren't going to make the cruise, God had Plan B for us, even if it was wandering around San Diego for 5 days.

But I was so grateful he winked at the security guard and got us on that ship.

Faith and Fat

2008-12-04T09:54:00.001-08:00

Faith can be a challenging walk. It can also be a bit of a paradox at times—don't believe what your eyes see, instead focus (and trust) on the unknown and unseen (despite the fact that a mountain side is about to fall on you).

Faith is also a bit like getting in shape (stay with me here).

For the last four months I've been go to the gym. I find that I'm getting firmer. . . and gaining weight. It'd be a lot nicer (and easier on my psyche) if fat weighed more than muscle. So my body feels different, but my eyes focus on the scale and the way it's slowly inching higher.

Of course, now I find myself obsessively stepping on the scale every time I pass through the bathroom, a piece of foot furniture that had been gaining dust in the months prior to my weight training.

The left side of my brain tries to educate the right side about the differences between body fat and muscle and how gaining weight isn't a bad thing . . .

The right side ain't buyin' it. So I try to ignore the scale.

And along with the fat / muscle conundrum, I'm feeling a little self-conscious about how pasty white I am. I finally have some muscles protruding in all the right places, but you can hardly see them through the spider veins—though I do wear them proudly along with the stretch marks the short people tattooed onto my body in the nine months they redecorated the place.

But I don't mind opting to cover them up. Especially since TDH (tall, dark & handsome) is taking my on a cruise to celebrate my 40^th birthday.

I'm not a sun worshipper—I'm actually a bit of a sunscreen freak, so I went with the bottled tan. Of course with the demands of managing all the short people in the house, I didn't find time to shellac myself until nigh unto midnight.

So there I am, trying to air dry and hoping no one pops out of their bedroom for a midnight snack. . . but I digress.

Though it's not easy, faith is continuing to go to the gym even when there are no immediate discernable results. Faith is loving a child through the ups and downs of attitudes and hormones and knowing you'll get on the other side of it—and they'll like you again.

Faith is putting our trust in God, certain that he has sifted his plans for our life through his loving and gentle fingers. Faith is knowing that mourning lasts for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Faith is believing that He never leaves us nor forsakes us, even when our emotions scream otherwise.

Skimmers and Refrigerators

2008-12-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

I almost threw the letter away, but the envelope had "recall notice" typed across it.

I had a Mustang once that I received a recall notice on. I put off taking it in and eventually forgot about the issue . . . until about a year after I sold it. I still have lingering guilt and hope the ignition never caught on fire as it was being driven down the freeway.

Today's recall notice was about our refrigerator. I'm a skimmer when it comes to official legalese. I wish those things came with Cliff Notes—just give me the bottom line in two concise sentences so I can get on with it.

And I was in a hurry. A dangerous combination when it comes to matters of import.

I checked the serial numbers in the letter against the ones on the metal plate inside my refrigerator. No match. I was about to toss the letter, but decided that TDH should probably have a looksee just in case I'd bobbled it.

He came in when I was in the midst of a whirlwind—trying to get dinner on the table and get out the door for a meeting and the clock was ticking against me.

First, I pointed out my lovely tortellini soup and the crostini I was toasting in the oven (don't hate me, it was only the second time I've attempted to broil bread) to go with the roasted garlic (another second).

To which TDH turned with an excited smile and said, "Where's the cheese?" referring to an appetizer at our favorite Italian restaurant.

My smile grew thin as I again pointed out the lovely crostini and roasted garlic to go with the soup.

He waited patiently.

Why is it that when they ask a simple question, we feel as if we're under attack and our voices take on a helicopter whine? "I've been gone all day, I just threw what I had together. There is no cheese!" I explained with a tight smile.

His eyebrows rose slightly, but he wisely didn't say a word.

I motioned toward the letter on the counter and told him I wanted him to read the recall notice for our fridge. He picked it up and asked what it was for. I hit my rewind button and told him it was a recall notice for the fridge and I wanted him to look it over.

He wanted more details. I gave the tortellini a vigorous stir and told him in a rising voice that all the details were in the letter (did I mention I was in a hurry?).

More raised eyebrows, but he finally bent his head over the letter.

He was about two-thirds through the letter when those handsome eyebrows drew together in a frown and he quoted, "and in specific circumstances, may result in a vehicular fire."

He gave me the oddest look and said in a voice strangled with laughter, "This is for the refrigerator in our trailer."

Oh.

Good thing I listened to those killer instincts and didn't recycle the letter. And good thing I have such a forgiving husband who only gave me a mild ribbing for my attitude.

Clicker Torture

2008-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

Is there a treatment program for clicker addiction?

We just got back from a vacation and my poor daughter is shell-shocked. Yes, she's only ten, but apparently some revelations hit early.

We go away each year the week before Thanksgiving (TDH and I reward ourselves for making it through another round of soccer without strangling coaches, children or each other).

We eat tons of junk food, relax in the hot tub and even go to the movies. So for the kids, it's kind of like we left their mother at home (the one who limits TV, sweets, and monitors bedtime—in our rental house, there was a TV in every bedroom.)

Around our second day I heard my daughter protesting quite loudly (apparently you do bring some things on vacation you'd have rather left at home) from the bedroom. I went to investigate—it is the mother's job to keep everyone on harmonious vacation bliss.

It appears that her brother had the remote control (yes, another male joins the ranks). While I calmly explained to her that it is an incurable madness, this frenzied clicking between programs with a bored look on one's face, we were fortunate that it is not contagious, nor an affliction that our gender will ever have to suffer through. At which time she reminded me that she was suffering.

Ah, yes, the torture of sitting beside a male with a clicker.

It wasn't but a night or two later that she and I happened to catch about a third of a program (between other commercials) regarding a man with a perplexing array of ailments, none of which the doctors had been able to diagnose. As the story seemed to be getting closer to its gripping conclusion, we did finally send the children to bed.

After herding them through brushing their teeth and the "I'll die if I don't get a glass of water" vocalizations, I hurried back to the living room. Of course, there was another program on the TV. I asked TDH what happened to the man. What did the doctors find out?

TDH replied, eyes never leaving the TV, his voice telling me he was in the clicker zone, "I don't know. When I turned back, it was over."

Breathe deeply, I tell myself. This man is the father of your children. And then I slumped down on the couch as the realization hit. The father of three males. Males who, undoubtedly, would grow up with a remote growing between their fingers.

Not one minute later, Brielle hollered from her bedroom, "What happened with that man?"

I trudged toward her room trying to find the words that wouldn't dent her daddy's armor too much. An evil wayward thought crossed my mind. I could tell her about credit cards and the beauty of clicker revenge.

Lower your eyebrows! Of course I dismissed that delicious thought. We are all about fiscal (and marital) responsibility. Though it was fun to think about parading our purchases while he's in the zone. . .

Selfishness

2008-11-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

It happened again tonight. I was tired and a bit grumbly. Started thinking about my own comfort, my own wants. How much work it takes to do the things God's called me to (like parenting!).

I want to retire. I even told God that. I want my own island and a stack of books. Good books. The kind you get lost in.

My own little self-absorbed paradise (with a cook and a maid) would suite me just fine.

Then God reminded me that when I'm thinking about my comfort and myself and what my needs are, I'll implode. Maybe not literally, but certainly spiritually.

God is outward, while selfishness is inward. Selfishness is opposite His kingdom and slowly kills us.

Walking His path, giving out of the gifts He's equipped us with, actually fills us. Paradoxically so.

Because we're not really giving out of our own resources. We're giving out of His. His living waters flow out of us, and yet fill us.

So while a tropical island filled with my favorite foods and books sounds delightful (heavenly, in fact) there is far more joy and fulfillment in traveling the path God's designed for me.

And I'm sure there's a few tropical R&R stops along the way.

Library Etiquette

2008-11-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

I was at the library the other day perusing the new release rack when my cell phone rang. Focused on an interesting title, I answered it without thinking and proceeded to carry on a conversation.

A harsh, "Shhhhhh!" broke into my bubble and I turned to see a lady, who'd also been perusing the books, frowning at me. She said in a stern voice, "You're not supposed to be talking on a cell phone in the library!"

I'd like to say that I immediately apologized and hung up. Maybe it's part of my independent, first-born nature, but I don't like to be told what to do. So I continued my phone call, while thinking a few ungodly things about that woman.

I spoke to my friend for another minute before I heard God firmly clear his throat, "If the library rules are . . . " I grumbled back at Him, "All right, all right," and got off the phone.

I had a wave of God's nature sweep across me at that moment, as if he'd sprinkled some Holy Spirit love over me, because I had a sudden urge to apologize to the woman.

I went up to her and with genuine warmth (see how I know it was God) and apologized for talking on the phone. I explained that I hadn't known about the library's rule, gave her a kind smile and walked away.

About five minutes later, the woman came up and softly said, "I'm sorry I spoke to you so angrily." She went on to explain her frustration with the teenagers who frequent the library and are constantly on their phones.

I stood there with my mouth on the floor.

I know a gentle answer turns away wrath, but that's just a proverb. I didn't know it actually worked (okay, I'm being a bit facetious here). Isn't that the coolest? I got to be Jesus to her—and the amazing thing is Jesus let me even after my grumbling, rebellious attitude.

See, God can use anyone. Even an independent, first-born!

Listening to My Wiser Self

2008-11-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

I had a mom moment last night. The ah ha kind when a piece of truth clicks in place empowering you in love and authority.

My older boys wanted to sleep together. It was a school night, but life hasn't been normal the last two months and phantom fears come out to plague my one son when bed time approaches.

For the first month after his grandpa passed away, my son was convinced he was dying and bed time became an agonizing time of self-diagnosis that ranged from appendicitis to cancer.

So, yes, I let him sleep with his brother after admonishing the boys that they had five minutes to settle down or they'd have to sleep in their own beds.

One hour later, I made my pre-bedtime rounds. The boys' door was closed (to keep the dog in) and the light was on and they were visiting away.

I told the oldest he'd need to return to his room. Shock and indignation filled the air between the boys and I as the trial got underway. Councilor number one explained that they thought the five minutes I'd given them was to settle down and talk quietly. Councilor number two told me that they'd turn out the light and go straight to sleep.

I stared into the blue eyes and then the brown, looking closely for a hint of manipulation. Sincerity shone.

I felt myself begin to waver. They sensed the weakness and went for the kill like wolves after their prey, begging for another chance with loud promises of going straight to sleep.

I opened my mouth to give in, but had a moment of self-awareness. I tend to be weak when it comes to allowing my kids to feel the pain of their choices.

I knew what my original intent was, so I needed to discipline according to my intent. Not according to their interpretation.

If I receive a traffic ticket, the judge isn't going to say, "Oooooh, you thought a yellow light meant speed up, Mrs. Sand. Well, of course we'll wave that fine."

It's my job to lead my kids and teach them to follow, rather than try to keep up and contort myself into the image that meets their desires.

And not try to wiggle my way out of traffic fines . . .

Refuge

2008-11-11T00:27:00.001-08:00

My seven-year-old told me he thinks he has a cavity in his ear because it hurts when he pushes on it.

I think I have a cavity in my heart. It still hurts. The ache doesn't go away, though sometimes it goes missing for a few hours.

Today I furiously worked at getting the house back in order after a long weekend with hubby and children home.

After several hours of vacuuming and sorting loads of laundry, the dull ache became a loud roar and I realized that trying to create order around me was my method of coping . . . and avoiding.

There is no getting around grief. It must be gone through. Sometimes I putter around, and try to ignore it.

The result is, with no outlet, the pressure inside builds.

I see this operating in my children. They go to school, come home and do homework and play . . . and fight. And the fighting is more intense, less reasonable (if you can consider fighting over the PlayStation reasonable).

I think we all struggle with areas of pain that we either face head on or spend immense amounts of energy avoiding.

Kind of like that tooth that we worry and fuss over, but refuse to see the dentist about. The day-to-day dull ache seems less painful than an intense one hour visit.

So we limp along, not fully functioning, but not completely incapacitated. Not who we were designed to be.

The best way to face something we dread is with a friend. Reaching out when we are down puts us in a vulnerable position, but healing comes more quickly through the kindness of a friend.

Sometimes we don't know anyone who can be that safe for us. There is one Friend whose arms are always safe and loving, and who aches to wipe our tears.

I've found much comfort leaning into the refuge that is Jesus.

Mountain Climbing

2008-11-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

My husband called me from a business trip this morning to see how things were going. I told him it was all I could do not to drive straight to the airport and buy a one way ticket to Hawaii. There was a slight pause and he asked in a rather tentative voice, "Can I come?"

I told him that he was welcome, but that children with attitude could only come for short visits.

One of my children is struggling heavily with grief this week and it comes out as button-pushing anger. That would be his anger and my buttons.

I had a less than stellar parenting moment in the midst of the fracas and was sharing the situation with a friend. I marveled at how I could shrug the whole episode off with an, "Oh, well. It just wasn't a great day."

In years past, I would have bludgeoned myself with regret, guilt and shame. Feeling something like the slime left behind a slug. It would have eaten me up for days.

And it's not that my behavior would have been off-the-charts-bad, it's that I felt I had to be a perfect parent.

When I fell short of that perfection, I believed I was the root of all the fleshliness in their little lives. If only I had parented better they wouldn't lie (or fight or be sullen . . .). If only I had read to him more as a toddler, he'd be doing better in school. If only I had played with them instead of doing housework . . . and the guilt list went on ad nauseum.

Yesterday, as I thanked the Lord for this change—this freedom from guilt and shame, I saw a picture in my mind of a mountain. There were many people around this huge mountain. Some marching in endless circles around the base for the entirety of their lives.

Others struggling to climb up the mountain side. Toiling with great effort and a few bloody scrapes to reach a plateau. That plateau is the place in their lives where they emerge from a painful situation with new insight. A place where a piece of God's puzzle falls into place. Illumination comes.

Then a new situation arises that nudges them out of the comfort of that safe place. They start climbing again with great effort until they reach another plateau of understanding and peace. Maybe some healing of past hurts. Forgiveness for wrongs made. They rest in that place for a while.

But as we grow and climb, the plateaus come more easily. Insight more quickly and the vistas become more wide-sweeping.

Some remain on the same plateau all their lives, some just circle the mountain.

But I want to climb as close as I can to the summit before I hear those sweet words from the mouth of Jesus. "You have fought the good fight. You've won the race. You've kept the faith." Welcome home.

Boundaries

2008-11-04T08:44:00.001-08:00

Have you ever noticed that some people don't know where they end and others begin?

They feel the need to take charge of your life and try to live it for you, or at the very least urge you to live it the way they would.

In-laws often get the bad rap for this, but I think many struggle with not knowing when to stay quiet, when to tone down the body language, when to let go.

As parents especially, we can struggle with over-protective love.

We see the train wreck coming if our children stay right in the middle of the tracks. We tell ourselves that it's really in their best interest that we speak up.

But isn't it really about us?

About our need for their lives to reflect our values, our desperate need to keep them from the pain of their choices.

But is it their pain or our own pain that we wrestle with?

If we don't see others or our children as their own, self-contained entities we'll continually cross out of the space that is ours and into the space that is theirs.

One parenting class I took referred to it as our "space bubble."

When we cross into their space bubble, in a sense we are tying their hands and keeping them from priceless treasure—learning from the error of their ways.

Lessons learned are like gold nuggets we accumulate across a lifetime.

When we save our kids from themselves, we steal their gold. And sadly, keep them on the very path we are trying to save them from.

Each day they get older the price gets higher.

Much better to release them into the hands of the One who yearns to deposit much gold into their (and our) lives.

Winning

2008-10-30T12:41:00.001-07:00

Can you win and yet still lose? Or lose and still win?

This morning I was reading about the Pharisees and how they saw the Jews being drawn like moths to an eternal flame in the man of Jesus.

For the Pharisees and teachers of the law, it wasn't about finding the truth—whether Jesus was the Messiah. It was about keeping their power.

Being the ones the people looked to, envied, submitted to. They liked the adulation rather than being seekers and teachers of the truth, which is really what their position was about.

They were the ones who studied the Old Testament scriptures and were known for their superb knowledge. Yet rather than share this knowledge, they held it over the people and made it a noose around their necks.

So when people were drawn to Jesus like starving men to a buffet table, the Pharisees stared at the backs of the people as they walked away, rather than looking over their heads to see what they were moving toward.

John 12:19 states: Then the Pharissees said to each other, "We've lost. Look, the whole world has gone after him!"

How often do we worry more about what we are giving up in power and control, rather than what is best for us and those around us?

We focus outward rather than inward and upward. Blame rather than take responsibility. Allow life to happen and then resent the outcome rather than making choices and accepting the results.

It's easy to walk in fear and regret rather than to risk and accept.

I notice how often I put things off out of a fear that I won't do them "right." So rather than allowing those things to pile up, I'm taking chances, making choices. I now have a willingness to accept the outcome, whether it turns out well or not.

There is peace in that kind of acceptance, because I will be gentle with myself and applaud my willingness to choose, rather than berate myself for choosing wrongly.

Lessons and Grumblings

2008-10-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, most things do when you plan them months in advance.

But last night I was hitting myself on the forehead and whining, "Why did I schedule my son's orthodontic consultation at 7 am?"

I'm barely awake by eight. And it's on the other side of town, so we'd have to leave at six-thirty o'dark.

I was concerned that in my bathrobe and yesterday's make up, they wouldn't even let us in the door. And the doctor would surely frown on my curling up with a blanket in a spare exam chair and finishing my sleep.

We arrived (in the dark) at a lovely new office building with office people bustling around inside. I shuffled to the front door, with my eager and chattering son right beside me—starting the day in the dark apparently not a hindrance for him—and attempted to enter.

Attempted.

The doors were locked. Baffled faces peered out at us. I prayed we were at the wrong building, but the doctor's name was plastered across the door. No luck.

They let us in and then politely explained that our appointment was scheduled for the next day. I nearly started pulling hair (my own). But I didn't. I breathed deeply and as the receptionist left to see what she could do, I whipped out my cell phone and texted my woes to a friend.

Blame started to flow from my fingers—their fault. I knew I'd written the appointment down correctly.

But as my thumb hovered over the send button, I paused. Grumbling is what led the Israelites to go around and around that mountain in the desert for forty years.

So I erased the blame and just stuck to the woe part.

Moments later she was back. Miracle upon miracle, a technician had arrived early. And then the orthodontist showed up ahead of schedule. They plopped my son in a chair and went to work. (They were wonderfully kind.)

I wrapped my bathrobe tighter (actually wore my running gear so I'd look like I was used to getting out of bed with a bang) and sat there in awe. They probably would have showed up early even if I hadn't grumbled, maybe even worked us in.

But then again. . . maybe not. Maybe they would have stopped at Starbucks as I grumbled my way home.

Casting Our Cares

2008-10-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

My cares have gained weight this week. Pulling me down and draining me.

In previous weeks, the pain ebbed and flowed, but this week it washed in and continued a slow rise like a river cresting its banks during a flood.

At times I felt like I was barely treading water with concrete blocks strapped to my feet. Where was the ship that had kept me afloat this past month? That ship of faith.

I'd pushed it away, instead focusing on activity, busyness—the doing part of life that kept my mind occupied and my body moving.

But like a flood, grief won't be contained. It doesn't have anywhere to go if we dam it up. It just keeps rising until we can't hold it back.

The dam breaks and out it comes in a rushing torrent, sweeping you along, drowning you with pain.

But the torrent doesn't last once the pressure subsides. Grief spends itself and leaves you hollowed out.

Today I reached for God's hand, desperate for His comfort. Allowing Him to fill the hollow places and renew my bruised soul.

Joy comes in glimpses, flashes of sunlight on a winter day that wink between the yellow leaves and hide behind the dark clouds.

God weaves the joy with the sorrow, the memories with the missing. He blends the colors of our life into a rich tapestry that holds as many tears as laughter.

Our sorrow becomes a blanket of comfort and understanding that He can drape around another's weary shoulders. We can be His arms, His shoulder, His cradling lap to those that need His touch but are too burdened to find Him.

None of our pain is wasted. Every tear is collected, every burden sifted through His fingers.

With Him there is comfort.

Coming Back

2008-10-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

Today was my first full day back to writing. I've attempted to write these past couple weeks, but the words weren't there. The creativity well was empty.

Grief seems to zap the energy from a person's body as well as hinder the ability to think clearly. My husband lost his cell phone the other day and had to back track to find it. He'd thrown it out with the recycling.

I think what I've learned over these past six weeks, is that there is no normal. There is no proper way to be. Each person's process is unique to them. And it's important to just be. To be how you are. To let yourself feel what you feel.

I've had good days and bad days and a few wonderful, joy-filled days. And I knew those days were a gift. A reprieve the Lord gave me, lifting me above the circumstances and letting me fly.

How thankful I am to Him for his incredible mercy and compassion.

Real and Limited

2008-10-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

Went to a Women of Faith conference last weekend. Had the privilege of being the guest of one of the speakers.

I was amazed by the transparency of the speakers. Success and fame does not exempt a person from struggles. And these women didn't try to hide their hurts and failures. They were clearly vessels who wanted to be used to bring glory to God.

And that's the kind of vessel he can use.

It's so easy to think that we have to promote God. That if we exhibit anything less than Christian perfection, we're letting God down.

We forget that we weren't designed to be perfect. God bypassed that button and went straight for "limited."

Limited in power. Limited in our ability to do it right. Limited in love.

Just plain limited.

When we get that concept, freedom is right around the corner. Because when limited leans in and taps into the Unlimited God, He can do all things through us.

Love, hope, accept, accomplish, realize dreams, create the unimaginable.

God wants to accomplish his purposes through us—his limited, imperfect people.

It's through our humility and brokenness that God can do amazing works.

The Value of Self

2008-10-09T00:00:00.000-07:00

Learned something about myself today. I want people to like me.

Okay, I know you're scrunching up your forehead with a, "Huh? Doesn't everyone?"

And you're right. Probably 99.9% of the population does want to be liked. The other 0.1% pretends they don't.

But I realized that I've curtailed my actions, kept silent at times, and laughed at stupid comments, all in an effort to please people into liking me.

Sometimes it was out of fear that I'd be wrong. That I'd say something that others didn't agree with.

I didn't want to be on one side of the fence with everyone on the other staring at me in stupefaction.

Because the message I grew up believing, was that there is always a right and a wrong way of believing / thinking / acting and you better figure it out quick.

And piggybacking that notion was the certainty that being wrong would diminish your value.

So I'd strive not to be wrong at all costs. This translated into a lifetime of trying to become what I thought others wanted me to be.

The sad result was that others didn't get to know the real me, just the me I thought they'd like. My smoke and mirrors act didn't give them the opportunity to embrace the real me.

The me that God designed me to be.

Fortunately, God has placed us on a journey where He can take those mixed-up moments and half-baked fears and infuse them with his truth to transform our thinking.

He wants to expose the weakness and flaws and lead us onto his path of peace, where mistakes are not to be feared and hidden, but exposed and learned from. Not a source of shame, but a stepping stone to move us closer to him.

I don't know about you, but His is the hand I want to hold as I jump from stone to stone.

Comfort

2008-10-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

I checked on the kids before heading for bed and found my strapping twelve-year-old nestled under the covers with his younger brother.

Both of them sawing logs.

He'd told me earlier that he was scared (forty-five minutes into what I'd thought was the tenth ploy to stay up a little later). I hugged him and offered a brief prayer of comfort, but my heart wasn't into it.

My heart was already lusting for the warm bubble bath and pint of Ben and Jerry's that was waiting.

We moms get so weary by the end of the day that it's easy to miss a sincere need in the mine field of wants we navigate daily.

But my son had a need and he figured out a way to get it taken care of. All he needed was a warm body mere inches away to feel safe. Didn't matter that it was the brother he'd threatened to knock the eye teeth out of the day before.

When we have a need, do we go to the One who knows us so well? The One who hears our intimate thoughts?

He is comfort without measure, a mere breath away.

Real and Limited

2008-10-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Went to a <A HREF="http://www.womenoffaith.com">Women of Faith</A> conference last weekend. Had the privilege of being the guest of one of the speakers.

And that's the kind of vessel he can use.

It's so easy to think that we have to promote God. That if we exhibit anything less than Christian perfection, we're letting God down.

We forget that we weren't designed to be perfect. God bypassed that button and went straight for "limited."

Limited in power. Limited in our ability to do it right. Limited in love.

Just plain limited.

When we get that concept, freedom is right around the corner. Because when limited leans in and taps into the Unlimited God, He can do all things through us.

Love, hope, accept, accomplish, realize dreams, create the unimaginable.

God wants to accomplish his purposes through us—his limited, imperfect people.

It's through our humility and brokenness that God can do amazing works.

Acceptance

2008-09-30T14:15:00.001-07:00

My women's group is reading a great book called Easy to Love, Difficult to Discipline by Becky Bailey, Ph.D. In it she describes a principle called, The Power of Acceptance—this moment is what it is.

That seems like a simple enough concept. I mean, you could translate it to say, "Live in reality, babe."

But, it also means letting go of the shoulds. And for a recovering perfectionist, that eliminates about half of my vocabulary on any given day.

I should have gotten up earlier. I should have ordered the salad instead of the pasta drenched in Alfredo sauce. I should have remembered to pick up the kids from my mother's…

Is it possible to truly live in the moment that is? Can I? I'd like the freedom of not wishing away what is or longing for what I think should be. I'd have a lot more mental energy.

Dr. Bailey explains (rough paraphrase) that when we accept how things are, peace follows, and we then have the ability to decide how we want life to flow from that point on.

The peace part is what I really like. Okay, so I didn't get my "to do" list completed, the kids didn't take out the trash, and the kitchen's a mess. . .

Deep breath . . . or two.

That is the reality of my moment. What do I want to do in my next moment?

I can clean or I can choose a bubble bath.

My old self would have worked long past bedtime to get things in order so the "should" sisters wouldn't follow me to bed with their incessant harping.

The new me, the one living in this now moment? I'll choose the bubble bath.

Husbands and Non-issues

2008-09-18T09:50:00.001-07:00

Apparently this is the week of revelations.

I am smidgen task-oriented. My hubby would likely describe it in stronger, more glaring terms, but since it's my blog, I'm free to downplay it all I please.

But I admit that I am a go-getter. I need problems solved . . . NOW.

And I want to be first in line with the solution. I'm quick to point everyone's attention to myself, "If you'll just follow my lead, everything will be just fine."

This is primarily directed to the short people in our family, small dogs and the occasional husband.

Mat got up at 4:30 am the other morning to run with some neighbors, on a mere four hours sleep. By evening it was like sitting on the couch next to a loaf of bread.

Of course my mind jumps ahead to weeks and weeks of sitting next to this loaf of bread and trying to have intimate conversations to deepen our marriage relationship as he nods off to the next commercial. I wasn't seeing it.

The next morning, in the subtle way I have (please, no snarky laughter here), I asked if he was planning on any more of these middle of the night runs.

He nodded and told me what a great jump start it was to working out again. I bluntly stated that it wasn't working out for me.

He acquired that wise look in his eye and stated gently, "Not everything has to be an issue."

I deciphered the code hidden behind the words. "I've only run with them one day; please climb off my back, dear."

Once again, he was absolutely right. Everything that isn't running smoothly or on track according to the experts (ahem, that would be moi and moi), doesn't necessarily need to be discussed, addressed, dissected, deciphered, scrutinized or resolved.

Especially not in the next half hour.

I find that I want immediate results and immediate action. I want my issues to become critical to the whole family. But that isn't loving and it's not serving, except in the sense that it's self-serving, which is not pretty.

Afterall, it's not just about me. Right?

Hamster Wheels

2008-09-16T11:07:00.001-07:00

Had a revelation of sorts today. Actually more like a throwing in of the towel.

But, oh, what sweet relief. What freedom!

For the last few weeks, I've been laying in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out a workable schedule. A plan of action for the new school year.

There's so much that goes into running my life—quiet time with the Lord, exercise, writing, marketing, volunteering at school, Bible studies, house work, meal planning, grocery shopping, time with kids, time with hubby, homework, sports, time with friends . . .

Without the perfect schedule I was sunk.

Couple of roadblocks in my way. 1) I'd need to get up at 4:30 in the morning to get it all in, 2) I don't function at 4:30 in the morning.

So my compromise was to make myself go to bed at 9:30 pm and get up by 6:00 am. The problem was I'm rarely in bed before 11 o'clock.

So I was constantly faced with my failure and the perfectionistic whipping of my less than stellar self.

Start Over Tomorrow and Try Harder became the mantras.

I was always behind and trying to catch up. Do you know the kind of energy it takes to feed the "should haves" or "should be doing's?"

I was a hamster running on a wheel that spun faster and faster until it flung me off. And what would I do? I'd pick myself back up and race over to that wheel that hadn't slowed one iota. Little paws lifted, black nose moving in fast little circles as I followed the whirling wheel, trying to gauge the perfect moment to jump back on.

Over and over I jumped on and got thrown right back off.

Until it finally hit me. FORGET THE DARN WHEEL!

Stop trying for perfection. Stop trying to create a perfect, well-ordered world.

That's not reality.

Reality is that life is messy. Kids get sick. Laundry backs up. Kitchens don't stay clean.

Relax and enjoy the process. Get done what you can and laugh off the rest.

Checking it Off

2008-09-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

Too often, I've seen my quiet time as something to be gotten through.

Something to check off my list (I'm an avid list maker). And this morning I was kicking myself for not having gotten up earlier and had my quiet time so it'd be out of the way.

When I heard that phrase bounce through my mind, I stopped. Out of the way?

Is God something to cross off my list? I realized that I view my quiet time too often as a chore and not as relational time with my God.

I want my quiet time to be first thing in the morning, not so I can feel better that it's one less thing I'll have to get to later, but because I don't want to spend one moment of my day without Him.

And that's one thing I've learned over the last week or so, is that I can't survive without Him.

Goodbyes and The Missing . . .

2008-09-09T00:00:00.000-07:00

The funeral was awful and wonderful.

Wonderful because my dear father-in-law is home with his beloved Lord. Awful because I hate goodbyes. I hate change. I hate things that disrupt the norm.

When I was gathering information to write Art's obituary, no one could remember exactly when he moved here from Montana. I reached for the phone, of course he would know.

I've heard people mention those moments of reaching out to call, to connect and then that icy flash of realization when the loss hits all over again.

It hurts. I called his office today just to listen to his voice. It was comforting, like a warm hug. I want to keep that message, so I can call when the missing becomes too much.

I've started feeling more like myself again. Not so lost in the flat fog of grief. I've actually had a few moments of elation for him. I know his joy is complete at this very moment and the next and the next.

I long for the time when life feels normal again, but realize the path of normal will be far different than the one before.

No more pancake lunches at our favorite restaurant. I don't know if I can even eat there anymore.

But life will go on, and the old norm will wane as new routines and structure color over the fading lines.

Hope will gradually fill in the cracks that the grief left in our hearts. Joy and excitement will once again sparkle in our lives with no diminishing shadows.

The joy of the Lord will be our strength. Thankfully His joy surrounds and carries us.

Coping

2008-09-04T10:02:00.001-07:00

A funeral is an event. Didn't realize how much went into organizing one. Pictures, slide shows, food.

So much preparation for a passing when your mind can't seem to even find first gear.

I drove past the store when I went to pick up milk for breakfast. I got into the wrong lane on a road I travel every day and headed downtown when I was trying to go home.

We're all trying to cope. My husband and I need quiet and the kids need to play. At top speed and full volume.

Last night around ten when the house was still, my middle son came down. I held him while he cried. He said, "I keep seeing Papa holding his arms out to me."

Isn't that like the picture of God? Always holding his arms out to love, to comfort, to show His immense affection for us.

I haven't done much talking to Him lately, though I feel His presence.

I haven't felt like talking at all. Except sometimes. Sometimes a friend will call and I can't stop talking. Other times I can't even answer the phone, or email.

I bought our clothes for the funeral yesterday. I wanted new clothes for our Papa. And I wanted black, everything to be solid black.

I set the pile down and the kindly man behind the counter gave us a cheerful smile and asked, "What's the occasion?"

I wanted to say it was for pictures or a concert.

But they are for a celebration of sorts. A celebration for a man who loved the Lord. Who lived a hard life and won the race.

Grief

2008-09-02T00:10:00.001-07:00

My father-in-law passed from this life a few days ago.

He was bigger than life and left a hole larger than life. A self-made, independent man who struck out from the wilds of Montana when he was fifteen.

A man who left an imprint that was like no other.

Over the years, I've had friends who've lost loved ones and I've hated that I couldn't do anything to make their pain go away.

I've wanted to hurry things up—to help get their lives back to normal, back to what was comfortable and predictable.

When a moment of levity would lighten those tough moments or life regained normal footing for an hour or so, I'd be relieved, glad that they were moving on and grief wasn't swallowing them.

But what I've discovered is that despite being able to laugh at a memory or load the dishwasher without crying, the grief never goes away. It is a constant shadow that bleeds the color out of life, absorbing the joy and leaving flat gray in its place.

I feel snared in a place of unreality. My mind knows that everything has changed, yet is caught between that truth and the way I still yearn for things to be. The truth is a black hole I don't want to fall into.

I find myself struggling with anger toward God. It hasn't shaken my trust in Him and I see glimpses of His perfect plan, but I still feel lonesome for this man who was like a father to me.

Yet through all the pain, the anger, the grief, confusion and sadness, God's presence is close and it comforts me.

God is faithful even when we are faithless, for He can't deny Himself.

Running With the Girls

2008-08-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

I went for a run at 5:30 in the morning the other day. Suffice it to say that this was not my idea. My brain doesn't even turn on until 8:30, and even then it remains on idle until about 10 o'clock.

I have rather evil friends who talked me into it. Okay, not totally evil, just rather sadistic.

We started our run on a dark path on a forested hillside. I was sent to the front of the pack to lead the way up toward the park at the top.

Why, you ask? That would b e because I'm the tallest and the best equipped to clear out the cobwebs that spun between bushes across the trail.

Did I know this was my mission? No, my three friends informed me between evil snorts of laughter as I spluttered and blindly tried to wipe off the sticky web and keep from falling off the trail.

I recovered and continued along the dim path when a short, hairy beast leapt out in front of me and started bounding up the gravel trail. I screamed and managed a few wild arm movements while insanely continuing to run.

As my heart resumed its less humming bird like beating, the beast transformed from a frightening creature into a raccoon which took a right turn into the brush.

That's when the hills came alive . . .and NOT with the sound of music. Every rustle and snap of twig became a predator planning his attack. Amazingly enough, we made it to the top.

Lesson learned. Things aren't always as they seem. Too often we jump to conclusions. Think the worst of someone's motives. Don't stop to ask questions.

Just don't stop. Don't give ourselves that moment to regroup. Think things through.

One thing I do know . . . tomorrow I'm sleeping in.

In God's Care

2008-08-26T00:00:00.000-07:00

God is amazing. There are always challenges on this journey—childrearing issues, marital hiccups and the mudslides and avalanches that life always seems to send careening toward us.

But God is there, immovable, available, always wanting to help.

And I’ve been wading through a couple of those mud slides, but making a choice to be intentional about spending time with God through out it. In all honesty, it’s probably those things that drove me to the foot of the cross.

As I told God how much I appreciate him—the joy he gives me despite the glare I’m receiving from a sullen child (that is a miracle, don’t ya think?), and the stress of “re-entry” after a business trip with my husband (okay, it was Naples, FL so I can’t complain too much)—I got a picture in my mind.

It was a picture of dad resting his hand on the top of his young daughter’s head. At first, I thought, “Oh, that’s a lovely picture of God always being with me.” But the picture remained, so I moved in closer.

The purpose of the picture wasn’t so I’d see that God’s presence always with me, but rather to feel what was in the girl’s heart.

She felt completely protected and relaxed because Someone with all the authority in the world was in control and would guide her every step.

He’s a God who answers our dreams, meets our desires and provides beyond our needs.

He is a God of plenty.

Wow Moments

2008-08-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

Last fall I was working on my publisher's macro edits for my novel Leave it to Chance. It was pretty overwhelming. There I sat at my desk with a stack of red marked pages and a list of things to overhaul.

Too big a job, too little time.

Then I reached a particularly tough section. I had no idea what to do. It was after midnight with my deadline looming, so I emailed an SOS to my prayer group and went to bed. Woke up early, completely exhausted after eight grueling weeks of these edits. I had difficulty formulating even a simple thought, but the novel was due the next day.

Sat down at the computer with my bowl of oatmeal and had a niggling idea. Started to work it in, and to my amazement it fit like a piece of a puzzle that had gone missing. In several spots the dialogue I had in place worked far better with this addition.

And in my fogged brain state of the night before I had added one line to a scene, not even sure why I was typing it in as it didn't really fit. But with the new plot dynamic, that line was the PERFECT finish to the scene.

I truly saw God going before me and setting things in place.

But sadly, just an hour later, I was back to fretting and worrying that I wouldn't be able to finish the edit well. I glanced out the window and saw a humming bird. Into my mind popped the verse about how God provides for the birds of the air.

It was one of those moments where God deposits an entire insight into your brain in a nanosecond. He showed me how often I had judged the Israelites for not trusting God in the wilderness when he so obviously provided for them. (Too many times I've wanted to rap them upside the head for thinking they were going to die of thirst in the desert when just the page before God had showered them with miracle after miracle to deliver them from slavery.)

And yet, just after he so obviously paved the way in my editing, I was right back to stewing and worrying about it. AND my issues were way smaller than survival (the Israelites lives were on the line).

God can do exceedingly, abundantly beyond what we can imagine. He's been showing me that he's faithful even when I'm not. He loves me when I'm unlovable.

He's always reaching for my hand. I'm determined to hold onto his.

Pain & Healing

2008-08-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

I recently started going to a physical therapist for a hamstring issue that turned out to be a back issue. He helped me get everything operational again and then wanted to look at my running form.

He said my stride wasn't too bad and had me make a few minor adjustments. Minor sounds simple enough, right? Not like major or complete overhaul.

Just a few adjustments that had me leaning forward, bending my elbows more and pushing off with each step. But it was awkward. Didn't feel normal—though it did feel more effortless at first.

But who wants to think about their form with each and every step of a three or four mile run?

After a week or so it became more comfortable, felt like I was gliding. My speed even increased. But as soon as I started getting tired, old habits rushed in to tempt me.

So badly did I want to straighten up, to go back to my familiar running posture.

Isn't that the way it goes when we try to walk away from habits or people that aren't the best for us? In moments of clarity, we make a resolution to break free—to get healthier. But as soon as it gets tough—and it always does when we plow new ground—we want to go running back to the old and familiar.

We minimize the damage those habits or people cause to our lives. Egypt was a place of bondage to the Israelites until they thought they would die of thirst in the desert, and then begged Moses to take them back.

To make a significant change we need to focus on the goal and the benefits it'll bring. Because when we hit the pain of change, our resolution becomes foggy and distorted. But if we remember the goal and have someone who can help keep us accountable, we CAN get free.

As I was out for a run today, a thought smacked me out of the blue. I realized that without my original hamstring injury, I never would have sought help and discovered some of the damaging habits I had in my daily living and in my running.

As much as I had prayed for my leg to get better, I'm so glad it didn't. It put me on a path toward a physical health I didn't realize I was lacking.

So sometimes, those difficult things in our lives are used to bring the greatest blessing. Never give up!

Time Outs and Attitudes

2008-08-14T11:14:00.001-07:00

Each moment of every day we're either walking toward God or walking farther away. Sometimes it's not so much that we're not praying unceasingly as the Bible calls us to do, it's more the infinitesimal steps away from him and toward self.

This crops up in attitudes and the words we use with others, which leads me to the short people in our family.

Sometimes I find myself becoming an armchair parent. Refereeing from the sidelines. Directing children like I'm directing traffic. Issuing time outs like speeding tickets.

It didn't occur to me until God had tapped me on the shoulder a few times that consequences don't change hearts. Time outs don't change attitudes.

It may create external compliance, but it doesn't touch their character.

I need to get down to their eye level, speak to their hearts about connection with others. Teach them how words can build up or tear down. In essence love them closer to Jesus.

But those days when I've let go of God's hand and am forging ahead on my own, where am I leading my kids? I'm leaning on my own understanding, trying to make my own straight path (not good for this directionally challenged mother).

Empty reservoirs lead to short-circuited moms. You know how it is. The kid just stepped on your very last nerve and you stand there screeching at him looking like something out of a horror movie.

To be the kind of moms our kids need, we have to be filled up.

For me, this starts in the bedroom. Specifically in my closet. My own quiet place where I can sit and talk to God uninterrupted (except for the occasional banging on the closet door when the short people need something).

If I'm not sharing all of me with my King—the good, bad and ugly—the ick stays inside and inevitably effects how I interact with my kids.

Even if it's only a few minutes that I have to sneak into my closet and close the door, I'll take it because it's only in his presence that I become complete.

Wild Animals . . . er, Pets...

2008-08-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, you may be thinking I'm referring to my children, and while on some days that may be true (such as this very moment where my son has knocked into me about five times in the last ten seconds). But I am actually referring to creatures of the animal kingdom.

There are a few messies in our family (AKA the short people) which can drive a neat, orderly person nearly batty at times.

But as I passed by my daughter's room a few days ago it dawned on me that she has kept her room IMMACULATE for MONTHS! Nearly on the miraculous scale for this ten-year-old girl.

Then this morning she said, "Mom, remember you said I could get a pet if I kept my room clean?"

Horror swept over me. Had I really said that? Obviously I had, and more obvious was the fact that I thought there wouldn't be a snowball's chance in summer of that happening.

But I swallowed and attempted a smile and we piled in the car for a trek to the pet store with me praying the whole way. Please let her fall in love with a frog.

Frogs seemed more do-able than say a rabbit, which is what she really wanted. To my thinking, anything with fur and a small cage adds up to smelly.

Fortunately, when I explained what rabbit plus Milo (our small, hyper dog) would mean to the pet population in our home (fine dining for the dog), she quickly acquiesced to the thought of a more reptilian type pet.

So she is spending untold hours on the internet researching turtles and other creepy crawlies.

So be careful what you promise, it may come slithering back to bite you.

Spring Fever

2008-07-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

It happens every spring. I bask in the delight of everything greening up and . . . suddenly want to move to the country.

My hubby and I each grew up in rural communities. I have so many memories of walking unpaved roads near my house looking for pretty rocks, lazing on the back of my Shetland pony while reading a book, or taking turns being pulled through the grass on skiis behind a thirty-year-old motorbike.

We had room to do those things without being laughed at by the neighbors.

My best friend lived ten minutes away if we were really flying on the three-wheeler, fifteen minutes if my mom was following us.

There's nothing like the freedom of quiet, open spaces . . . until you start actually looking for country property.

Can we just add a little more stress to life?

Sitting in front of the computer searching through page after page of picturesque acreage on the real estate listings is pretty darn exciting for a goal-driven gal like myself.

And the excitement just amps up when, with printout in hand, you get to eagerly follow the real estate agent to each listing.

But disillusionment quickly sets in. No matter how you turn the page you can't quite figure how they got that beautiful view situated at the top of the printout from the land you're parked on.

But that's kinda like life. Buyer beware and all that.

Nothing is as it seems . . . or is it?

The properties I looked at didn't suddenly transform into ugly ducklings when I drove up, even though they only vaguely resembled the beautiful pictures I held.

It's all in the perception or the deception.

How often do we talk up something we want or focus solely on the negative traits of someone we're displeased with? It doesn't alter the reality that there's good and bad in most things.

It's just that the slice we choose to illuminate can skew perception.

It's the same with God. He IS all good. But the enemy of our souls is a master manipulator and skilled in the art of deception.

What slice has he shown you? Can you see through the lie to the truth of God's goodness?

I hope that you can. You'll never regret opening the door to relationship with Him.

The Slipping of Time

2008-07-29T15:55:00.001-07:00

Time seems to be slipping through my grasp.

The toddler that used to give me adorable grins with sparkling eyes now has a hint of adolescence in the tilt of his chin as he kids with me.

The chubby arms that used to wrap around my knees, sticky with bits of mashed Cheerios and popsicles rivulets staining the soft skin, now nearly drape across my shoulder.

The scent of baby lotion on velvety skin has been replaced by sweat and dirt and big grins after an afternoon of riding quads.

The little girl who used to play dress up with her dolls now wants to dress up for real.

No, I can't stop the sand from slipping between my fingers, no matter how tightly I hold on to it.

But what I can do is cherish each moment without looking over my shoulder at the mistakes. Without wishing away the moments I'd growled instead of holding my tongue, the times I listened with half an ear while I planned dinner in my head, or how often I drove with jabbering away on the cell phone rather than conversing with those precious souls in the back seat.

We grow and we learn. Cherish the now you have with your kids.

Time marches and soon we'll only hear the echo of them in our homes.

Polishing the Burl

2008-07-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

We just got home from a two week vacation. Family reunion in Canada, a lovely sojourn to Wallowa Lake and then visiting friends and a book signing in eastern Oregon.

There was very little grousing from the short people in the backseat as we wound our way up over mountains and down through canyons. That gave us much to be thankful for (we cleaned out the public library the day before we left).

It was perfectly delightful in most ways.

But TDH (tall, dark and handsome) wasn’t his normal cheerful, fun-loving self. This was due to the fact that bouncing and dragging behind the trailer the entire 2000 miles of our travels were the stresses and worries from several things back home.

It reminded me of that commercial, “Don’t leave home without it.” Well, trust me, I was wishing it’d been cut loose.

He was really great, mostly. Just a teensy Jekyll and Hyde-ish at times. Nothing we couldn’t live with, until the afternoon he got irritated at something I’d done.

All the defenses locked into place and I went into my glacial mode. Ice queen reigneth.

Warm connection was replaced by short, clipped conversations with minimal eye contact. I withdrew into my cave, and felt completely justified in pulling back.

Afterall, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Oh, how the smug get humbled.

I was stewing in the trailer when the Lord gently cleared his throat. He reminded me that TDH wasn’t being prickly on purpose. The more prickly, the more he needed loving. Loving words and loving touch.

Rather than complaining about him being a bump on a log, I needed to polish the burl. (For those of you that don’t know, a burl is a growth on a tree that has an unusual grain and is beautiful when polished).

After the Lord patiently let me stutter through a litany of buts (“But, he…”) I headed back outside.

Do you know how hard it is to be nice when you feel wronged? When you’ve already decided that he needs to make the first move toward reconciliation?

I felt like a rusty old pump. Loving words jammed and crowded in my throat, coming out in spurts and muttered sputters. But I kept that pump handle moving.

The more I walked in faith, knowing I was doing the right thing, the more my feelings started to follow. Pretty soon, I wanted to love on him. Wanted to encourage and help him smooth those pricklies down.

And then we were laughing.

When I let go of my rights—my right to be mad and my right to wallow in my hurt—God’s grace can get to work.

Then freedom comes.

Missing in Action Part III

2008-07-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

and finally . . .

• Be Quick to Forgive – When your child comes to you, head hung low and apologizes for his mistakes, simply offer him forgiveness (and do it with a hug or a touch). Do not rehash the situation or demean him for his behavior. Let it go. A child needs to have the freedom to make mistakes and be valued enough not to have his prior failures continually brought back up. There will be occasions when it is appropriate to have continued dialogue about what happened, but set a time for that. “Hey son, would after dinner be a good time to talk about happened?” You want him to be quick to repent, but if he fears a lecture or criticism when he does, he’ll stop coming to you.

• Express Anger in a Respectful Way – It is vital that we teach our kids how to express anger in a way that maintains the connection with others. This will come primarily through our example. People stop listening when they feel defensive. Using “I” statements to express frustration (rather than “you”), speaking in a controlled tone, and not throwing blame will help the other person really listen. If your child starts interrupting, raises his voices, or gets agitated, re-evaluate the way you express your anger and see if one of these elements needs to be adjusted.

• Be Affectionate – Touch your children frequently. Snuggle and cuddle when they are little. Maybe your older kids don’t want to snuggle while you watch a movie with them. Then find ways to express your affection at other times: a touch on the shoulder as you pass in the kitchen, a quick rub on the back as they are doing their homework, a quick tousle of the hair as a youngster rushes past. Loving touch expresses acceptance and caring. Find ways to convey your affection for them.

• Let Go – Your child is an individual—created in God’s image—not ours. Children are not meant to be mommy or daddy clones. Your kids will think and operate in ways unique to them. Celebrate and encourage those differences. God has a plan for your child. We don’t want to divert them onto the plan of our own design, but rather help them be all God created them to be.

Hug them tight!

Missing in Action Part II

2008-07-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

. . . and more on that subject . . .

• Play With Your Kids – Let them experience your joy in being with them. Give them full and direct eye contact, smiles and warm touches. Let this time be about them. Shut off the phone and let the answering machine take any calls. Demonstrate that there is nothing more important than them in those moments. If you are stuck on how to play with them, get out some old fashioned board games. Let your child be the center of your world for a portion of each day. It takes less time than we think to deposit into their “love tanks.”

• Listen to Your Kids – Stop what you are doing and give your child your full attention when he speaks with you. Let your body language convey that you are fully attentive to them. Don’t try to fix their problems. Ask questions and be supportive. Show that you believe they are capable of finding their own solutions. If we want our kids to open up, we need to do all we can to ensure they walk away from their interactions with us feeling built up, rather than micro-managed or criticized.

• Maintain the Love Connection with Your Child At All Times – People grow and develop the most within the context of loving, supportive relationships. God designed you to be that supportive person in your children’s lives. Your love, your acceptance, and your belief in your children will have the greatest influence in their lives. But as you know, there are the countless times when their attitudes or choices may drive you toward volcano-sized eruptions. When that occurs, walk away until you can discuss the situation calmly. Show them through your example that anger does not replace love. Anger will occur situationally, but love remains a constant. A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. (Prov. 15:1) It’s one thing to love your child; it’s another for the child to know he’s loved no matter what mistakes he makes.

• Be Quick to Repent – Know that you’re going to blow it over and over. We all do. If you find that you’ve reacted harshly or responded in anger to your children, go to them and apologize. Take responsibility for your actions—don’t blame your response on their behavior—and ask their forgiveness. They need to see repentance modeled to them.

more to follow . . .

Missing in Action

2008-07-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Don't send a boy to do a man's . . . er, a woman's job.

Don't expect the short people in your family to have the same attention to detail that you do.

We're traveling to Canada to a family reunion (my paternal grandfather was the youngest of thirteen children and the only one to move down to the States, so there are hundreds of my people across the border) and I have been a rather frantic version of my lovely self trying to get everything ready to go.

The children would prefer to watch TV or lounge on the couch with a book rather than help tidy up or fold a few clothes to get things moving along.

It doesn't help that I give a directive and then leave the room. I expect that if their eyes are on me that their ears are listening.

I also expect that if I give them an objective, like say, clean off the kitchen counter, that they'll actually do it.

Unrealistic expectations are death to a relationship. So I've notched down my expectations and am learning to help them along, to work with them rather than expect them to treat my objectives with the same fervor I have.

I'm going to run a three part series on Ten Ways to Love Your Child at Any Age. Here are the first two ways you can love your child:

• Lower Your Expectations – Unmet expectations lead to anger. Most parents find that the fast lane to frustration is finding that the kids didn’t clean their rooms, mow the yard, or get their homework done like they were asked to do. Unfortunately, children are hardwired toward foolishness (Prov. 22:15). But if you can expect the foolishness, you’ll bypass the frustration. You’ll find yourself instead in a wonderful position to teach, guide and lovingly correct your child.

• Hold Your Kids Accountable – But pick your battles wisely. Rather than correcting each mistake your child makes, focus on one or two areas that need improving. Strategize ways to teach and hold him accountable to the rules of your home. For example, if you want him to become more responsible in finishing his after-school chores, let him know he’ll be welcome to have dinner once his chores are completed. Your follow through on sticking with the consequences will help him the most.

More to follow . . .

Just Like Me

2008-07-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

I went away a couple weekends ago to work on a proposal for a new book series. It was pure bliss to have a silent house to work in without interruption.

I'm one of those people who could never study with the TV on. Background noise was an irritant. You'll recognize me in Starbucks. I'm the one with the book, the frappuccino and the earplugs.

You can see my dilemma in trying to work in a house with four munchkins. Three of them very loud boys.

At the end of the weekend, having exceeded my expectations in productivity, I headed home. Walked in the door, greeted my family with hugs and kisses and carted my bag to the closet . . . where half my clothes were missing.

I didn't notice this at first. The puzzling circumstance came to my attention when I did the laundry and found all those clothes stuffed in the hamper.

I'm sure my lips peeled back and my eyes narrowed to tiny slits. I knew the culprit. She lived in my house and had also gotten into my fingernail polish and make up.

Fortunately, the Lord lassoed me and gave me a quick talking to before I marched into the other room to do my own talking.

He showed me that she wants to be like me. She loves me, admires me, and wants to be close to me. Wearing my clothes and make up, and all my shoes I found scattered around the house was her way of becoming like her mom.

That completely changed my perspective. Where I had been thoroughly annoyed, I became humbled and awed and a little flattered. Seeing it through His eyes warmed my heart (and helped me grit my teeth and smile when the button on my silk sweater fell off from exuberant wear).

How often do we study our heavenly Dad and adopt his characteristics? Gentleness, kindness, truth tempered by love, humor in the presence of chaos.

I want to be more like my Dad. How about you?

Full Indian?

2008-07-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

I had a book signing today. During a lull (there were many lulls), a boy of about eleven sauntered up. Blue eyes looked at me from a freckled face surrounded by a mop of sun bleached hair.

He studied one of the books on my table a moment and asked, "You make that?" I told him I had written it and someone else made the cover. He nodded and asked a few more questions.

Somehow we worked our conversation around to ourselves. He said, "I'm part Indian."

I said, "Wow! I always wanted to be an Indian." His expression turned superior as the one standing there with the Indian blood. He strolled a couple steps away and perused a display of necklaces.

He was especially taken by one that had a huge cross on it and said proudly, "I'm a Christian." I told him how great that was.

Then he turned and pulled himself up to his full height and stated. "I'm full Christian and a little bit Indian."

I loved it. Christianity wasn't something he adopted, it was who he was as much as his physical heritage.

I'm full Christian with a little bit German, Irish and Welsh. What are you?

Unshrink Your World

2008-07-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

Took the kids to the swimming pool today. It was a mad house. As we were lathering up the sunscreen, Logan looked at me with woeful eyes and said, "I forgot my goggles."

Fifteen minutes later, seven-year-old Kaden came up to me, "Mom, can you get me any goggles?" I told him I couldn't. He said, "I need some . . . like I NEED."

Isn't it funny how our world can shrink down to our point of discomfort? If something doesn't feel good or stretches us a little too much, it becomes our point of need.

We aren't good at enduring things beyond a certain comfort level. What does that say about us, about our characters?

It's easy to be self-centered. Who doesn't want to be served and fawned over? But is that where we're supposed to live? It certainly inhibits growth.

I was listening to James Dobson interview Archibald Hart about his book Thrilled to Death: How the Endless Pursuit of Pleasure Is Leaving Us Numb.

He said our need to be constantly stimulated can actually create a condition called anhedonia which is the inability to experience pleasure and can lead to depression.

Dr. Hart states that one of the best things we can do for our kids is to let them become bored.

I perked up when I heard that. My kids would say I'm excelling in that department this summer.

It's easy to focus on what excites and stimulates us and want some more heaping portions of it. (Okay, I admit I visited Cold Stone two days in a row and it was so good I ordered the bigger size the second day.) But where are we when it comes to humbly serving those around us?

It takes sacrifice and strength to put others needs and desires ahead of our own. Who doesn't want the biggest slice of cake? I know I'm not the only one raising my hand here.

We don't need to sign up for every committee or join a non-profit, we just need to adjust our mindset a degree or two (or a hundred) and be watchful. Look up from our own point of discomfort and think of those around us.

That might even be the under ten crowd that drives us crazy before noon and needs their goggles to go swimming.

You'll be amazed at the blessings that come back to you.

Resting in the Seconds

2008-07-01T12:01:00.001-07:00

I was flipping through my journal—the place where I can unload on God, reflect on what's going on in my life, or jot down a new book idea. And I came across this prayer I wrote a few months ago when I needed to make some decisions about a big project and in the process did some pondering about myself:

"I'm scared. I'm scared of the unknown and of being in trouble with "them." I don't want to be in pleaser mode and I also don't want to run over people. So teach me how to be myself and to be gracious.

I don't want to be rough on the outside so if I brush up against someone it's abrasive. I also don't want to be so weak that I'm malleable and porous—letting things ooze out or saturate in. I want to be immovable and able to withstand life's tornados. Jesus, I need you."

I've noticed something about myself. There's this "them" out there that I fear letting down. Fear that I'm going to be judged harshly and found lacking. Sometimes those "thems" are actual people, but much of the time they are nameless and faceless, hovering on the periphery, a product of my performance driven imagination.

They fuel the lie that there is something more I should be doing, something I should be trying harder at: parenting, time with God, writing . . . those things that are so important to me, but have difficulty resting in.

Though it is getting easier.

I'm starting to get that perfection is not the goal. That God did not design me to go it alone or aim for the stars and get there in my own rocket ship.

When I become intentional about resting in Him, all those "thems" disappear. I'm living and breathing for an audience of One. The desire for excellence doesn't disappear—His standards are high. The difference is He does the equipping.

Too often I hear the call and then scramble and stress trying to do it all on my own, and then cringe at the thought of being judged for my efforts.

It's not supposed to be that way.

When He sets us on a path, He'll provide all we need and the companionship we crave.

I want to walk that path with him second by second.

The Misinformation Highway

2008-06-26T00:00:00.000-07:00

Everyone's an expert. Or at least has a convincing viewpoint, even if in their own mind.

We're traveling to Canada in a few weeks for a family reunion. And we've been dealing with the big question--passport or no passport. Mat and I are covered as we have passports. But it's the kids we're concerned about. Would hate to have to leave them at the border (most days, anyway).

So I checked the Homeland Security Web site. Reassured that the kids didn't need passports, I shelved the worry and got back to the business of trying to enjoy my summer with bored children (they've been out of school a week).

But then someone in the checkout line of the grocery store convinced me that the Homeland Security site wasn't up to speed as I most certainly did need a passport. And did I know how backlogged the passport agency was? No one could get a passport in under a month's time.

As we're supposed to leave in two weeks, sheer panic set in. So I called my local post office where the gal assured me that no I did not need passports for the children, but I did need birth certificates and photo ID for them. Heart rate fell back to normal as I hung up the phone. But even then, I worried a fingernail. What if she was mistaken? What if we got to the border and were turned away, trailer loaded with camping essentials and pickup packed with grumpy kids.

I could not take that chance.

So I called a post office in a neighboring town. That gentleman told me that absolutely the children needed passports. He didn't know anything about what the Homeland Security site stated, but knew he was correct as his office received frequent regulation updates.

I warp sped back to panic. Did some digging and got a hold of the number for the federal passport agency. The woman I finally spoke with after listening to multitudes of . . . "please press 1 if you need to speak with . . ." was amazing. She was calm and she had knowledge. And the golden reassurance was that she was the passport agency. What she said was truth (and of course, matched the Homeland Security Web site—went full circle on that one).

Lesson learned? Go to the source. Go to the maker of truth.

Everyone will give you their version of the truth. But much of it is misinformation or has gotten warped and twisted along the way. Kind of like that telephone game we played as kids. The first person says something in the second person's ear, and by the time it's gone around the circle and the last person shares what they heard, it's nothing like the original statement.

You know what I think often happens with God's truth? We Christians think we know God, but in actuality live under rules of performance that we think God puts on us, and then we push them onto others.

So God's truth gets twisted through us. And it grieves him. It pushes away the very people he wants to wrap his arms around.

We're his spokespersons and we're getting it wrong because we really don't understand his truths. We don't really understand or know Him. Just like the people in all those passport offices that I spoke with. They thought they knew truth, and they spoke as if it were the truth.

But it doesn't have to be bad news. Ask God to reveal who he truly is to you. If you are afraid of God, or afraid of what he thinks when he looks at you, you don't have to be. That is not what the Bible teaches. If you've confessed your sinfulness to Him, and asked Jesus to be your savior, you don't have to live in fear any more.

There is only one truth. God's truth. And it's good news.

Boiling Point

2008-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever reached that point in parenting where you stand bewildered with heart aching and wonder, “What the heck am I supposed to do now? Where is the darn manual that will show me how to get these kids to mind?"

Or at least tone down the attitude.

I seem to get to that place in cycles. Things will go smoothly. Kids obey more than just sporadically. They actually seem to care about my feelings and seem to want to please. They don’t buck the house rules too hard.

I get lulled into thinking we’re past the hard stuff. The kids tested the limits and now we’ve all settled in and things will run smoothly until they graduate and move on to college.

WAAAHHH! WAAAHH!! (that’s the thinking error alarm screeching in my ear)

Kids are soooooo unpredictable. Especially with all those pre-pubescent hormones swirling through their veins and turning them into short little Jekyll and Hydes.

And it can hit out of nowhere. One minute life is sailing along fine and dandy and the next I’m running for my closet. Sounds odd, I know, but I do spend an inordinate amount of time in there.

It’s where I go to vent, to cry and to ask God for help (after I get done complaining about the little critters).

He’s patient. He’s doesn’t condemn when I get a little loose in my word choices. (My little cherubs know just the buttons to push to drive me into my flesh in a nanosecond.)

But I’m learning something. We are spirit and flesh. My spirit desires to please God, but it’s severely hampered by the flesh I drag around every day. That flesh craves sin. (For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want. Galatians 5:17)

The sad thing is we can’t overcome our flesh. As Paul states in Romans 7, we don’t do the things we know we should (righteous living) and we do the things we know we shouldn’t (sinful living).

That’s why I RUN to my closet. I don’t want to stay in my flesh one second longer than I have to. And if I go to my dad (God) and ask for help, he’ll do just that.

He’ll correct my mind where my thinking is off base (usually selfish) and heal my heart where it’s been wounded by careless words and the fleshly thinking of young kids, AND he’ll show me what to do next.

Closet time gets me reconnected to God. When we disconnect, and we will many times a day, we fall into sin. That’s not a place I want to live.

Do you have a space you go to vent and reconnect? I would love to hear about a time when you felt that frustration and tension starting to grow fangs. What did you do to get out of that place? Leave a comment or send me an email.

Let’s grow together!

Kids and Pets and Moms With No Memory

2008-06-19T11:22:00.001-07:00

I called my youngest son “Milo” again. What kind of mother calls her son by the dog’s name?

Sometimes I don’t even notice. The other kids admonish me with censure in their tones. “Mommm, you called him Milo again.” Though they seem to be more bothered than their little brother.

He doesn’t seem to mind. Milo is a significant part of our family. Maybe when you’re seven, an adorable and playful Jack Russell seems more like a younger brother than a dog. He keeps Kaden from being the tail to our litter.

We are a little pathetic when it comes to our puppy. Some of you may cringe at the thought of dog fur on your sheets, but my husband fights the kids to be the one who gets to sleep with Milo.

I think I may have driven TDH (tall, dark and handsome) to those furry little paws. You see, I’m one of those who can not drift off to dreamland wrapped in my husband’s arms.

As newlyweds we tried and tried to snuggle to sleep. I’d think, surely I’ll get tired enough to fall asleep. An hour or so later, I’d ease over to my side of the bed.

I can’t even abide a toe touching my leg. TDH has grown accustomed to gentle little nudges to get back across that middle line. He even obeys in his sleep.

So despite the fact that I can’t keep kids and pets straight, my family still loves me. And really, is it any wonder that Milo slips off my tongue so easily? He comes when I call!

Being Authentic

2008-06-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Two Second Delay Syndrome. Do you have it? I lived it for most of my life. Those of us people pleasers (though I consider myself in recovery) know it well.

If someone made a statement, I’d wait a heartbeat or so, get a feel for which way the wind was blowing. Didn’t want to stick my neck out there and be left hanging by myself. While I was full of opinions, I’d rarely voice them if they were different than the consensus.

What if I was wrong? What if people thought I was uninformed or even odd? That, of course, could lead to rejection.

Rejection terrified me on some base level that I rarely examined. Just sort of avoided thinking about. Just as I avoided being authentic and real.

Took me years to gain confidence in being . . . well, me. The me, apart from being right. The me, independent of success or wealth. The plain me, no toppings or additions.

The me God loves.

It took a hard time in my life, where the worst happened. Ultimate, annihilating rejection. There was nowhere to turn except God. I clung to him with all I had within me.

I used to hear people make that statement and roll my eyes. But when you’ve been in that pit, you know how true it is. What a life line of hope He holds.

He taught me about love. True, accepting love. The kind that looks beyond your mistakes and revels in who you are. It’s mind boggling and humbling to see how little you have to offer and yet be given the gift of life and freedom. Wholeness and healing. Acceptance and uncontainable joy.

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

Get to know the His truth.

Charlie

2008-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

What makes a hero?

I think most of us wouldn’t bat an eye to help someone in need. We’d walk that extra mile to lend a hand.

So what separates us from truly heroic people?

Last August we had our company picnic at a lake near town. It was our typical picnic except that due to a dry winter the reservoir was very low. A handful of us walked with our kids across the sand, and then further out across the hardening mud down to the water’s edge.

A few of the kids got in and played. The smaller ones had to wear life jackets as about a foot out, the bottom dropped off and the water was deep.

As I kept an eye on my children, I noticed another group of people walking along the water’s edge a little way from us.

Then a young voice yelled, “He’s drowning!”

All the adults turned and . . . froze. Near where the other group had passed, about four feet from shore bobbed a baseball cap. My mind tried to comprehend that a child was beneath that hat.

Submerged.

Charlie was a blur as he ran past us all toward the edge and jumped. Like I wished I had.

Up they both came. One small panicked boy held tightly against Charlie’s side.

Where we all stood dumb-stricken, Charlie acted. And saved that little boy’s life.

Is it training? Is it instinct? I don’t know.

I just know I want to be more like Charlie.

My Heart’s Garden

2008-06-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

I have friends who love gardening. They salivate just thinking about spring when they can dig their fingers into that rich, dark soil and plant pickup loads of annual in their yards.

Me? I'm a perennial gal. Give me some low maintenance shrub that will come back year after year and keep to its nice, tidy spot without crowding anything out or needing frequent trimmings.

If I had my druthers, I'd also hire my own gardener. Someone willing to work rain or shine to keep flowerbeds and yard weed free.

Though you may never find me clapping my hands in glee at the thought of donning those gardening gloves, I will weed with the best of them when I have a goal to meet—like surprising my hubby when he's feeling overwhelming by the jungle creeping toward the house, or a special birthday party.

My husband's 40^th birthday is Friday the Thirteenth. Ironic, isn't it?

Mat loves being around people and our house is perfect for entertaining, or would be if I'd ever had the courage to have a crowd over. (We'll leave those fears for another blog.)

So I invited thirty people to the big event and then glanced out the window to the yard. I crawled back to bed with a migraine.

Who could I call for help? It would take a team of people days . . . then hope shone as I considered that I do have my own small team. Albeit they are of the shorter variety and not legal to vote in any state, but they love their mommy and will work for money (or under the duress of having their allowance taken away).

Last weekend was thoroughly beautiful—sunny, warm . . . and I got to enjoy it with dirt under my fingernails and a crick in my neck. But our backyard is delightful.

As I tugged out the ten thousandth weed, and once again kindly invited the cherubs back to work, (yes, you can still sound kind at 150 decibels), I thought about my heart and what kind weeds lurked in there.

Weeds tend to be sneaky. From a distance some of our plants looked fine, but a closer look revealed weeds growing up through the foliage, sucking away the nutrition and robbing the plant of growth.

I know there are areas in my life that need some maintenance. Some sins I haven't wanted to let go of and others I'm probably oblivious to.

The awesome thing is our Master Gardener delights in tending to our hearts. Gently nurturing and pruning us toward growth.

I think too often we believe if we open up our weaknesses to Him, He's going to plow in there with a hedge trimmer or hack saw and leave us raw and bleeding.

That is so far from the truth.

What healthy father wants to annihilate his child as a way of encouraging growth? If we fear God, we have an inaccurate picture of who He really is.

If your perception of God is shadowed by fear or dread, then lies and distortions have been sown into your heart. I used to hold to that view of Him. I'd try to weed my own garden to try to please Him—but really it was fear of judgment and rejection that kept me from opening that garden gate to Him.

When I finally let go and let the gate swing open, gentleness and love surrounded me. He didn't even glance at the weeds. When I was finally brave enough to raise my head, He was looking at me. With wonder and love and adoration.

Get to know that God.

You'll embark on a lifetime of joy and growth.

The Quiet Time Guilt

2008-06-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

Busy. Busy. Busy. Racing here and there. So much to do. Laundry. Appointments. Swimming lessons. Flopping on the couch exhausted at night . . . and the nagging guilt.

Didn’t get my quiet time in.

Again.

Haven’t cracked my Bible for days. I avoid even praying for the censure I’m sure to face from the Almighty for not getting my priorities straight. But a new day begins and I head straight for my prayer closet first thing.

I sit in the white rocking chair and feel the guilt from the displeasure that is surely from God, silently chastising me for all my neglected quiet times in the previous weeks.

I’m at war. My mind knows this thinking to be skewed.

The Bible speaks so clearly about the unconditional love and freedom that are gifted to God’s children. But my heart continues to feel the lashings.

I grab my journal and start pouring out my feelings. Telling God of the frustration I sense rolling down from heaven, cataloging my failings even as my mind fights so hard to walk in the truth—that I’m no longer in chains.

He HAS set me free.

So why do I still feel so imprisoned to shame and guilt?

Illumination came steadily as I journaled. Old dynamics. Human dynamics from childhood color my relationship with God.

A man who didn’t know how to be a father. Long days of work, late nights with his friends. A mom sitting in the bleachers alone, cheering her kids on.

Kids watched as dad came home jovial from a few beers with friends, his hearty laughter urging the family to join in.

Mom withdrew into silence. Disapproving and hurt. Bitterness rooted in her heart.

Tension would build until the hearty man withdrew under his own guilt and shame. When the wife sensed his penitence the uneasy relationship would regain its footing.

Fast-forward thirty years. I’m sitting in my prayer closet feeling like I’m the hearty, jovial husband wanting to waltz into intimacy with God and ignore how I’ve neglected our relationship.

How can God be anything other than the bitter wife who punishes by withdrawing? My view is skewed by the dynamics I witnessed as a child.

God gently reminds me that I can not apply a human model to Him. He is fully pleased with me. His love knows no bounds. He looks to the heart, not the actions. He doesn’t rate our performances because it is not an act, but a walk with Him.

I feel his pleasure in me. I don’t understand it, but I revel in it. A child who is fully pleasing to her Dad.

The Bridge to Home

2008-06-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

We buried a young man yesterday.

Death seems to jerk us upright. It pulls us from the hamster wheel of eating, working and playing to mill around in a fog of questions.

Some of us find comfort in God and some of us can't even look him in the face.

I don't understand the whys and I am at loss to do more than wrap my arms around those in pain. If I dig for words I'm afraid I'll join the masses who offer platitudes that while good intentioned, hold no comfort:

God needed him more than us.
God works all things for the good.
It was just his time to go.
He's better off there anyway.

The things we say to try to fill the void where our questions reside. I don't know why death happens. Of course I know why. But there are certain deaths that make no sense. But we try our hardest to hang answers on those unanswerable questions.

Mold a reason around our uncertainty to make it more palatable. We can't seem to sit with silence, let the answers be bigger than us.

Why?

Is it to keep from questioning God? To keep from blasting him with our anger and hurt? Do we think God can't handle our questions, our uncertainty and anger?

Do we think he wants us to bow our heads and accept life such as it is, even as the chasm widens between us and Him?

Is it because deep down we think God is capable of hurting us or at least not caring if we hurt? That his motives aren't always for our best, but that his best creates our biggest loss and we can't accept that. So we hold onto platitudes even as we move to a more superficial existence with Him.

If we can't reach out and grasp the hand that longs for us, we'll never be able to accept that the Sovereign God who created the universe and yet knows the number of hairs on our heads looks at the infinite while we can't go farther than the finite.

We may not get the answers we need this side of heaven, but He is the bridge that gets us home.

Loving Those Kids

2008-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

Childbirth is hard. But parenting takes hard to a whole new level.

Joy is caught in fleeting moments—sparkling eyes above a dimpled grin, grubby arms wrapped around your neck in a tight hug, and the occasional, “You’re the best mom in the whole world.”

Our hearts expand with the unique bond of love that feels uncontainable and unbreakable. We would give our child the world in that instant, certain his heart is united with ours in love and purpose.

Life is magnificent. Our child nearly walks on water in our eyes . . . until we put the lid back on the cookie jar, or ask him to do his homework, or limit TV and computer time.

The loving togetherness is shattered as storm clouds roll over his features and thunder erupts from his mouth. Our own anger may rise to meet his. We walk away from the exchange in guilt and frustration. How did we go from loving him so completely to disliking him so intensely?

We love our children more than life, yet they can exasperate us with a word or a look. How easily we forget that children are not tiny versions of adults. They are another “being” entirely. Children being foolish, being naughty, being curious being tired . . .

Without limits and guidance children will always choose dessert over dinner, computer time over homework, and short sleeves in the middle of a snowstorm.

God entrusts parents with the mammoth responsibility and privilege of raising these precious gifts. As difficult as parenting can be, if we keep love as our focus, we’ll be well on our way to doing a great job. (1 Cor. 13:1-3)

Tide Pools and Clam Digging

2008-05-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

Had a few unexpected experiences this weekend. The weather was unexpectedly beautiful considering we were camping along the Oregon coast--notorious for wet, rainy and cold weather this early in the season.

My brother's family joined us which meant there were seven children ranging from seven to eleven years.

Normally a setup for craziness that leads to exhausted and irritable parents and defensive and sullen children, but was actually a pleasant and delightful interlude (might have been the earplugs and blinders we wore).

Could also be that we ran them ragged. We hiked, we fished, we tide pooled, we grilled oysters in the shell over an open fire (heavenly...drenched in butter and garlic).

We even stopped and dug for clams on our way home. May I interject a word of advice here?

When TDH (tall, dark and handsome) parks the rig and says, "Guys, there's only going to be a couple of us going down there," just smile and nod.

Don't get it into your mind that most certainly you all are going to go clamming with him. And NEVER NEVER NEVER wear your favorite running shoes.

Especially when that black, stinky strip of land is the only way to traverse the area between you and the flats where the clams reside. And that wet, black, marshy land looks deceptively firm.

Life can be, shall we say . . . unexpected.

Blog Appreciation

2008-05-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

I had to jump in from my normal blogging and thank all of you who are participating in my blog tour. And a warm welcome to all who've come to say hello! Thanks so much! Today's post follows below . . .

Thunderstorms

2008-05-22T00:00:00.001-07:00

School is so hard on kids. Or rather, kids are so hard on kids. Their mouths have no governor to stop hateful words. They lack wisdom to help guide their choices.

The dark cloud followed him home from school today, or perhaps blew into the full scale thunderstorm on the long bus ride from school to home with seventy other kids and one harried bus driver.

He slunk into the house, fire in his eyes and hurt in his heart. A wise mom won’t take it personally, but how often am I that wise?

A few words of anger were blasted toward me. Sometimes I shoot right back, other times I retreat, not knowing what to do. Today, I ignored the words and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

He shrugged it off, but I saw the cloud waver. A verse softly blew into my mind, “A gentle word turns away wrath.” Another round of cutting remarks, but I held onto that promise with gritted teeth.

I climbed onto his bed that night and lay next to him. His heart had softened and he shared his day and the hurtful things that had shredded his feelings. I comforted and consoled and was so grateful for holding my tongue when I could have lashed back.

I want to be more like my Father for whom lashing back isn't considered. Doesn't even cross that holy mind. Comfort and correction are bathed with his consuming love. A love that fulfills and never hurts.

A love I want to know more fully.

Blog Tour

2008-05-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

There’s another mom I’d like you to meet. She lives between the pages of my debut novel, Leave it to Chance and has many of the same struggles we all share.

This week I’m delighted to be promoting the book on some cool blogs. I'd love for you to come along and say hi, and meet some great people.

Each blog will have a drawing to give away a free copy of Leave it to Chance. If you leave a comment here, I'll enter you into a drawing to win a free book. Be sure to give me your email addy, and use this format: sherrisand(at)gmail(dot)com.

Here is a list of the awesome ladies who will be hosting me throughout this month:

Toni V Lee: http://tonivlee.blogspot.com
The Writing Road.com: http://www.thewritingroad.blogspot.com
Blog Tour Spot: http://blogtourspot.wordpress.com
Fictionary: http://cballan.wordpress.com
Margaret Daley: http://margaretdaley.blogspot.com
Ma Space: http://grammaspace.blogspot.com
Portrait of a Writer . . . Interrupted: http://www.ginaconroy.com/ginablog/wordpress
Sharon Hinck: http://www.sharonswriting.blogspot.com/
Sips ‘n Cups Cafeteria: http://peggyblannphifer.blogspot.com
Amber Miller: http://www.ambermiller.com
Camy’s Loft: http://camys-loft.blogspot.com
Chatter Matters: http://jenndoucette.blog-city.com
A Christian Romance Writer’s Journey: http://www.eileenastels.blogspot.com
Cliffy’s Mom’s Blog: http://nancyjbailey.blogspot.com/
Flying Changes: http://flyingchanges.wordpress.com/
The Friendly Book Nook: http://thefriendlybooknook.com
Horse Book Reviews: http://horsebookreviews.blogspot.com/
I Don’t Wanna Blog: http://elizardbreath8.blogspot.com
In the Dailies: http://www.tanyadennisbooks.com
Leap of Faith: http://marriageleap.com
lighthouse-academy: http://lighthouse-academy.blogspot.com
A Little Bit of Sunshine: http://footprintsinthesand.us/blog
Musings on This, That & The Other Thing: http://jenniferallee.blogspot.com
Mystery, Suspense and God, Oh My!: http://writesthoughts.blogspot.com
Net’s Notes: http://www.annetteirby.blogspot.com
Novel Journey: http://noveljourney.blogspot.com
Penning Prose: http://www.audrasilva.com/blog
Readin N Writing with Patricia: http://readinnwritin.blogspot.com
Real Women Scrap: http://realwomenscrap.typepad.com/
Relevant Blog: http://relevantblog.blogspot.com
Mary DeMuth: http://wannabepublished.blogspot.com
Smells Horsey: http://www.smellshorsey.com/
Writing by Faith: http://writebyfaith.blogspot.com

Thanks so much for joining us!

Enough Already

2008-05-15T00:00:00.001-07:00

There’s this nagging angst that follows me like a black cloud that says I haven’t done things well enough or right enough or productive enough or timely enough.

And it compiles.

There’s the counters, the sinks, the floors. The drawers, the closets, the toilets. The vacuuming, the dusting and the organizing. And that’s just the house.

There’s also the writing, the marketing and the new book I need to start—but fear that it won't be good enough.

And my quiet time with the Lord—I never start it early enough or make it long enough or read my Bible enough or pray enough.

And then there’s the parenting.

With its swirling black hole of guilt that wants to swallow every good mommy thing I’ve done and spit back all the should haves: I should have read to them more, hugged them more, snapped at them less, and savored their toddlerhood instead of counting the days to school. I should have known they’d grow up and not rushed them through it.

Can I say enough already?

Did you know that you can rearrange the letters in “doing it right enough” and get a whole new phrase? Kind of like an anagram.

Here let me show you. “Doing it right enough” also spells: Satan’s Big Lie.

Okay, so the letters might not exactly fit, but that’s the ingenuousness of his plan. He hides behind words. He deceives us. And we take ownership of his suggestions until they are running our lives.

He railroads us straight into performance until the “should haves,” “right enoughs” and “if onlys” plague our minds like some kind of disease that devours peace.

We’re like hamsters on a performance wheel wearing a black sign that states: WE WILL NEVER ARRIVE AT THE DESTINATION. Those lies take us in circles because just as soon as we think we’ve nailed it another “should have” or “need to do” pops up.

The part that is both sad and yet so cool, is that if we have asked Jesus to live in our hearts, we already have freedom. It’s sad that we don’t believe it and yet cool that He’s waiting to teach us how to walk in that freedom NOW.

For those of you that need some concrete truth to back up what I just said, check out Gal. 3:2b-5:

Did you receive the Spirit by observing the law, or by believing what you heard? . . . After beginning with the Spirit, are you now trying to finish by human effort? . . . Does God give you his Spirit and work miracles among you by your observing the law, or by your believing what you heard?

Pretty neat. He died so that we might live out from under the weight of the should haves and need to dos. Ask him to show you how.

Queen of . . .

2008-05-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, I blushingly admit I am the Queen of Micromanaging.

Sunday was a day of revelations. And not the church kind when you’re listening to your pastor and God highlights something that explodes with wonder in your heart. Your eyes get a little wider and you want to nudge everyone around you and ask, “Did you get that? No, I mean did you really get what he just said?”

This was more like an out-of-body experience when you become an outside observer to your own behavior. Where you want to slap yourself on the forehead and yell, “Grow up!”

I’m pretty sure my husband was thinking the same thing.

You see, I’m having a web site designed and after studying one of the pages my designer sent me, I decided it’d look a whole lot better if I’d been wearing a different outfit.

What had I been thinking when I picked out that shirt all those months ago? I wanted to hit rewind and go back to the day I had the pictures professionally snapped and put on something more elegant.

Then inspiration struck.

I could retake the pictures. I, of course, meaning me and tall, dark and handsome (hereafter known as TDH).

Thirty seconds into the shoot (that’s the professional term for a photography session), I was wishing I could clone myself and be both in front of and behind the camera. But I managed pretty well at directing things from where I stood in the perfect outfit.

Okay, maybe not so perfect.

Three outfits later, I was back in my model pose, waiting for TDH to straighten up from pulling weeds in our yard, my camera dangling around his neck. He patiently resumed his position in front of the tree I leaned against.

I cleared my throat, tilted my head and pasted another lovely smile on my face.

That’s when things started to unravel.

Of course, I needed to see every shot he took. He was too far away, and then too close. Then he decided to experiment from unique angles that made my head look bigger than my body.

I muttered the cloning comment. He muttered something I couldn’t hear. His smile, ever patient, grew thinner and tighter.

Did I mention that this went on for two days? There hadn’t been enough sun Saturday for the pictures to turn out well. Sunday morning it rained. I agonized through church that I’d be forever stuck in a web page in that hideous shirt.

But fortunately the sun peeked out for minutes at a time Sunday afternoon. I hair-sprayed and lip-sticked myself back up and we went at it again.

I told myself before we started that I would keep my mouth shut, smile prettily and let him take the pictures.

I tried. I truly did.

That’s where the out-of-body experience occurred. I didn’t want to micromanage him. It’s just that I thought I knew best how to do it.

My alter ego, wearing the black and white stripes of a referee, was blowing the whistle and shouting, “Boundary crossing.” The whistle blew again. “Control penalty.”

Ei-Yi-Yi. I wanted to duct tape my mouth shut. And I wasn’t the only one.

We got the pictures taken. He still loves me. He understands me and knows I’m trying to tame the control beast.

And I’m hoping for sun tomorrow. I think the red shirt really would look better . . .

Moments

2008-05-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

It all started with a late night.

Too much playing, too little settling down. She overslept. Too late to pack a lunch and she forgot her lunch money. Her blood sugar sank into the toilet along with her attitude.

After several hours of banging my head against the wall, I dragged myself down memory alley trying to convince myself that life is easier now than it was several years ago. That four children aged seven to eleven are less draining than wee ones that have to be monitored constantly.

That ten-year-old attitude is easier than nursing twins several times in the o’dark hours while tall, dark, and handsome snoozes in the warm bed as I attempt to hold one twin close to nurse while trying to wake the other one up enough to eat.

There are times I’d prefer not to revisit, like the period when Logan went through his interest in all things creepy crawly and we discovered the stinky pile of molding worms on the window sill. When the window was open a breeze blew over their little carcasses, stinking up the playroom.

Or the time he stored the cat in his closet and she pooped in his sock drawer and his method of cleaning it up was to stuff the whole mess down the laundry chute.

And when my oldest was five and as he and I stared at our new oven he turned to me and asked, “What are you going to burn in our new oven?”

And the honesty of children like when my almost three-year-old daughter asked, “Why do your teeth get yellower, yellower and yellower?”

But as I scrolled through my journals I noticed that the hard moments, were just that.

Moments.

Moments that you get through. That you grow from. And the space between those moments holds precious memories.

Like the time my daughter pointed out a rainbow and with a huge smile said, “God painted that.”

Or the time when she said with a beaming grin, “The first thing I’m going to do when I get to heaven is hug God.”

How can you fully appreciate something when all you know is the good? It is the rough times that give flavor and depth to the beautiful ones.

The Performance Lie

2008-05-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

My eyes brush open to the dim light of early morning creeping into our bedroom. I stretch that luxurious stretch of the deliciously rested and ease out of bed so as not to disturb the gorgeous hunk lying next to me (drop those eyebrows, we’re married).

I head for my quiet spot and spend an hour basking in the richness of my Father’s love. Heart radiating joy, I pull on my running gear and head for the trail for a hard workout.

Forty-five minutes later I saunter through the front door and the kids come running. After a round of hugs and smiles they pull me toward the kitchen table where a plate holds half of a glistening ruby red grapefruit next to a bowl of steaming oatmeal.

With a grin, I pull the beaming kids close and—WAH-uh, WAH-uh, WAH-uh. Bleary eyed I smack at the blaring alarm clock and fall back into the pillows, exhaustion dragging me toward sleep. I resist and sit up throwing an aggravated look at the clock.

Seven-thirty.

I was supposed to be up at six o’clock to get my run in and have some quiet time with the Lord, but instead I stayed up and watched that stupid movie. I could have smacked myself.

I drag on my sweat pants as the hollering of fighting children ricochets around the kitchen just outside our door. Frustration builds in my chest before I’ve been awake five minutes.

After I join in with the general hollering and bad attitudes that have steamrolled the Sand household that morning, I finally haul my unruly bunch to school and head back for home. I walk into the kitchen and drop my keys into the drawer.

My gaze snags on the Bible sitting on the counter and slides away. I’ll have my quiet time just as soon as I get the peanut butter put away and the smear of jam off the floor, and . . . the phone rings and a half hour later I finally hang it up.

Now I’m way behind. I need to start in on my day and sitting quietly before the Lord doesn’t hold any appeal. I head for my computer, trying to avoid eye contact with God who surely has his arms crossed in disapproval.

This is my reality more often than not (though the hunky guy does sleep next to me every night).

Doing it right. Or right enough.

I fall prey to the lie way too often that says my performance doesn’t quite measure up. That God isn’t pleased unless I do “it” just so. It, of course being, just about everything from how I order my day to how I parent my kids.

And of course the biggie—my time with him. The lies taunt me: you didn't start early enough, you didn't do it long enough, you didn't worship enough, you didn't read the Bible enough. As if God were some magic eight ball that I didn't shake hard enough. You see, the lie states that if you don't do it right enough or often enough, the blessings won't flow, and even worse . . . he might punish you. Or cause something bad to happen. All because you didn't get it right.

And we live under fear, avoiding God in case we draw too much attention to ourselves and lighting strikes in the form of a lost job, illness or even the death of a family member.

Exactly the opposite is true. God is good. Anything that we believe that contradicts that makes us wrong. He is unchanging, his love for us is unchanging.

Many of us know this truth in our minds, but the knowledge hasn't dropped those eighteen inches to the belief systems of our heart.

Ask God to make his truth real to you. Ask him to show you his character so you can discover his trustworthiness. Ask him to reveal his kindness to you so you can experience his love.

Just ask. It'll be the beginning of a wonderous journey with Him.

The List

2008-05-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

The little girl walked on quiet feet into the study. A man with graying hair sat reading in a weathered armchair by the fire. A soft rustle caressed the air as he turned a page.

The girl hesitated then strode forward. “Father, I’ve written a list of things I’m going to do for you.” The paper trembled slightly in her small hands as she cleared her throat and bent her head to read.

• Obey everything you say.
• Study with you each morning.
• Try to remember to talk to you every day about everything.
• Work hard to make it up to you when I disobey.
• Remind myself how hard I need to strive to please you.
• Hate myself when I hurt others.
• Try harder to be a good person when I do bad things.
• Learn how to do it right on my own so you won’t be disappointed in me.

The man’s gaze enveloped her, seeming to look deep into her being for several long moments before he reached for the paper. His expression grave, the man pulled a pen from his shirt pocket as the girl anxiously danced from one foot to the other. For long moments, the minute sound of pen scratching on paper joined the soft pops of wood being transformed by fire.

Finally, he handed the list back. The girl’s eyes clung to the man’s a moment before taking the sheet.

Over the top of each one of her carefully crafted statements, a message had been written:

• Your sins are forgiven. (1 John 2:12)
• I have loved you with an everlasting love. (Jer. 31:3)
• It is for freedom you have been set free. (Gal. 5:1)
• You are not accused or condemned. (Rom 8:33-34)
• The law of the Spirit of life sets you free from the law of sin and death. (Rom. 8:2)
• You are a new creation, the old is gone, the new has come.
(2 Cor. 5:17)
• It is not you doing the wrong, it is the sin living in you.
(Rom. 7:17)
• Apart from me you can do nothing. (John 15: 5)

Tears glistened in the little girl’s eyes as she slowly raised her head. “Really?”

The Father nodded with a wise smile and opened his arms wide, the firelight catching the scars on his palms.

The Pit

2008-04-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

A throw gone wrong. One impossibly round rock. An unrelenting hill.

My son had no idea when he threw the rock that it wouldn’t stay put. That it would start rolling down the steep grade of the street that circled our housing development. That despite a valiant chase with outstretched arm, the rock would continue to careen unchecked for blocks.

That it would tease him by hugging the road near the sidewalk for tantalizing moments, just inches from capture, before veering straight back to the middle of the street just as the car came around the corner.

The clunk, clunk, clunk of rock meeting bumper and then every inch of metal undercarriage before continuing its trek down the hill to finally rest against the sidewalk fifty feet away.

The car stopped and after an agonizing moment, the driver’s door opened.

Tiny, six-year-old shoulders slumped. Foreboding and the certainty of censure pulled at his features. I hurried down to protect him. To stand guard. To take whatever might come at him from the person stepping from the car.

He looked so alone in his shame and humiliation. So like how I’ve felt at different times in my life. Alone. Fearful. Certain that punishment was coming . . . and that I deserved it.

Who steps from the driver’s seat in your life, berating your misdeeds? A parent? A co-worker? A spouse? Maybe the person is long gone, but the message continues to replay every time you mess up.

I used to think it was God behind that wheel. Oh, I knew he was love . . . as long as I toed that line. Did what I was supposed to.

But if I slipped up or stumbled, I felt as if I’d been thrown into a deep pit without a rope. A dark pit of loneliness and despair, with perfectionism and control taunting me. Illuminating my failings. I huddled alone in the darkness, while God’s light and love blazed far above me. So far away. I tried to claw and dig my way up, trying to please him. To be worthy of his love.

Finally, the light shone into that darkness and the lies were exposed. I saw that God sat with me in the muck of that pit. Weeping with me. Agonizing over me. Loving me more than life.

Loving me more than his own life. He loves you more than his own life.

The enemy’s lies weave a web that trap us in darkness. God wants us to walk in freedom. Our dad wants us free. Free to be fully who he designed us to be, imperfect and limited. Get to know the Word. Believe the Word.

It’ll set you free.

Colorado Trip

2008-04-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is going to be short and sweet. Just got back from a trip to Colorado and am dying to head for bed.

I met with my agent and another writer in Denver and we outlined a great new series that I can't wait to start writing. Even woke up at 3:48 this morning with ideas zinging through my mind, and of course had to catch those little buggers and get them down on paper before they got away.

Then took a quick trip out to Colorado Springs to meet all the great people at David C. Cook who were kind enough to publish my book, Leave it to Chance, which releases next week. That was an amazing experience with the bonus of beautiful scenery (though I don’t recommend trying to take pictures of the Rockies out the window while driving an unfamiliar car down the freeway).

I also snuck in a quick trip to Focus on the Family’s visitor center (kept craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Dr. Dobson to no avail).

Here’s a picture of Pike’s Peak seen from the David C. Cook campus and a picture of me with my acquisition editor, Susan Tjaden (she’s amazing and hilarious to boot).

The Messiness of Differences

2008-04-22T23:32:00.000-07:00

Um, it is April, right? Not the middle of January? Because we woke up to snow. Now for a gal who just spent a week in Florida (and prefers tropical temperatures), this seemed a bit much. Even a tad irritating.

My husband was grinning, of course. You see, Mat’s part polar bear. This is why we live in Oregon. A sort of compromise to the sun-lover and snow-lover in each of us. Even in Florida, he lay on the bed in his shorts with the air-conditioning on while I basked on the balcony and grabbed for a sweatershirt when I re-entered the snow-zone of our room

Differences. How do we honor them?

First, we have to under-
stand that it’s okay to be different.

My daughter is organizationally challenged. I’m a neatnik. When it comes to modes of operation, Mat is highly relational. It can take him a good ten minutes of chit chat to get down to brass tacks. Me, I can barely get a hello out before I’m into the heart of the issue.

I used to think there was only one way to get a job done—or at least only one right way. (That would be moi’s.) Spent many fruitless years trying to perfect my husband and transform my children into the way they should be. The better way. My way.

Control and perfectionism were the fuel that drove me. Didn’t you pray about it, you ask? Half the time I didn’t even bother trying to wrest the proverbial steering wheel away from God. I just told him to buckle up in the passenger seat.

Honor people? I could be a human steam roller to my dearly beloveds.

Frustrated one day after instructing my daughter for the umpteenth time on how to be more organized (her room looked like a garage sale had thrown up in it), I grabbed up a book on parenting children’s personalities.

What I discovered nearly knocked me off my chair. My daughter was a hard-wired messy. God had made her that way. (I refrained from telling Him how I would have wired things had I been in charge of the universe.)

Understanding that we were different and that she would never be like me brought freedom to our relationship. With the focus off trying to change her, I began to appreciate her. Honor her. Messiness and all.

And that proverbial steering wheel? I let God take the driver's seat, even if he's not headed for Florida.

Living in Now

2008-04-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

We once owned a beautiful German Shepherd that could not be still. Not for a second. Tiesha constantly paced the backyard, or the front yard, or wherever we happened to be. Her doggy mate, Eli, would lay quietly in his shady spot and watch her, heaving a little sigh every now and then.

If I were a dog, I’d be Tiesha.

I recently had a Tiesha revelation of sorts. This past week I was with my husband on a trip to Florida. He on business, me stowing away on flier miles. As we traveled through the multitude of airports it took for us to venture from rainy, dreary Oregon, to blissful, paradise-like Florida, I saw many moms with babies and toddlers.

Moms cuddling their infants in front packs, softly petting those downy little heads. Moms patiently managing busy toddlers. It tugged my heart, making me miss my kids. But behind the longing was a pang.

Had I adored them enough as babies? Was I patient when they were toddlers?

Those early years of mountainous loads of laundry, toys strewn from the living room into the kitchen, and the previous day’s dishes making it difficult for me to find counter space to make dinner—toasted cheese sandwiches, again. (Those of you who were adventurous enough to have three children in twenty months can probably relate.)

As I watched those moms, a spasm of guilt clenched my heart. If only I’d held my kids more, played with them more. Not been so concerned with the doing of life. The endless pacing and picking up and putting away.

But I have now.

A glorious now. A reclaiming now. A now of promise.

“What’s that?” you say. I have the now moments with my eleven-year-old son, lying on his bed as we read a book. I can be fully present in each now moment with my nine-year-old twins as we play one more game of Yahtzee. I can set aside whatever unending project has captured my attention and have a now moment when my six-year-old comes up holding his latest find.

I can live in the now.

Without looking back. Without wishful regrets. Without beating myself up for mistakes made. We can’t recapture then. But we have every opportunity to enjoy and cherish the gift of now.

For you it may not be regret over parenting, but other choices that left scars on your heart or regrets that plague your mind. Maybe a career opportunity missed. A boyfriend you let go of. An abortion. A divorce. A drug addiction. A man you wished you hadn’t married.

Forgive yourself. Let yourself off the hook. You did the best you could with who you were at the time. I forgive you. God forgives you. Grace is waiting with arms open wide.

Go ahead and take that step into them now.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! 2 Corinthians 5:17

Getting Free

2008-04-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Do you see me? I’m the one with my hair in a ponytail rooting for my son dribbling in for a lay up. Love my four children with everything in me (even in those gritted teeth moments). Married to a fabulous guy for fifteen years (and still going strong).

Had it together on the outside. But for years life was crumbling on the inside. Control issues. Anger issues. Perfectionism.

Did I mention perfectionism?

I lived in a performance driven world—primarily in my mind. If I could just do “it” right enough I would be worthy. Worthy of friendships, worthy of love, worthy of those beautiful rays of God’s approval.

But the anxiety level remained high because that degree of performance and perfection was impossible to sustain indefinitely.

Felt ugly, shameful thoughts about myself. Tried so hard to be healthy, to please to God.

I rated my parenting continuously: Okay, did that right. Maybe my children won’t need counseling after all . . . as long as I can maintain. Or, the gut wrenching internal blame and shame from a failure that eroded my esteem, tearing me down from the inside.

And if you have an obsessive-compulsive personality type (like moi!) you beat yourself up over and over. You look like you’ve come from a prize-winning bout of boxing on the losing end. All after a few rounds with yourself.

Hope. I needed it. I needed healing from the lies that lacerated my value and worth on a daily basis. God’s a kind counselor. He sent some people, some books and I spent a lot of time with him—journaling, reflecting, pouring my heart out in tears.

Time. Truth. Grace. It took all three to start my walk in wholeness.

Healing . . . we all need it. And He carries the patent on it. Redeemable. That’s us. Free of charge to his precious kids.

I hope that whatever untruths you might believe about yourself will soon be exposed. He cares about how you feel about yourself. Nothing is too big for his eternal arms to hold.

. . . to open eyes that are blind, to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
Isaiah 42:7

A Boy's Goldfish

2008-04-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

I was working at my computer when I heard a forlorn, “Mom?” I turned and there on a tray near my left shoulder lay a very slimy, very dead exotic goldfish.

I looked at the orange fish and then up into the sad blue eyes of my eleven-year-old boy. I spoke the obvious. “Oh, sweetie, Sparky’s dead.”

“Can you take some pictures of him?” I gulped, then nodded resolutely and grabbed for my camera. (Aren’t you glad I refrained from posting those pictures???)

The goldfish had been the lone survivor in a whole company of tetra fish my son had purchased last year. (Just between you and me, I don’t think fish flakes were the only thing Sparky had been nibbling on.)

So we took a few pictures (not too many poses a dead fish can assume), erected a cross, and Tristan’s dream of being a fish owner died.

Hope lost.

How many dreams of ours have died? How many hopes shattered?

A job lost. A marriage crumbles for the first, second or even third time. A child dies. A spouse leaves. Health fails.

And life fades from brilliant color to shades of gray. Our spirit exists in a perpetual state of blah.

Hope restored.

Is that even possible? How? O Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. Psalm 130:7.

Is the path easy? No. But is it worth it? Yes.

It’ll take time. Lots of time. And work. Lots of work. It’ll take gradual changes to thought processes and choices made.

Maybe when that friend invites you to coffee you’ll take her up on it. It may not create an earthshattering transformation in you. But it could be the beginning of one.

Connection with God and others—relatively healthy others. Others who care and want your best. Others who can pray for you when you can’t pray for yourself.

It’s where healing begins.

Author's note: An excellent resource to help you walk that path toward healing is Changes That Healby Dr. Henry Cloud.

Dining With Royalty

2008-04-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

I took God to lunch today.

I was going to take a book, but realized I haven’t created much space in my life for Him lately. I thought about ordering two entrees, but didn’t want people to stare at the lone person with two platters of food, so settled on a cheeseburger and two waters with straws.

I wanted to close my eyes and savor his presence, but again, didn’t want to be stared at. It was hard to gaze at that glass of water in front of the empty chair and imagine God sitting with me.

At home, I plop down in my quiet place, stillness all around and rest in his arms. Sometimes I feel that loving presence, other times I rely on the truth that I know—that he will never leave me nor forsake me. Feeling his presence is a bonus, but truth trumps feelings.

I learned something today.

I learned how little I know how to be in his presence in the cacophony of life. I learned how I need to train my ears to hear that still small voice when there is chaos reigning all around.

The chaos of kids fighting, laundry piling, chores calling and fatigue stalling me.

I need to be able to still my mind in the middle of a day-after-Christmas-sale or a fourth grade Babe Ruth baseball game.

I need to be able to still my mind when my “to do list” starts hammering away in stressful blows to an already fatigued brain.

Stillness and joy. He calls us to both.

I need to take God to lunch every day.

Slinging Mud

2008-04-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

Not my finest moment as a mother. I’m thirty-nine, she’s nine. She was tired which translates to unreasonable. I was impatient and irritable. She’s strong-willed, and I. . . well, so am I.

She’s the love of my life and I’m hers. We made up with hugs and snuggles and kisses. Now she’s in bed and I’m left with the mental video or my not-so-stellar moment stuck on replay.

I feel unworthy, irredeemable. Like that moment was my only shot to prove that I can parent with the best of them. And I blew it big time in front of the whole audience of heaven.

Then as I cried out for help, hoping God would remove the feelings of unworthiness, a new image settled in. Like I’d been removed as a player and relegated to the stands. I watched an action scene of me, center stage and covered in slimy mud, just standing as more and more wads of the gooey, brown gunk were thrown to stick to my already covered person.

Then the scene panned out and I saw clearly who was slinging great hunks of the mud so fast and furiously. It was . . . me.

The other me. The heckler, blamer, shamer that resides in the dark recesses. The part of me who is like a militant parole officer, demanding the board lock me up. Demanding penance for all the wrongs I’ve done.

In the midst of this picture the Lord reminded me of a driveway I saw some months ago while out on a run. It had been stormy the night before and the whole sidewalk was dirty with leaves and debris.

Except at one house.

From the driveway all the way to the wide porch steps the cement was a pristine, alabaster white. I felt like I was running past the sidewalk of heaven. Nary a stain, smudge, or speck of dirt marred its pristine surface. God reminded me, “That’s how I made you. You were not designed to have dirt stick to your soul.”

Jesus has washed the stain of our guilt away.

For most, a quiet moment of repentance is all it takes reconnect to the One who has paid for our sins. But I’m not like most. The accuser takes up easy residence in my mind. I need more. I need his hand of absolution to touch my bowed head. So I wait. I wait quietly until I sense my heart reopen to his truths: “I’ll never leave you nor forsake you . . . There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

When his peace once again aligned my soul, I kissed my sleeping daughter good night.

Control Blinders . . .

2008-04-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Me, controlling? Definitely not true. I am one of the most non-controlling people I know. Able to let others (my children and husband) make decisions unhindered by any interference on my part.

Children need—oh, excuse me for a moment . . . "Brandon, honey, have you done your homework? And that math test on Friday. Have you started studying for it? Please don't roll your eyes at me, Mr. Fifth Grader. And stand up straight. Slouching will ruin your posture."

Sorry about that. As I was saying, children need the freedom to make mistakes and learn from natural consequences without our interference.

Amazingly enough, it is our interference and oftentimes lengthy parental lectures that keep them from getting the very lesson we want their young brains to absorb—hold on a second, "Morgan, if you keep pulling that cat's tail she's going to scratch you. You need to leave her alone—oh, see I told you. If you'd listened to Mommy, you wouldn't have gotten that scratch."

Anyway, the more we micro-manage people—especially our children—the less they'll learn to think for themselves. And if we do all the thinking for them when they're young, it's their friends they'll let do the thinking for them when they're older.

I don't know about you, but I don't want some hormonal teenage boy doing the thinking for my daughter. If he—oh, could you hang on again? "Tyra, you're not going to wear that shirt, are you? The yellow one would look much better. I'll help you find it just as soon as I'm done with this blog. And please zip your coat up when you leave. What, you're not cold? Well, it's frigid out and I want you to wear your hat and gloves too. I don't care if you're sixteen, young lady."

Sheesh, kids! Sometimes you have to wonder if they’re ever going to take their brains out for a test drive. At any rate, the best way to raise children to become healthy, responsible adults is to allow them the freedom to grow by flexing and stretching their choice muscles (within the context of healthy loving boundaries, of course).

The freedom to make mistakes and live with the fallout of those mistakes, without the parental “I told you so,” will enable them to start choosing wisely. It will help them learn to say “yes” to the good and “no” to the bad.

And goodness knows how badly we want them to say no to the bad. So take a deep breath and practice nodding and smiling (you may need to do this in front of a mirror) for those moments when your teenage son says he'll study later, or when your daughter wants to wear that ridiculously ugly shirt again.

Happy Parenting!

In case you're wondering, this was a greatly exaggerated peek into the life of my daily parenting (well, mostly exaggerated—I don't have a sixteen-year-old yet). And the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

If you're looking for an excellent resource to help you peel your fingers off the control center of your children's lives, check out Boundaries with Kids by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend. It'll knock your socks off. It did mine.

Sheep Bites

2008-03-27T23:42:00.000-07:00

It was a rough day. I was less than a stellar mom. Took things too personally and got my feelings hurt. I crawled into bed that night drained and exhausted. Could barely raise my eyes up to my heavenly Father as I mumbled goodnight and told him I was sorry for my poor parenting. Into my mind shot a picture of sheep.

Now sheep aren’t normally an animal that I spend much time contemplating. Though I realize that sheep and sleep tend to go together in some people’s minds, they don’t pair up in mine.

I grew up in the country and have been around plenty of animals. Sheep are generally placid creatures, gently rubbing shoulders as they graze ever so peacefully in the sun or huddle in clumps through the rain.

But the sheep I saw in my mind were quite different from any I’d grown up around. These sheep were distressed. The slam-your-finger-in-the-car-door kind of distressed. But not from any kind of physical pain that I could see. It was as if they were dealing with emotional pain (okay, sheep and emotions didn't gel in my mind either, so bear with me).

As the scene came into focus, I could see something the sheep couldn’t. Hidden from them, though clear to me, was a wolf. A wolf out to destroy the sheep—through each other. A deceiver who poked and prodded, digging into emotional wounds and letting the blame fall on each other.

Hence the sheep bites.

How often I come away from human interactions with sheep bites on my soul (not to mention the incisor marks I've left on others). How easy it is to see the people around us as the problem and forget about the adversary who seeks to steal, kill and destroy. If he can zing one well placed arrow to the right spot, he can often take two of us out at once.

As I watched the sheep in my mind lash out at each other from their confusion and pain, I felt the Father’s heart for each of us. Compassion and understanding consumed Him for these sheep that he loves so much.

Too often I view my behavior through shame-tinted lens and then try to hide from the Father as Adam and Eve did in the garden. It’s only in his arms that we find the comfort and forgiveness we need.

Run to the Good Shepherd and let him heal your sheep bites.

(Sheep pictures by Brielle 9 yrs and Kaden 6 yrs)

The Banquet Table

2008-03-25T22:33:00.000-07:00

Life’s been hectic. Sick kids. Late nights. Too tired to get up for my daily quiet time with the Lord. Now I’m in my prayer closet on my knees, desperate for the Father’s touch. Life’s been so hard and I feel malnourished. Those still moments I steal away with my Father each morning feed my soul. They stock me full for the daily onslaught of bickering children, attitudes gone side-ways, and hiccups in my well ordered day.

Without those quiet times, I begin to feel like a refugee begging for a crumb from her Father’s plate. But what I don’t see, can’t fully grasp in those impoverished moments is the banquet table he places before me.

There are platters piled high with grace, tureens of his bountiful love, trenchers overflowing with mercy and loaf upon loaf of forgiveness. His goodness and peace spill off the table he has set for me. There is no end to the bounty.

But when my eyes are too focused on my daily problems, and though I still crave his touch and long to taste the sweetness of his love, I forget that that table is so near.

Instead I seek solace from other sources. Hoping that a friend will offer the right words of comfort, or perhaps a shopping spree will clear my mind and perk me up. The “maybe-this-will-make-me-feel-better” list is endless.

But if I turn just so, and the light is right, I catch a glimpse of the table He’s set for me. I run to it and eat hungrily, basking in his glory, his love, and his goodness that spills into my life and out to others. Life becomes amazingly wonderful once again and I feel safe-guarded in the minefield of life.

It’s a table I need to visit daily. A Father I need to sit still before daily. A table that meets all my needs and satisfies all my desires.

It’s a table and a Father waiting for you.

Overloaded Handbags

2008-03-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

I pray about things. All the time, in fact. Well, mostly. When I'm not racing through life and traffic (unless it's to pray for a string of green lights--thank you God!)

I try to go to my Father with the big things and the little things, and the big things that seem little—like loving my kids when they are pushing my patience to new limits or how to serve my husband when my own laziness and selfishness want to root me to the couch.

But the other day as I was praying about a big thing, I had an urch moment. You know, those moments when you’re full speed ahead, but something catches your attention, so you hit the brakes and uuuuuuuuurrrchhhh to a stop?

As I’m sitting there tires smoking around me (think figuratively, here), I realize that I rush into the throne room, dump my problems into God’s lap, and dash back out. But as I give him a quick hug and thank you, I grab those problems back up and carry them around like an over weighted purse. I may set it down for a moment here and there. But I tend to take it with me wherever I go—worrying and problem-solving as I rummage through the contents, twisting and turning them, trying to work things out. And of course, keeping one ear tuned toward heaven, in case God drops the answer down when I’m not looking.

As the smoke started to settle I had a radical thought. What if I gave God my problems and actually left them with him? I wasn’t sure. Were we supposed to do that? Shouldn’t I help with the process? It felt irresponsible to walk into God’s presence bearing a load of burdens, drop them off, and then saunter out without a care in the world. Didn’t my agonizing and reasoning alongside him show my investment to the issues and demonstrate that I’m clearly not irresponsible?

But he calls us to be like children. And don’t kids trust us to fix things for them? My kids don’t share their problems and then hover around the kitchen as I make dinner, throwing out helpful suggestions with nervous little gestures. They don’t dart back in the room every two seconds with a worried expression and repeat their requests from a new angle (well, unless it’s for a new Playstation game). They run off to the backyard and play, trusting their brilliant mom to work things out. That’s how we’re to be—trusting, in stillness, as we wait for his response.

God reminded me that when I try to reason through a problem, I’m limited to human answers from human reasoning. His ways are higher than our ways. As the Psalmist states, “Trust in the Lord with all of your heart. Lean not on your own understanding.” God takes responsibility for us, as all good parents do for their kids.

Next stop as I’m racing through those green lights, is to drop that purse off at the Salvation Army.

Taping Pears to Tree Limbs

2008-03-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

My kids were at it again—laser rays of disrespect and anger (and was that a cuss word from my fourth grader’s mouth?) shot back and forth across the hall toward each other. I was discouraged by the recent escalation in their fighting and attitudes. Being the problem solver that I am, my mind quickly started grappling for solutions on the slippery shale of parenting.

Bible studies!

I immediately created a plan of action to start hammering verses into their little minds. How else would they learn to “Do unto others” and “Let their gentleness be evident to all?” I decided I needed to run to the Christian bookstore and get a family devotional (not that there aren’t several dusty ones on my book shelf—but new ideas need new materials). All this raced into my mind with a tinge of panic. Could I undo all the nights we didn’t sit down and study God’s word together? Was it too late for them to become kind and loving once again? Would they be friends with each other when they reached adulthood?

Daily prayer!

Number two on my list (with many exclamations around it) was the daily prayer time we needed to start. I would sit them down in a circle and teach them how to pray together and for each other. Bring them quickly into God’s presence so they could learn to think of others before themselves.

Then I heard a noise and realized that God was clearing his throat. Sort of an Ahem!

Into the midst of my racing thoughts, I saw a picture of a tree full of green foliage. Barren except for the lush glossy leaves. Then I saw the tree again, with lovely green pears taped to its limbs.

Taped!

I got it. Rather than getting to the root of the problem—the anemic soil and lack of water or other nutrients—in my need to fix, I was attempting to tape fruit onto the branches.

Performance is really what it was. I wanted the outward appearance that all was well.

Trying to pound a rich spiritual life into my children isn’t going to take. Maybe I can tape a few pears to their arms, but they’ll soon wither and fall off.

God reminded me that I need to invest into them. Take time with them. Hug them. Stop and listen when they speak without finishing the dish I was washing. Go outside and play a round of basketball with them. Snuggle in bed with them at night for a few minutes (instead of flopping into a chair with my exhausted, “Finally, the house is quiet,” sigh). This is what will nourish their soil and sprout good fruit. I guess I won't need that industrial sized roll of tape after all.