I broke the seal.

Somehow, the embarrassment I felt wasn’t nearly commensurate with the absurdity of what was happening.  On the other hand, too many beers, topped off with a shot or two, does help numb your inhibitions.

 

It was 1996 and my husband and I had recently started dating.  I was a senior in college and he had just graduated the spring before.  He immediately found himself at ease with my friends, which was really a big plus, because it made it that much easier to make time for dating when he could just join right in with my other friends.  He seemed to take it in stride when we held quiet cocktail parties, instead of raging beerfests (although he did not get the reaction he had hoped for when he crashed the Christmas party dressed as Santa Claus).  He laughed along, instead of asking to be let out of the car, when we got carried away with snorting contests on the way to the bars.  And he even thought it was funny when one of my friends suggested one night, as we were heading out to a pub, that it would be funny if, on the way back, we stopped at a nearby home where there was a boat parked in their driveway, and took a photo of everyone by the boat.

 

It was not a particularly unusual night at the pub.  There were a couple shots exchanged, and plenty of beer consumed, since only one of us had to drive home.  We had actually squeezed all six of us into a 5-seater car, just to ensure that no one would drink and drive.

 

One of my friends frequently repeated a mantra on nights like that, “Don’t break the seal,” she would say, “Once you break the seal, you’re going to have to use the bathroom every five minutes for the rest of the night.”  How right she was.  Before we left the pub to head home, I thought I would arm myself against the constant hilarity of my friends and the coldness of the night by taking a quick trip to the restroom.  I felt much better as we piled into the sedan, and my boyfriend offered me his lap.

 

“Hey, guys, are we going to get the boat picture?”

 

“Of course!” we all chimed and the driver headed over to the house in question.  We all were joking and laughing pretty hard the whole way, giving me an all-to-familiar sensation that, in the back of my mind, rebuked me for my foolish decision to empty my bladder before the drive.

 

When we got to the boat, we were certainly not the most smooth criminals to ever cross onto someone’s property, as it took quite a feat to get all of us out of the car and posed by the boat.  In the mean time, I found myself succumbing to the kryptonite tri-fecta: laughing uncontrollably, breaking the seal, and insane Iowa cold.  Despite the warmth of beer, coursing through our veins, all of us felt the sharp sting of the bitter cold, and I, in particular, quickly realized that while my face, hands, and feet were freezing, my thighs were, by contrast, suddenly quite warm.

 

I couldn’t even hide what was happening, and there was another roar of laughter as I squeeked, “Oh, no!  I’m peeing my pants!”

 

To which my friends replied between chortles, “Oh, no!  You’re riding home on your boyfriend’s lap!”

 

And, yes, my boyfriend let me sit on his lap for the, thankfully brief, ride back to our apartment.  And somehow it didn’t even feel like a fight to maintain my dignity, sitting on my love interest, wearing urine-soaked pants.

 

I see in retrospect there were many rules for right living I broke that night: “don’t trespass,” “wear your seatbelt,” and “don’t break the seal!”

 

Stupidity is reckless, senseless, and foolish. Proverbs 9:13

My kids don't think I'm parenting them.

The girls have coined a new term this summer.  They like to point out my “Mom Mode.”  More specifically, they like to celebrate the instances where, according to them, I’ve forgotten to be a mom.  They generally take me completely by surprise with a sudden, “Ha!  We love it when you get out of Mom Mode!” or, “Uh, oh, now you’re back in Mom Mode,” as if we’ve been hanging out in the basement together watching R movies, chugging beers, and smoking dope.

Two times they cracked me up with a Mom Mode comment this week.  One time, a family outing to the park segued into an episode of “This is Your Life,” as the kids began quizzing my husband and me about our early romances.  They wanted to know about our first kisses, how many people we dated, whether we ever fell in love before we met each other.  This segued back into a little bit of water play at the drinking fountain before we headed out.  On the way back to the car, I got one of their happy comments about Mom Mode.  I had to chuckle to myself that the kids thought we had forgotten for even a moment that we were parents.  As if we weren’t measuring every word of every phrase, trying to answer their questions with honesty, but also knowing that this moment of curiosity was a key opportunity to impart our wisdom and values to them before they begin their own romantic pursuits.  We really pulled it off, if they mistook “Mom Mode Hyper-drive” for not being in Mom Mode.

Another comment came when I joined them in the pool.  With an hour or two of daily swimming, the kids’ swimming skills have been advancing quickly this summer, resulting in the Incredible Shrinking Swimming Pool effect.  When they were spending most of their time on the surface, playing with float toys or splashing, the pool seemed large to them.  Now they are tooling around under the water with goggles and snorkels, dive sticks, and underwater tricks.  They bump into each other more and more.  Every now and then, I find a time to get in with them and introduce some new pool games, or some new challenges to make the old games harder.  You know, my sneaky way of making the pool bigger again, getting them to challenge their swimming skills, and therefore avoiding aquatic bickering.  After an hour or so of crowding up the pool, I made my way to the ladder and they gave me a gratifying whine that they were disappointed I was going back into Mom Mode.

Of course, I’m enjoying this whole Mom Mode thing immensely.  It takes me by surprise every time.  The best part is knowing that parenting doesn’t have to mean never having fun together.  Their comments remind me of exactly the opposite: sometimes we do it best when they don’t even realize we’re doing it.  Hopefully, instead of disciplining them for fighting with each other, I will get to enjoy watching them play pool games together.  Hopefully, instead of hiring surveillance and grounding them for their entire teenage years, I will be able to hear about their developing relationships and help them navigate those muddy waters.  Maybe not, but at least I’ll know I tried – I’d definitely rather play with them now than yell at them later.

Let’s face it, I could never forget that I’m a mom – but it’s OK with me, if they forget it sometimes.

The LORD answered, “Could a mother forget a child who nurses at her breast? Could she fail to love an infant who came from her own body? Even if a mother could forget, I will never forget you. Isaiah 49:15

We're not wasting change, even when it feels like we are.

In our years of church life, my husband and I encountered a fairly steady stream of troubled kids.  Often they would come to church activities and programs with their wounds emotionally oozing all over us.  Whether it was sassiness, obstinacy, compete lack of social skills, or intense neediness and a relentless pursuit of our attention, it was easy to diagnose the deep, open hole in their soul, that no one in their life was filling.  After hearing a heartbreaking back story on one of these kids, my husband was discouraged, wondering what the point was in submitting ourselves to so much bad behavior; as if our meager kindness could somehow make a difference in lives that were so steeped in brokenness.

Trying to encourage him, and myself, I suggested the metaphor of a well.  Every kid has a well where they store up the love and care they’ve been given.  Some get their well filled at home, and they go out into the world whole and confident, needing only a little top-off now and then.  Others have an open, empty well, and we are trying to fill it up with one little penny at a time.  Every little thing you do for them, from a warm smile, to a pat on the shoulder, to a cupcake snack or a firm redirection, is a penny tossed into their well.  You pray you’re not the only one tossing in pennies, because it may never be enough.  But if enough of us are tossing pennies into these empty wells, we can hope and pray that it will eventually make a difference for a kid who never otherwise had a chance.

Once in a while, you actually get to hear a penny strike the bottom, like when a kid, half a dozen years later, quoted a lesson back to me about how I’d once challenged her to open her Bible to any page and she could find something encouraging about God’s love or power.  She said she’d tried it over and over again – and never failed to find a message of God’s love.  Those moments give you the encouragement to keep tossing pennies, don’t they?

If you’ve been tossing pennies into empty wells, I have another story of encouragement for you.  It involves my sister.  She is in Africa right now, about a day’s hike away from the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.  Lots of people will be impressed when she comes home and tells us the adventurous story of her summit attempt, but that’s just another feat on a long list of her accomplishments.

My sister was once one of those kids with the empty well.  She was sassy and rebellious.  She dated older boys, dropped out of school, moved out of my parents’ house, and added a tattoo to her piercings.  Not to hate on tattoos, but she went and got the biggest one she could afford.  She wandered a while looking for her calling, first in one state, then another, until she ran out of steam and money in Colorado.  My sister was never a bad person, she never pillaged or stole, got in trouble with the law, or hurt others, but she was definitely the so-tough-on-the-outside, you’d never guess she’s soft-on-the-inside young person, that others find difficult to love and even harder to help.  She also had a huge educational deficit.  She was bragging one time about how she couldn’t wait to get to college, because high school was so lame.  When I mentioned that someone who was flunking high school should hardly expect that college was going to be a breeze, it was not our friendliest conversation.

Fast forward fifteen years: my sister has a Masters Degree in Education and Curriculum Development.  She is bilingual in English and Spanish.  She’s studied and taught in Mexico and Spain.  She was accepted to a highly competitive Denver Scholars program that only takes 1% of its applicants.  She has three years of teaching under her belt, all in bilingual classrooms of the Denver Public Schools systems, at schools with free lunch rates over 75%.  There is no scheme those kids can pull on her that she didn’t once use herself.  She’s done all this with a G.E.D. and a well-full of pennies, tossed in by teachers, friends, aunts, grandparents, mentors and others.  I am so grateful to the people who invested their loose change in my siblings and me.  We’d never have become who we are without you.

Here she is at the top of a peak in Colorado. 
She's been blogging her preparations at: http://ucdkiliclimb.wordpress.com/

My sister applied for the program to go to Africa, knowing it was an incredible opportunity and willing to work for it.  She thought she might be able to get a half-scholarship.  Imagine her excitement when they offered her a full scholarship to come participate.  After she summits the mountain, she’ll spend two more weeks in Africa, experiencing as much as the continent has to offer and gaining a thousand moments of inspiration that she will bring back to her classroom this fall.  She got a new job this coming year – same district, but teaching Spanish and Art.  Where she will go on tossing pennies down wells – and now and then hearing a gratifying clink when they hit the bottom.

I think she’s pretty incredible.

 Don’t get tired of helping others. You will be rewarded when the time is right, if you don’t give up. Galatians 6:9

I'm adopted.

My husband and I were already engaged before I met his favorite uncle, and that uncle’s fiancée.  They were planning a July wedding, about two months ahead of our own.  I don’t remember exactly what it was about them: the casual hospitality of their lake house, the fun afternoon of sun and water activities, or the absurd way I was included in the early morning wakeup call of “Good Morning, Vietnam!” blasting out of the stereo by my head at dawn.  Something about them, right from the start, included me, as if I had always been there; as if we were related by something more than marriage.

They put me up every week for years, when I was commuting to Kansas City for seminary.  They hugged me tight and expressed admiration for my courage when I was trying to be brave after a miscarriage.  They go out of their way to come by when they are in town, even when they are booked tight for holidays.  They keep an open home and open hearts, not just for my husband and me, but also for our girls.  From braving the heat to spend an afternoon at the petting zoo with me and the kids, to coming up with the wildest array of kid friendly meal options every time we come to town; they show by deed as much as word that we matter to them.

We visited my husband’s aunt and uncle on our way through town twice this week.  My daughters pitched a fit when we wanted to take them out for breakfast, because they love so much sitting around their table, eating strawberries, and chatting through the morning.  I can see why – it is a lot of fun to visit with people so well-read and thoughtful; always giving us something new to think about before we hit the road to head home.

It is such a privilege to share our marriage year with a couple who live out such a true expression of mutual submission and boundless love.  I grieve that they didn’t know each other soon enough in life, because their kids would be amazing people, but I’m grateful to God for giving them such a bounty of love to share with the rest of us!  We are, indeed, related by something much more than just marriage.

Jesus and the people he makes holy all belong to the same family. That is why he isn’t ashamed to call them his brothers and sisters. Hebrews 2:11

Destination: Arkansas

Well-traveled as I might consider myself, I know next to nothing about Arkansas.  I’ve never seen a PBS travel show about it.  I’ve never thought, “Oh, man!  Add it to the list!  I gotta’ get to Arkansas!”  Razorbacks and Hope: that’s the extent of my Arkansas trivia.  I’m not hating on Arkansas; it has just never made it onto my radar.  At all.

So it has been with some mirth that we’ve responded to inquiries about our holiday plans this week with a chipper, “We’re going to Arkansas!”  And with even more mirth we began to pile up the incoming brochures and travel guides.  They were ordered for us by my brother, who came up with the perfect home base for our Arkansas adventure: Devil’s Den.

There is actually more to recommend Devil’s Den that you might imagine, or more than I ever imagined, anyway, especially given the name.  There’s the Ozarks, with plentiful hiking, and river activities, and even the intriguing possibility of a zip-line adventure.  There’s also a nearby Civil War battlefield to visit, and somewhere in the vicinity are some presidential relics from the Clintons.

Of course, the biggest reason to visit Arkansas this week, is Texas.  It’s a 14 hour drive from my house to my brother’s - not an impossible distance, but certainly a challenging one for our two larger families.  It has been two years since I last saw my nephews and my niece is almost a year old without my having met her.  So we agreed to meet up half way, and Arkansas was the ticket.  If the only thing I get out of visiting Devil’s Den is a three-day-long game of Skip-bo with our combined 7 offspring, I will come home with glorious memories of Magnificent Arkansas.

And that could make me become a regular.

“Say of your brothers, ‘My people,’ and of your sisters, ‘My loved one.’ Hosea 2:1

We're going boy crazy.

Picking the kids up from school recently, an exceedingly young couple was walking home together, holding hands.  They paused to hug at the corner before parting ways.  I wanted to vomit, because they seemed way too little to be “in a relationship,” but instead used their public display as the entry point into a conversation with my daughters about whether their lives or friendships are being affected by romance, yet.  In doing so, I opened the floodgates.

It has set in.  My daughters have gone a little boy crazy.  They were just waiting for me to ask.  I’m thankful they tell me so openly about their lives, but I found myself growing bored quickly when they started outlining the list of boys they like, which other girls like the same boys, which girls the boys like, and all of the various dramas that ensue.  I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, to act very casual about their interest in romance so they would hopefully keep these communication channels open, but on the inside, I was just so SO sad.  I pray their search for Mr. Right doesn’t crowd out the wonderful breadth of interests, friendships, and activities that have, up to now, brought them joy and contentment.

Their sudden excitement about boys got me to thinking about the posting and conversation trends of people I know who are single, as well as my own experiences from back when I was single myself.  Those memories were buried some sixteen years deep, but I pulled some out and dusted them off to try and relate.  I had forgotten how consuming it is, waiting for your other half to come into your life.  Every new room you walk into, “he” might be there; I remember now the daily anxiety and anticipation that goes along with knowing you weren’t meant to be alone, but not knowing yet who it is that will fill that void.

I’m sure I sometimes lost control of my senses and went a little boy crazy in those days – letting my hope for love cloud my enjoyment, possibly even my pursuit, of other interests.  I rejoice to realize all the spare time and mental freedom I have to play and learn and cook and sing, because my time and attention isn’t consumed with the quest for the One.  I can go about my business, dressed however I want, focus on what I’m after, and not care who is or isn’t noticing me.  It is very liberating, but I’ve taken that for granted since I realized my husband was "him."

As we head into the turbulent season of adolescence, I wonder how I can help my daughters appreciate that while God designed us for partnership, their lives are now; they don’t start some day off in the future when they partner up – they are beautifully complete works of art, all on their own.  I hope they will let romance happen upon them while they are doing all the other exciting and meaningful things that fill their lives with contentment and satisfaction, rather than surrendering all those wonderful things and letting their pursuit of romance become the central focus of their lives.

It sounds so basic, but I know it will not be easy.  I pray a lot.  For their self-worth, for their discernment, for the boys they’re going to fall for along the way, for the dreams I hope they pursue, and ultimately for the marriages I hope they’ll have.

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: Ecclesiastes 4:9

The end of a season.

My husband picked up the soundtrack to Message in a Bottle back when we were first married.  The movie was nothing really special, but that CD played in the background through many of our early adventures and travels.  When our new, used minivan brought the luxury and convenience of a 6-CD changer into our lives, he dusted off the old soundtrack and plugged it into the rotation.

The last bleary-eyed new
parents picture.

Listening to these songs again invoked a wave of sentiment I didn’t expect.  Of all the milestones we’ve crossed so far, the one we’re crossing now seems to be the most bittersweet.  Our littlest girl turns one tomorrow and there are no more babies on the horizon for us.  We are beautifully complete as a family.  I am thrilled to be watching my children grow up, arm in arm with my dearest and most beloved best friend (who also looks pretty hot with a little facial hair).  I am excited for this next season of our lives, as our children become independent and our dreams have shifted and formed into our reality.  But I also feel the season of “young married life” slipping away: the falling in love, and getting married season; the getting to know your in-laws, and deciding who sleeps closest to the door season; the who is going to change that stinky diaper season; the what will our children be like season.

Every season of my life has had its high points, I have always found joy in the days as they go by, but this last decade-plus has been a treasure like none before.  I loved every minute, beautiful and ugly.  While childhood, high school, and even college came to an end for me with some relief, our early married life comes to an end with nostalgia and a little bit of longing.  There are many treasured moments still ahead for us, but for the first time in my life, I feel that something is passing away that I will miss and never get back.

Such a grown up girl already!



But, thanks in part to Hootie and the Cranberries, a large collection of photographs, and the best souvenirs ever – three darling little girls and the aforementioned husband – I’ll bid this season farewell knowing that the love and joy it brought can still be savored and recalled – like a sweet love letter, bottled up and waiting to be reread.

Happy birthday to my baby girl.

Everything on earth has its own time and its own season. Ecclesiastes 3:1

Less than heroic.

Last weekend was a blast, starting right from Friday morning.  I pulled my sewing machine out of mothballs and discovered that I can still pull off a fairly professional-looking hemstitch.  I love the satisfaction of a good sewing project, and it was a bonus that I got to help out a friend.  Then, a rarity since the baby was born, my husband and I got to enjoy, childfree, a fantastic, seafood dinner that felt like anything but fasting.  I savored every bite of Volcano Roll and Whiskey-glazed Char – and every moment of uninterrupted conversation. 

Finally, to top it all off, a friend and I spent Saturday evening at Super Prom!  It was a charity event where costumes were optional, but of course we had to go in costume!  Since we share the same name, we decided to go as Super Emily-s.  The fun started when we hit the costume shop and found coordinating red and blue wigs, silver dresses, and crazy red fishnets.  We planned and plotted for weeks: scoping out the Dollar Tree for masks, coordinating our make-up, cutting out our hero emblems.  The kids were fascinated by all my preparations Saturday evening and got a kick out of the big photo session before we left for dinner and the Prom.  We were already having so much fun; we even admitted to each other that we both initially put our “E”s on our dresses backward, not realizing we were looking in the mirror. Ha!

It has been a long time since I danced for five hours straight, but, minus bathroom breaks, we were non-stop partiers until the band sent us home at 2AM.  2AM!  I got photographed with my hero, Kermit.  Emily got photographed with her hero, Rocky Balboa.  We worked together to fight off the advances of Kung Fu Panda.  And we even got a decent picture of Hoochie-Wonder Woman to share with our husbands later.

It was such a hilariously fun and memorable weekend, I wouldn’t change a thing.  But if you’re going to dance, you have to pay the fiddler; I guess that means more than the $20 cover charge for the party.

I’m not sure why 8-10 hours, over the course of three days, put my family into such discord, but by Sunday evening, I had three kids, including the 10 and 7 year old, trying to squeeze into my seat with me.  And then even the dog got into it when she, not once but twice, tried to prevent me from picking up the baby by racing between us and marking a circle around me.  Nothing says “I missed you” quite like a perimeter of urine.

Monday morning, our middle girl had an exhausting appointment with a specialist that raised as many questions as answers about her chronic stomach aches, it’s always stressful at my husband’s work this time of year, and by midweek I felt paralyzed by everyone’s competing needs.  Hero to Zero in three short days.

When my husband called at lunch time, I was near tears, trying to figure out what to feed the baby.  I had run out of all the foods she eats reliably, and she now refuses to ingest anything puréed or that she can’t feed herself.  Even admitting my frustration felt like another failure, knowing my poor husband was busy and stressed out with work already. 

But he was the real hero this week.  Instead of cutting me off and reminding me that he had no possible means to help, and I was ridiculous for dumping my load on him when he was already enormously strained, he heard me out and then gently reassured me that nothing was as bad as it felt right then.  Hearing his reassurance was just what I needed to finish out the day – and the week.  I still haven’t been to the grocery store, the dog is in the kennel at this very moment, the baby is declining her raviolis by tossing them on the floor, and I’m still in my pajamas at nearly noon.  But it’s all good.  I don’t have to be a hero.  I just have to love them.  And I do.

 When the Philistines saw that their hero was dead, they turned and ran. 1 Samuel 17:51

I am helpless against roses.

My husband was the first man to ever bring me roses.  After our first date, I came home to my apartment one afternoon and found a dozen roses, left on my doorstep, with a note from “guess who.”  In the years since, he has often made similar gestures, usually not on Valentine’s Day, or my birthday.  Very rarely even on our anniversary.  Generally, it’s just some random evening that he decides to show up with a romantic gift.  Those moments are wonderful in their unexpectedness, remind me that he still considers me worth wooing, and humble me for being such a cold-hearted, “don’t waste your money on romantic gifts,” kind of girl.  Let’s face it, no matter how down to earth and practical I try to be, there’s still a little girl inside me, who loves playing dress up, things that sparkle, and, emphasis on occasional, romantic gestures from the man I love.

My daughters don’t have any of that practicality yet, but also don’t attach any romantic notions to flowers and jewelry.  Whether you are mother, father, aunt, sister, or random acquaintance, they will joyfully accept any flowers, trinkets, or jewelry you’d like to offer, without making any awkward relationship assumptions.  While, anymore, they seem to enjoy dance for its own merits, it rose to a place of prominence in their priorities when my oldest was showered with bouquets after her first recital.  I think my middle daughter danced her first year, purely in anticipation of cellophane wrapped roses and baby’s breath.

It was my oldest’s dance acquisitions, not my husband’s romantic overtures, that overwhelmed me this week.  After dancing her first principal role, she was blessed with an abundance of beautiful flowers from us, and from family and friends.  Then she got another big bouquet during curtain calls.  I filled a two gallon pitcher and dutifully arranged them all for her, placing them in the dining room for her to enjoy.  I immediately started a sneeze and runny-nose fest, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal to live with flowers for a week or so until they died.

After a day and a half of cohabitation with their loveliness and aroma, however, my husband came home from work and blurted, “Whoa!  What’s wrong with your eye!?”  I hadn’t looked in the mirror all day, so I was shocked to see that my eyes were severely blood shot and there was a yellow blister growing out of my eye ball.  I scoured the internet to find out that I had a cyst on my eye ball, and that allergies can cause it.  So much for any future romantic gestures; so much for enjoying the girls’ recital gifts; so much for that lovely Japanese orchid I’ve been hinting about for the last six months (I stuck my face in one yesterday to see if it would make me sneeze; no sneeze, but the reward for my stupidity was a thirteen hour sinus headache and a scratchy throat).

Recital flowers are now quarantined to an upstairs bedroom, and I guess my husband’s going to have to woo with diamonds from now on.

 Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:12

I felt guilty about the MP3 player.

My husband and I felt a huge wave of emotion when the girls opened their MP3 players this Christmas.  They were not the coveted iPod touches they had begged for since last Christmas.  Instead, they were affordable knock-offs that came in bright, personalized colors.  As we steeled ourselves for their disappointment, they floored us instead with their enthusiasm.  As they tore open the paper simultaneously and read the packaging, my oldest girl’s voice grew in volume and intensity as she saw and read aloud the all important phrase, “TOUCH SCREEN.”  We got the video camera out as quickly as possible to capture their unanticipated elation, but, as hilarious as it was, it still didn’t capture the overwhelming ecstasy of their first reaction.  We felt like Oprah on one of her Favorite Things episodes.

We outlined the attributes and limitations of the devices, because we did not want to mislead them about the reality that they were not iPods, but they were not disappointed in the least.  They, instead, were thrilled.  They immediately began snapping pictures and recording video.  They plugged in their ear buds to check out the music we had loaded for them, and our middle daughter took delight in looking through the library of photos we’d transferred for her.  They were the exact opposite of the kids in Jimmy Kimmel’s “I gave my kids a crappy present” montage.  My husband and I, with tears in our eyes, gave congratulatory glances to one another across the room.  Mission accomplished: an awesome Christmas gift that didn’t break the budget.  It felt like a real family accomplishment: our mad gift giving skills, the kids’ great and grateful attitudes; it all came together.

One of the great selling points (that we didn’t end up needing to sell, but still told them) was that these devices were affordable enough that the kids could be trusted with them.  Unlike high end devices, they could take their MiPods with them wherever they wanted.  This would be a test of their ability to be responsible with their own electronics.

Flash forward less than a week later.  My older daughter had her treasured touchscreen in the pocket of her hoodie, which she had slung across the couch cushion while we watched football.  I was crawling back to my accustomed spot in the back corner of the sectional, and proved that the weight of my body on top of my bony right knee was more than a knock-off touch screen MP3 player could handle.  At first, I didn’t comprehend her look of utter dismay, as she dug in the pockets of her jacket.  But when she pulled out the cracked device, and began to cry into my lap, it was all I could do to control my own emotions.  I tried to be parental and reproach her leaving something she valued so much in such a thoughtless place.  I reminded her that we had expressly told them of their responsibility to take care of the devices, and that putting them where they could be stepped or sat on was an explicit violation of that responsibility.  Through her tears, she determined to spend her own money to replace the defunct device, then continued to cry in my lap for another twenty minutes or so.  It was torture to sit by and let her mourn.

What my daughter doesn’t know is that after everyone was tucked in that night, I cried too.  In that one moment, I had gone from Oprah to the Grinch.  I could not believe that it was me!  I was the one who had broken my kid’s favorite gift.  I know it could have been anyone; after all, she left it hidden in a pocket on the couch.  But it was me.  I had disgraced our victory.  I had turned triumph to tragedy, in the world of a ten year old I love.

The next morning, when replacing her MiPod was her first and most emphatic thought of the day, I let her off the hook and told her I would split the price, because I wanted her to know how sorry I was for being the one who broke it.  I wasn’t sure if I should have done that or not.  But now that she has her new one, I don’t think it detracted from the lesson.  Both girls are taking care to keep them in cases and tuck them away when they aren’t using them.  And I’m going to be very careful where I step or sit.

We also bought the product replacement plan on the new one.  Duh.

I did feel bad at first, but I don't now. I know that the letter hurt you for a while. Now I am happy, but not because I hurt your feelings. It is because God used your hurt feelings to make you turn back to him, and none of you were harmed by us.When God makes you feel sorry enough to turn to him and be saved, you don't have anything to feel bad about. 2 Corinthians 7:8b-10a

I'm passing on Twilight.

I know I’m going to tread on some toes here, and there is not much I can say about the series that hasn’t already been said, but it seems to me that anyone over 25 who is fawning over these movies needs an express ticket to Cougartown.

When the mania began, and the facebook posting about glittery suitors became overwhelming, my husband and I figured we should check it out and rented the first movie.  We didn’t hate the movie, but we also weren’t overwhelmed by the drama, the characters, or the acting.  Mostly we thought it was weird that a 100 year old guy would find a teenage girl remotely captivating.  As for Bella – you have some serious father-figure issues if you are trapped in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf.  Anyone with any sense would pass on both.  As a parent, I find myself rooting for her to find a guy who’s too old for her, rides a motorcycle, has gages, tattoos and a chain wallet, and chews tobacco.  It would be safer and show better judgment.

I get more annoyed with the series every time another fang-inspired romance crops up and panders to my youthgroup and kids.  Girls, you should never consider a relationship with someone who assaults you, demeans you, or might eat you.  Even if you see the characters on the Disney Channel doing it.

But, who knows?  I did only watch the first movie.  Star Wars didn’t hit their stride until Empire Strikes Back.  Now there’s a series worth a midnight premier!

I think I know where this whole vampire thing got started, though.  There is someone whose blood holds the hope of eternal life.  Maybe it is all just a misunderstanding…

But if you do eat my flesh and drink my blood, you will have eternal life, and I will raise you to life on the last day. John 6:54

I just go go go

My high school friends hated to ride with me, because I charged every stop sign.  Not to the point of throwing anyone into the dash, but I wouldn’t let off the gas until I had just enough time to make the stop.  Why waste precious seconds coasting?  I avert my eyes when an elderly person cuts me off in a doorway or grocery store aisle to avoid signaling animosity where there is only impatience.  I’m not mad they’re slow, or resentful that I have to wait for them; I just wasn’t prepared to break my stride so abruptly and am ready to resume my mission as soon as they clear the path.

My husband calls me antsy.  It drives me nuts to wait behind someone in the self checkout who can’t figure out the scale.  I could lose my mind watching someone run an internet search using inefficient search terms.  Don’t get me started on sitting through church meetings.

I don’t tailgate or nag, but it’s only because I know how impatient I am.  I know that it isn’t fair to the others around me, who need a little more time to get through the doorway, decide what they want to order, or realize it’s their turn at the four way stop.  I have a certain practiced calm that is often a required antidote to my natural impatience; I stand back, breathe deeply, and say a prayer of thanksgiving that God has given so many delightful things to do each day that I literally want to race from one to the next; that God’s blessed me with the physical health and quick thinking that make it possible to get my half dozen items and get back out of Walmart in less than ten minutes; that someone stepped in front of me this very instant to remind me to slow down and savor where I am and what I’m doing.

I hear people marvel sometimes that I’m able to keep up with so many demands.  My driven nature does allow me to keep up a full plate and I’m grateful for that.  But sometimes I know that comes at the cost of making other people feel they’re just a speedbump on my race.  It takes deliberate, intentional action for me to reorient my attitude from action and accomplishment toward relationship and connection.  Sometimes I need to sacrifice efficiency to leave enough space for humanity, to hear someone’s story, to show someone love; to leave room for Christ to shine.

Always be humble and gentle. Patiently put up with each other and love each other. Ephesians 4:2

I serve two masters

“Mom,

Mom you make my life special.  Your life is crowded with 2 kids and 1 baby and 1 pet and 1 Dad.  You might have no time to play but you love me every day.  I love you how you cook dinner and coach our church.  But you love me below and above.  I need you brush my hair.  Your husband loves you too!

Thank you for all you do!

I love you Mom.”

I got three things I really needed this morning: a cup of coffee, a nice chat with my husband, and this note from my 7 year old.  It fell out of the desk drawer, just when I needed it.  As you can see, my kids don’t sugarcoat things for me.  They know my life is “crowded.”  They probably know better than anyone that I’m pulled in more than one direction and have to constantly make compromises between what I want to be doing and what I need to be doing.  Let’s face it, everything else aside, I’d pull them out of school every single day to follow some flight of fancy and adventure.  They might never learn to read and we might have to subsist on grass and berries, but it would sure be great to spend carefree hours together, discovering every beauty the world has to offer.

Scripture says we can’t serve two masters, because we will love the one and hate the other.  Of course, this is referring to God and money.  Sometimes I struggle with the ways that truth applies to my life, though.  I’m called, at a minimum, to serve at least three: my family, the church, and the Lord.  Making it even more complicated, I’m actually getting paid to serve the church, so perhaps the church should count as two – God and money?  But I already made a distinction between serving God and serving the church.  I guess because they sometimes seem like two different masters, as well, when the challenges and expectations of church life come into tension with my ability to devote myself singly to God.

Most of the time, I find ways to keep my masters happy.  Even if I don’t have time to play, I still manage to cook some meals, brush some hair, and “coach the church.”  Other times, I find one master or another to be exceptionally demanding, and I end up having to make things up to the others later.  I had a demanding master this week, she hardly napped during the day; she insisted on eating twice every night; she refused to enjoy her Jump-a-roo when I needed to prep lessons and make meals.  A string of sleep longer than 3 hours would be an incredibly welcome luxury right now.

But my husband got the kids ready for school every morning this week and kept the baby happy so I could teach the kids and youth on Wednesday.  The big girls pitched in when I needed someone to grab me a diaper or empty the dishwasher; they were well-mannered at the doctor’s office, and didn’t complain when I made zucchini.  And neither God nor the church stuck me down for being sleep deprived and scatterbrained at work this week.  Even the teenagers, as usual, were good natured and accommodating.  Who doesn’t love masters like mine?

My daughter’s note this morning brought all those moments together for me.  It was a welcome reminder that, even though I’m struggling to keep up with my many masters, my most important calling is still being accomplished: my kids know I love them “below and above.”  And hopefully my other masters are getting that message now and again, too?

No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money. Matthew 6:24, Luke 16:13

I ruthlessly remember birthdays...

…well, I used to, at least.  As my family started to splinter and spread out geographically, it became a bigger and bigger challenge to stay connected to each other.  One way I tried to bridge the gap was in remembering my parents and siblings on their birthdays.  What I didn’t realize at the time was how, in a family that didn’t put a priority on celebrating these holidays, my attention to them left my family with mixed feelings.  At one point I was accused of “ruthlessly remembering birthdays.”

When my husband and I got married, it wrought havoc on my birthday discipline.  As in many marriages, I am generally the keeper of birthdays, so my list doubled at the altar.  In the last decade, it has multiplied by marriages, births, and expanding friendships.  If I once ruthlessly remembered birthdays, there are probably some people who would now complain that I ruthlessly forget – and I even do that inconsistently.  Sometimes I purchase the gift early, only to have it sit on my counter until it’s late.  Sometimes I remember a birthday one year, and then don’t the next.  Sometimes I find something grand to send, other times my honoree has to settle for nail clippers and a comb.  For the first time ever last year, I was so late with a gift that I put it away and sent it for the next year.  It was very humbling.  Anymore, I feel successful if I get a birthday gift sent within 3 months before or after the day – that’s a six month window and I don’t always hit it!

Despite my failed ruthlessness, my loved ones can continue to expect erratic birthday acknowledgement from me.  I may not be good at it anymore, but I’ll never give it up, because there’s only one of you – and you are remarkable and cherished.  So, to my beloved aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, parents, siblings, friends, and in-laws, in case this is the year I forget – Happy Birthday.  I’m so glad you’re here.  I really do love you and miss you – I just can’t seem to make it to the post office.

God can bless you with everything you need, and you will always have more than enough to do all kinds of good things for others.  2 Corinthians 9:8

I hate being afraid.

I interviewed a Catholic monsignor for an assignment once.  He was elderly, very pastoral, and won me over right away with thoughtful responses to my questions that surprised me, being far from the typical theology I expected from a Catholic priest.  Our conversation ended up off-topic, as my conversations often do, and he shared with me about an experience he had as a young man, exorcising demons.  He looked me in the eye and assured me that evil is real, that it is terrifying, and that a person should never open themself up to evil.  Some people might say he was a quack, but I believed him.  The fear he expressed, and the sincerity of his warning made a strong and lasting impression on me.

That was early in my seminary career, right around the time that we had a collective experienced of evil, September 11th, 2001.  My oldest girl was two months old and I was getting us ready to go to work at the church, when I flipped on the TV to check the weather and instead found out that there was a new world unfolding.  The towers were still up, wounded and smoking.  I began to pray the people inside would know peace.  It felt so weird to look at those towers and know that people, who were otherwise just fine, were in a death trap from which they would not escape.  I pictured them, possibly huddled under their desks and in stairwells, and couldn’t think of anything else that would help, so I prayed they wouldn’t feel panic, but would be overwhelmed by the peaceful presence of the Holy Spirit.  It seemed wrong that their last moments should be overwhelmed by wasted panic and worry, I hoped they could experience peace.

If my prayers were answered, and there was any peace, I haven’t seen much of it since.  Hate and fear dwell in such close company.  One leads to the other in an endless cycle of human brokenness.  There have been moments where it peaks for every generation: WW II, the assassinations of JFK & MLK.  There are many others, but for my generation, it will always be 9/11.  In the ten years since, we’ve normalized a level of hatred and fear that I still struggle to accept.

Ten years later, we are still at war.  I tied up a yellow ribbon when it started, and it weathered for so long, as one war faded into another, I couldn’t decide what was appropriate – take it down? Replace it?  Eventually it wore out and fell off the tree.  I wonder what kind of fear and hatred our extended presence abroad might be stirring up.  Ten years later, being X-rayed and frisked is the price of travel.  As much as it frustrates us, it also reminds us of that day.  It reminds us to look around and be afraid of our fellow travelers.  Ten years later, we pay European prices for gas, and the economy has yet to stabilize.  My generation, and the one after me, is defining ourselves by our relationships, because we’ve come of age in an economy where our wealth and careers are never secure.

I know we can’t unsqueeze the toothpaste tube.  Many of the changes evoked by September 11th, like those of the Cuban Missile Crisis or Pearl Harbor, are changes we are right to normalize, because they aren’t going away.  But I’m tired of hate and fear.  If we assimilate them into our culture, we invite the evil they breed.  The scripture claims that through Christ, we have power over demons.  We can order evil to pack up and leave us.  Instead of using religion to fuel the flames of hatred and fear, I want my faith to be a tool for peace, that the love and power of Christ could prevail.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18

I sound corny when I talk about my husband.

Nothing felt odd or out of routine to me until the women I was standing with dropped their jaws, and one asked what I had done to train my husband so well.  We were at an event where the big girls were running around with friends, and my husband and I were keeping up with them and one another, in a sort of tag-team way.  I was holding the baby, standing in a small circle of women, visiting, when my husband came into the room, and without a word, took her out of my arms and disappeared.

The other women were shocked that he would take the baby off my hands, without my requesting it, or making a show about it.  I didn’t know what to say, because being a great dad is so normal for my husband, that until their comments, I took it for granted.  All I could say was, “I didn’t do anything.  She’s his daughter; he’s allowed to hold her when he wants.”  I have to admit, I felt really proud to be his wife.

Another humbling moment, recently, was when my daughter was, without a doubt, acting like me.  I felt an urge to curb her, because it was a trait I have never liked about myself.  Much to my chagrin, my husband began to engage her, and even to enjoy her and egg her on.  Suddenly it hit me.  He even likes things about me that I dislike about myself.  Seeing him with our daughter changed my whole attitude.  Love multiplied in that moment – his love for her reflected love right back on me.

When we first got married, thirteen years ago this weekend, I felt a full heart of love for my husband.  The biggest surprise in these years, to me, has been how much deeper my love has grown, as I’ve seen his commitment to our children.  We’re this unit, in which love just seems to multiply extravagantly.  The more the kids see us love each other, the more they love us.  The more we love the kids, the more we love each other.  I probably sound pretty corny, and maybe a little naïve, but that’s not the kind of family I grew up in, so sometimes it overwhelms me that I get to be a part of something so amazing.  It’s a blessing I don’t deserve and I wish I could share with everyone I know.

I don’t know who I’d be, if it weren’t for the incredible man who showed me true love.  And it doesn’t matter whether we are at year 13 or 30 or 300, it only gets better from here.

As the Scriptures say, "A man leaves his father and mother to get married, and he becomes like one person with his wife." This is a great mystery, but I understand it to mean Christ and his church. So each husband should love his wife as much as he loves himself, and each wife should respect her husband. Ephesians 5:31-33

My daughter might have been eaten by pandas.

I love how whenever a child ends up in a mishap and the parent finds themself answering to a news reporter, whether the child was lost at the mall, fell into a pool, or was kidnapped by genetically modified panda bears, the answer is always the same, “You just can’t take your eyes off of them for even a minute.”  That poor parent is then flooded with shadenfreud, as the sea of solemn faces and words of comfort and pity only weakly mask the whispered “tsk-tsks” of the gleefully self-righteous parents around them – all of whom know better than to take their eyes off their  children.

So I’ll just get it out right now – I currently have, and frequently take, my eyes off my children.  Sometimes I need to shower, sometimes to cook dinner; every now and then I’m totally negligent and hide in my room doing nothing while my children fend for themselves.  They’ve generally come through these episodes without event, but there was that one time…

My middle daughter was all of one year old and had moved more quickly than we realized from barely walking to climbing.  My older daughter was a dutiful big sister: ever ready to tattle.  My husband and I had taken our eyes off both of them, trusting Caillou to keep them entranced so we could complete our daily grooming.  Our tooth-brushing was interrupted when we received word from our scout that the toddler was “eating all the vitamins!”  We looked down at her with skepticism, knowing that the vitamins were kept on the top shelf of the upper cabinets and they were sealed with a “childproof” cap.  Without much urgency, I headed to the living room to discover my toddler in the middle of a scattered pile of Flintstones, consuming them as quickly as her fine motor skills allowed (which fortunately, wasn’t very quickly, her gross motor skills being far more advanced than her fine ones).  Sounding the alarm with my husband, I gathered her up while he began collecting the vitamins.  I was stunned, as I went into the kitchen, to see the wake of her efforts.  A chair had been dragged from the table and pushed up against the cupboard.  The upper cabinets were flung wide open, and the contents of the uppermost shelf were upended.  It had never, ever crossed my mind that my small daughter was capable of such a feat.  I would have thought she’d need a nap, just after dragging that heavy chair across the kitchen.  Who would guess she would still have the muster to climb up on the counter, get the cupboard doors open, find the vitamins, and overcome the childproof cap!  Let alone get safely back to the ground to take her snack in to munch on while she watched TV.

In short, I caught a break.  I had taken my eyes off her.  She could have fallen down a well, been stolen by aliens, or run away with gypsies.  One of my friends recently mentioned her desire to wrap her toddler in bubble wrap.  This confession is my commiseration with the frustration she feels, trying to keep a boisterous, curious child safe, without surrendering to a lifestyle of fear.  Unfortunately, kids do get hurt sometimes, and sometimes it is because their parents are negligently inattentive.  But I’m not going to tsk at that poor parent whose child has been hurt or lost, because it happens incredibly fast, and there is no human way to avoid, now and then, taking our eyes off our beloved children.  It doesn’t mean we’re stupid, or that we don’t love our kids.  Sometimes our kids have to share our attention with life's other necessities, and in those moments, we have to rely on the benevolence of a greater power.

Just as shepherds watch over their sheep, you must watch over everyone God has placed in your care. 1 Peter 5:2a

I’ve taken my family for granted.

It is a tremendous blessing that I have a large extended family. I have dozens of first cousins, beloved aunts and uncles, and grandparents whose longevity gave us the motivation to gather regularly and savor the great storytelling, hearty joking, and comfort of familiarity. Unfortunately, this cherished extended family lives stretched across the country, from Chicago to Arizona and from Texas to Wyoming. It is no easy task, staying close over the miles. I remember, a few months after starting college, feeling isolated and alone. I concluded that what I most needed was the comfort of a hug; something so simple, but so unavailable, in a place where my longest acquaintance was two months’.

Shortly into my college career, I began attending church. At first, I sneaked in the back unnoticed. My attendance was sporadic, and even the beloved greeter, who typically dropped by with a flower or cookie for visitors, never took notice of me. Eventually, however, I got up the courage to ask the choir director about joining the choir. She was kind and friendly and seemed happy to have me come to a rehearsal. At that first rehearsal, I was warmly welcomed and quickly found that these jolly souls, mainly my parents’ and grandparents’ age, appreciated what musical abilities I could offer, and even welcomed my weird sense of humor.

In the years since, I’ve had ups and downs with my church family. I have a deep appreciation for how they acknowledged and encouraged my call to ministry, adding me to staff and helping me get a seminary degree. Unfortunately, local church ministry can also be frustrating. Sometimes the demand to be constantly available, the sense of closeness that such a large church family feels for me and my family, can challenge my need for privacy, and my desire to be with and enjoy my biological family. Sometimes the generational differences in what effective ministry looks and feels like create barriers between us that feel insurmountable and make me question my calling. In the last year, especially with the overwhelming demands of pregnancy and newborn care, I’ve let the occasional snarky or insensitive comments of church members play on me more than usual. Even just a few abrasive people can sometimes lead me to group the whole church together as unappreciative and demanding.

Lately, I’ve been unfair. In a world where technology and distance have often disconnected people from each other, our church has offered a sanctuary of familial connection. They have surrounded my family with prayer during our trials and sorrows. Their joy in our return after maternity leave has been palpable. There are dear friends among them who demand to babysit my kids now and then while we have a dinner date, or else they complain that we’ve been hording them. My newest daughter has an exceptional collection of blankets, sleepers, rattles, and a beautiful cross-stitch birth sampler, received in equal shares from biological and church family who waited anxiously for her arrival, poised to love her heartily. I arrived home this week to find that my mailbox had been overloaded with the cards of well wishers, offering their condolences and prayers for my grandma’s death. I’ve taken for granted the love and connection that many others long for and live without. While other new mothers long for company, I must turn visitors away. While others face the burden of sorrow alone, I am humbled by an outpouring of empathy.

I am so grateful that in a lonely city, I found myself at home among people of faith, who long to love others as Jesus did. We don’t always agree on how that love should be expressed, but we do always agree on the one great source from whom it comes.

I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will bless you and be kind to you! May God bless you with his love, and may the Holy Spirit join all your hearts together. 2 Corinthians 13:13

My baby’s not cute enough.

I’ve been noticing a new crop of ponytailed cuties all over the place this spring. I am a huge fan of ponytails on little girls and I have to admit, I am insanely jealous. My 1 month old was born with a decent head of hair, but now that her head is growing so fast, she’s become the victim of a rapidly receding hairline. Unlike the men I know who suffer from the same malady, she doesn’t even have the comb-over option available to her. I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands, so I did what any good mother would do. I took her in and got her hair extensions.

If you check out the before and after shots, you’ll have to agree with me that the hairdresser did a fantastic job of providing her with the length and fullness she lacked. She won’t have to hang her head in shame on our next trip to the playground, and I think we now have a decent shot at monetizing parenthood. I’m forwarding head shots to several talent scouts this morning. I have noticed that she struggles to hold her hair-burdened head upright, and I think, technically, her ponytails actually qualify as a strangulation hazard; but it will all be worth it when I see the other moms look down into their strollers with disgust and try to shield their hideously bald babies from view as they slink home in shame.

OK, so I didn’t actually get hair extensions for my newborn. And I think it’s indescribably repugnant that a mother has allegedly administered Botox to her eight year old, whether the child requested it or not. What I do admit to, however, is having some of my own value wrapped up in the beauty and brilliance of my daughters. While I think a certain degree of identification with our kids is normal – we do invest a substantial portion of our time and treasure into producing and nurturing them – I’m always walking that line between helping them be their best and pressuring their lives to be expression of my own ambitions.

I hope my oldest daughter will get a chance to dance on Pointe before she retires from ballet; I wish my middle daughter would stand up to her bossy friend that fibs; and I fluff my baby’s wacky hair before we go out or have guests. Let’s face it, though, if they don’t want to dance, really love their bullish friends, or their hair all falls out, I will have to let it go. My kids’ are beautifully and wonderfully made by God, head to toe and inside out. On their best days, I love to consider that I may have had a hand in their outstanding qualities and accomplishments. But living vicariously through them does intolerable things. It undermines their ability seek out the pursuits that are truly right for them. It suggests that what God made is somehow not good enough for me.

When I hear about show-biz kids divorcing their parents, or teenagers getting implants, I know those urges can get out of control. I pray my daughters grow up feeling healthy and beautiful, confident and self-assured. I pray I make the right choices to support them and help them be and feel successful. I pray I maintain a sense of awe and gratitude for the gift of who they are, rather than pushing them to become what I dreamed of for myself.

Children are a blessing and a gift from the LORD. Psalm 127:3