Dear Good Samaritan...

Reading people’s bumper stickers is a wonderful source of amusement for me – the more the better.  Sometimes I gain some pithy insight, sometimes I cringe or groan, but almost always, I am entertained by what someone choose as their personal message to the world behind them.

As much as I love reading bumper stickers, I rarely display them myself.  To me they are kind of like tattoos – there’s no one, brief message, by which I would want to be defined as a human being – or even just as a motorist.  Not even those cute stick families, or an ichthus (the fish shape Christians use to identify themselves to one another).  Both are still loaded symbols that might convey to someone a disdain for them I do not have, or a vanity to which I do not subscribe.

Sometimes I am tempted, in my love of back bumper bling, to try to create a collage of stickers that somehow defies the stereotypes I fear reinforcing.  What if a put my pro-life “Motherhood is a proud profession” sticker next to my “Obama Biden 2012” sticker, add a hopeful, “Jesus loves you,” throw in a cheesy, “smile, it makes people wonder what you’re up to,” and then top it off with a snarky, “Don’t worry what people think, they don’t do it very often.”  It would be kind of fun to add the stick family of Star Wars characters, too.  Would the people behind me at a stop light, from whichever camp of abortion, politics, religion, contemplation, or Sci-Fi, be confused and angry, or marvel at my breadth of commitments and sense of humor?

Last week, someone proved to me why no message can ever stand alone, as a testimony to the world about who you are and what you are about.  My husband had a campaign sticker on the back of his truck, and we came out of a store to find a note tucked under our windshield wiper.

Perhaps this person thought they were going to have a laugh at our expense, and I’m sure they proudly boasted about the pile of these photocopied greetings that they had distributed during election season.  But what does anyone gain from calling someone else an idiot, based on one, small modicum of information about that person?  If you are going to call yourself a “good Samaritan,” I suggest you pull open your scriptures and actually read the story.  Jesus’ story redefined community, illustrating that those who agree with you, who publicly claim to operate out of the same perspective, are often of no value to you in your time of deepest need – real community has to do with reaching out to one another, past divisions and divides, and offering our best to one another in every circumstance.  Labeling someone “idiot” is in direct conflict with the story of the good Samaritan. 

This note tells me, from this one, small modicum of information I now have, that the writer is not a faithful, generous servant of Christ, using the blessing of freedom to build up our country and make the world a better place, but instead a judgmental, divisive person, who has done their candidate and their Creator a great disservice, by spreading ill-will in their name.

But I would like to push myself, unlike this “good Samaritan,” to look the past one, hopefully small, shortcoming I see in this person, and remember there is an entire person on the other side.  I’d like to believe that they are actually a good person, with a misguided sense of humor.  I’d like to hope they will offer me the same grace when I cut them off on the freeway, forget to use my blinker, or accidentally swerve into their lane while avoiding a fallen branch.   I hope they can join me in attempting to offer less judgment, and more acknowledgement of our commonalities.

 But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Luke 10:29

One dog, one vote

I generally hesitate to talk politics, especially because I really don’t think Jesus was a Republican or a Democrat.  I see a lot of damage done to the gospel by Christians invoking their faith in support of one party, one candidate, or one issue, over the others.  While I do think that employing our faith in our ethical and political decision-making is essential and logical, up until this week I thought one-issue voting was a misguided practice.  I believed that it was a tool used by people of faith to try and manipulate one another – as if Christ came to earth to reshape the American political environment around a single issue – a particular sin.  That without examining any other aspect of a person’s life, choices, or faith practices, you could conclude whether they are truly a faithful follower, exclusively based on their voting record, sounded absurd to me.  That, of course, changed in 30 short seconds, when I saw the powerful message I’ve posted here:

 

Many churches want to tell me how to vote.  Many pundits want to tell me how to vote.  Many powerful, well-funded special interests want to tell me how to vote.  But now my dog wants to tell me how to vote?  For real?  My dog gets a say in how these elections should turn out?  Animal cruelty is now the single-issue litmus test I should employ for electing candidates?

Take it easy – I love animals and Steve King does kinda sound like a creep.  But I also love steak, and I could definitely see the sport in pelting a deer with an arrow and taking it home for dinner.  I absolutely love going to the races and seeing the swift and majestic horses run, even though it sometimes results in their untimely demise.  No, of course, I don’t support dog fighting.  And I definitely wouldn’t take my kids to watch two animals fight to the death.  But I’m not sure how heavy my concern is for whether pets get included in disaster plan legislation.  If my own home were to catch fire, I can assure you, getting the dog out would definitely be at the bottom of my "disaster plan," compared to making sure all the people get accounted for; it would, frankly, make me sad if first responders had to weigh a legal obligation toward my pet against getting back to the firehouse and being available to help other humans.

Let’s get real.  When we are consider the plethora of issues and problems with which our communities are struggling, when we confront all the exploitation and injustice that goes on around us, when we dream of how to make the world a better place – has the propagation of special interests gotten so out of hand that now even our pets get a say in the political process, provided they make a donation large enough?

 He responded, “The children have to be fed first. It isn’t right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” Mark 7:27

My kid outclassed me (and I didn’t scrub the floors).

OK so, first of all, I didn’t go all Molly Maids on the old house after we moved out.  I figured the new owners were going to give it an overhaul to put their own smell on the place anyway, and, frankly, we had other priorities moving week.  The actual moving, three kids, Thanksgiving, out of town family, and a cancer diagnosis in my husband’s immediate family – to name the most obvious contenders for our attention.  But all excuses aside, we did leave the house without completing our regular housekeeping, so it was not the spotless showplace it had been a few weeks earlier.  Let me know if I’m wrong on this, but I’ve never known anyone who moved into a house or apartment and raved about the previous owner’s housekeeping; cleaning the new place is part of moving.  Or so I thought.

I expected the new people would find something to complain to the neighbors about, but what I didn’t expect was that my ten year old would be approached at school by the child of our former neighbor, in front of other kids, with a nasty accusation about our family’s filthy living – as reported to her parents by the buyers of our house.  As if they hadn’t gone through the house just a few weeks earlier and seen how clean it was when we weren’t in the middle of moving.  I was horrified when my daughter told me what the girl had said.  I couldn’t believe she wasn’t crying and wondered if she was being brave for us.  A well of defensive unpleasantness bubbled up in me, as I took a mental inventory of all the very judgmental and personal jabs I could take at them.  It was a challenging sale, and we had sometimes struggled to remain gracious.  All of those moments when we had to remind one another to be kind, to let things go, and to be generous rather than stingy, were suddenly overwhelmed by a vicious instinct to lash out and harm the people who had turned an adult financial transaction into neighborhood gossip and schoolyard bullying.

As I was about to surrender to my anger and injured pride, and arm my daughter with a slew of nasty responses she could use if it came up again, my husband saved the moment by asking her how she had responded.  She said matter-of-factly that she had told the girl, “Oh, so you must think moving is easy.”  And then she told the other kids who were listening to the exchange, “What?  Did they live in a hotel before?  They can’t clean their own bathroom?”

I could have cried.  I felt so much admiration for her.  She did everything the school counselor says to do with bullies.  She stood up for herself; she disarmed them with humor.  She didn’t take it, but she didn’t escalate the situation either.  I could not have provided her with a better response than she came up with all on her own.  She was the tough but gracious person I wish I was – and she’s only ten years old.

I am embarrassed by the ugliness I felt about the situation and by the defensiveness I’m still battling.  I am tempted even now to give you all the reasons why I think we are nicer people than them.  I am just not as good or confident a person as my daughter is.  She is a class act.  And I have a lot to learn from her.

We work hard with our own hands to feed ourselves. When people insult us, we ask God to bless them. When people treat us badly, we accept it.  When people say bad things about us, we try to say something that will help them. But people still treat us like the world’s garbage—everyone’s trash. 1 Corinthians 4:12-13

I’m a closet introvert.

Hell for me is a phone with a headset, hooked up to an automatic dialer.  It’s torture, having to muster a pleasant tone of voice, and confront the unknown demands of a conversation.  I did a miserable customer service job for a year and a half out of college and I still cringe when I hear a phone ring.  I program my loved ones’ phone numbers with special rings so that when they call, I can actually respond with joy, instead of trepidation, when I answer the phone.  Sometimes I don’t even answer their calls.

No one had to wonder whether I was an introvert, as a kid.  My silence should have made it clear, but it also ensured that no one wondered whether I was an introvert.  They were more likely to wonder whether I was a snob, or a nerd, or possibly a deaf person – or not to notice me at all.  I was shocked, when my siblings alerted me (in less than diplomatic terms) to the fact that my silence was communicating a disregard for everyone around me that I did not feel.  In fact, I have a very passionate concern for people.  It is part of what makes interacting so exhausting.  I feel such a drive to make every interaction one of care, help, and nourishment that I feel like I should have a script and a rehearsal before I open my mouth.  The pressure eventually wears me out.

Those who have known me as an adult may or may not realize this about me, though.  They may be in my inner circle, where I shamelessly, and probably overbearingly, turn my full personality loose and trust they will graciously interpret my missteps in the context of who they know me to be.  Or they may be the recipient of a gift they didn’t know was a gift.  They are one of the many people, with whom I interact with openness and possibly even verbal excess, despite the extreme anxiety and fear I’m hiding.  They’ve managed to overlook it that I keep my arms down to hide my pit stains during meetings.  They’ve correctly understood that they matter, but they’ve never tuned in to the moment of hesitation before I looked them in the eyes and smiled, or the extended time I spent in the restroom during a break.

It is hard work to make small talk, to decide how much to disclose, to know when to ask questions and when to let the awkward silence bring an interaction to a close.  I could stumble into a landmine of impropriety or offense at any point.  But it is apparent to me that, even when I don’t do it as perfectly as I hope, interacting is more valuable, and a better representation of myself to the people around me, than keeping silent.  So, I interact.  Against my strongest inclinations, I approach strangers after worship.  Despite my shoulder devil’s insistence that no one will get them, I crack jokes and tell stories.

Often, my worst fears are realized and I play back a conversation in my head with embarrassment or regret.  Many times, as well, I feel so drained afterward that I need a few hours or days of cloister to build up my energy and courage to return to the public.  I read a great article about introverts that a couple of my fellow Women in Ministry posted this week.  It was very affirming to realize that I’m not alone in my social struggles, and also that it’s not a character flaw I need to cure.  It just is who I am.

So I’m coming out: My name is Emily, and I’m an introvert.

Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.  Colossians 4:6

We’re going to disappoint our kids this Christmas.

I’ve been hearing about it for over a year.  iPods, iPods, iPods.  They vowed to save up for them.  They wanted them for their birthdays.  They wanted us to search Craigslist for cheap ones with cracked screens.  Their devotion to getting iPod touches has been almost single-minded, even usurping the role of cell phone at the top of their longings and desires.  When we got my husband an iPad, and everyone found out firsthand how flawlessly Apple technology operates, and how truly addictive Angrybirds is, it amplified their desires to a new level of intensity.

In planning our Christmas giving, we got sucked in.  We debated the merits of iPods vs. ghetto-pads; we considered Nooks and Kindles.  We weighed the potential reading minutes against the potential gaming minutes.  We considered getting them one to share, but I wasn’t interested in officiating time of possession.  We were at the cusp of making a major outlay for technology, granting our kids’ biggest wish.

Then they started bickering.  First it was over socks.  Despite the fact that each girl has a drawer that is overflowing with socks, I was charmed by the goofy Christmas socks at Dollar Tree and bought them each two pair that they could mix and match.  The next morning, they were going at each other hatefully over the stupid socks, because they couldn’t come to an agreement on who got which of the FOUR PAIRS.  Later, they raised the same ruckus over who got to wear the pink mittens, despite the bin full of available options.  Shortly into the afternoon, they were fighting over space in the minivan.  We were FOUR people, riding in a vehicle designed to seat SEVEN.

My kids already have DS’s.  They already have a portable DVD player for road trips.  They already have a room all their own.  They already have a closet full of clothes.  They have a huge collection of Barbies, of Our Generation dolls, of Galactic Heroes, of dress up gowns, etc, etc.  But over the last few weeks, every adult who cares about them, myself included, has opened at least one conversation with, “what are you going to ask for this Christmas?”  It has led my children to believe that their self-centered, materialistic desires actually matter to the overall functioning of the social order and that, somehow, Jesus came to earth, purely to occasion their own wish-fulfillment.

I am back at square one.  I want my kids to have a fun, memorable Christmas.  Like everyone else, I don’t want their gift opening to be a disappointment.  I wonder what kind of role model I’ve been for them, that they would display such repulsive behavior.  Let’s face it, I’m disappointed, too.  I want to make them happy, but I also want to be a good mom, and I’m afraid that this Christmas, I’m not going to be able to do both.  Character and gratitude last longer than electronics anyway, right?  Wish me luck.

As bad as you are, you still know how to give good gifts to your children. But your heavenly Father is even more ready to give the Holy Spirit to anyone who asks. Luke 11:13

I have a love/hate relationship with my minivan

We’ve all seen her at the mall, I’m sure.  She’s wearing 5 inch heels and fake fingernail tips, balanced on the running board of a Sequoia, trying to wrestle a baby seat up into the base without snapping a nail or getting her hair in her lipstick.  Not realizing how much she looks like the butt of a reality show joke, she wears her biggest fear on her Armani sleeve.  She’s a slave to anything the design editors have told her is “in.”  If you savor this sort of entertainment, and you can walk slowly enough to your car, you can catch the sequel, where she tries to fold up the stroller and lift it in under the hatch without crushing her shopping bags or spraining her ankle.

It’s not really fair for me to pick on Designer-Mom.  It’s probably not smart either.  If she gets ticked, she could run over my whole house with that SUV.  Seeing her struggles, however, I shake my head and pity her a little.  It’s not that I don’t like cool stuff; I do.  It’s just that I try to incorporate fashion in ways my lifestyle can actually accommodate.  I feel a different sort of coolness wash over me when I load up my three kids, and the stroller, and all the scenery and puppets for Sunday’s outreach, and am on my way while Designer-Mom is still stretching over seats to fiddle with car seat buckles she can barely reach without climbing into the third row of her fabulous vehicle.

The practicality of a minivan completely reigns for me.  Driving a third-row SUV would be, to me, like wearing thong underwear.  It may impress that one person who actually catches a glimpse of it, but you’re the one who has to live with the chafing wedgie all day long.  It’s just not worth it.

My minivan does, however, have a downside.  While it has changed our lives for the better with its sliding doors, seating capacity, and cargo space, it has indulged our worst hording tendencies.  The back seat is constantly piled high with leftover fastfood cartons, markers, personal electronics, dirty socks, and, usually, whatever item the girls needed for school and couldn’t find.  Every time I clean it out, I vow that I’m going to enforce better habits.  My husband and I have our own stash between the front seats, usually the leftovers from our last road trip: the GPS tangled around a mess of half-eaten combos, museum fliers, and, if you’re lucky, enough loose change to park downtown for a quick lunch.

A fashion crisis on wheels, our minivan also sports a cracked windshield, bubbling paint spots, a wide array of door dings, manual-close doors, and the interior has cords strung around like Christmas lights to run the portable DVD system.  I fantasize about trading it in for an upscale minivan, with power doors, built in A/V, leather seats, and a moonroof.

Basically, I’m sitting back in my granny-panties, wishing for some nice, cotton bikinis.

Your country will be covered with caravans…  Isaiah 60:6

I used bad words on my kids.



Hopefully not in our near future!

It’s always embarrassing when I spout off at the mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for a sailor, but there are certainly moments when my word choice is, to say the least, unbecoming.  Who hasn’t endured a moment where a heavy object fell on their toe, or a splash of boiling water seared their finger, and one of those words – the ones we usually refer to by only their first letter – involuntarily erupted?  Not wanting a young child to “out” me by repeating such choice vocabulary, I used to follow up with a series of decoy words.  For example, a carton of milk slips through my fingers and floods across the kitchen floor, and I blurt “Sh#(!” as it goes down, right in front of a very verbal 2 year old; if I think quickly enough, I followed it closely with, “Sugar!  Speedboat! Sassafras! Banana Split!”  If the practice didn’t completely confuse my daughter, it left only a 1-in-5 chance that she would drop a crayon in the church nursery and entertain her caregiver with a PG-13 expletive.  And what’s cuter than a little one who blurts out “Speedboat!” when they drop things!

10 years into this mom-thing, I’ve done pretty well at eschewing those words from even my non-voluntary speech patterns [sorry for making you look up eschew, but at least it’s a fun word you can repeat in mixed company].  In fact, my daughters have a nearly puritanical attitude toward word use.  It cracks me up every time I have to apologize for calling a malfunctioning appliance or misbehaving pet, “stupid.”  I’m not sure if their horror stems from a true belief that “stupid” is a really bad word, or if it’s the tone of disgust I’m using when I drop the S-Bomb.  I’ve tried several times to explain to them that it’s only a bad word when it’s directed at someone.  That strategy my someday backfire, however, when they decide to apply the same criteria to other words.

This week, we had an insanely frustrating afternoon, during which I hauled 20-some pounds of carseat and baby in and out of every store in town that carried children’s shoes.  As we were boarding the minivan at the end of the day, still empty-handed, my oldest began to snap at me for not buying her the ill-fitting and over-budget tennis shoes she had found at our last stop.  While I was in the midst of both reprimanding her for her tone and explaining to her that money is finite, so we do not waste it on items that do not suit our purposes, my middle daughter wanted something my oldest daughter had, and began demanding it, loudly and repeatedly.  Rather than honoring her with a response, I tried to finish the conversation with my older girl, before dealing with the younger, but she got louder and more insistent, the longer we ignored her.  In short order, the van was ringing with angry voices and the baby started to cry.  My older daughter added to the cacophony by starting her counter-argument before I finished my statement, leading to all four of us, baby included, raising our voices in ugly tones, at the same time, inside a closed up vehicle.  Completely frustrated, with my head and ears ringing, I went up another decibel to shout, “SHUT UP!"

The silence was instant – even the baby seemed to drop off in shock.  The big girls’ eyes got huge and welled up with tears.  I might as well have called them the B-word.  Or said I didn’t love them.  My heart was heavy; I was so frustrated, I took the cheap way out.  I knew using those words would have exactly that effect.  And I sold out my values to obtain silence.  I finished, calmly, explaining why we didn’t buy the shoes, then apologized for using those words, and told my middle daughter that I was sorry for how I said it, but I wasn’t sorry for making her stop interrupting, because she knew better than that.

We haven’t yet had an outbreak of “shut up” around the house, so hopefully they know that, even if Mommy says it, that doesn’t make it right.  And I realize that there are plenty of quality parents out there who use far harsher phrases on their kids than “shut up,” but I still get a little heavy hearted when I think of how hurt they were, because for our family, it was a verbal grenade.

A kind answer soothes angry feelings, but harsh words stir them up. Proverbs 15:1

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

My conscience needs a break.

With every passing year, the list of forbidden and required behaviors grows longer. I can just imagine the Happy Days remake where Fonzie gets fined every time he pulls up to the Cunningham’s without his motorcycle helmet. In the early 80’s, I knew a four year old who had a booster seat for the car and thought her parents were nerds. 

Now I’m the nerd, ah-gain, and to some degree it’s my own fault. I just couldn’t have another baby without reading the updated version of What to Expect the First Year. I’ve dutifully reminded myself of all the musts and must-nots required to bring a child safely through her first year. Now I must obey, because once I know something could harm my child, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and I wasn’t obeying the rules. The car seat straps must be snug; the dog isn’t allowed to be loose in the room with her; big sisters have to wash their hands before playing with her; the pacifier has to be sterilized once a week; no rides in the bike trailer until she can sit up on her own; the only place higher than the floor she gets to lay is in the crib. The crib - which brings me to the biggest joke on new parents the scientific community has discovered to date.

As of today, my daughter is three months old. She has slept in a crib or bassinet all of never since we left the hospital. Now that sleeping babies are to be placed exclusively on their back, on a firm, hard surface, without blankets or bedding, I can completely understand why SIDS deaths have gone down – babies don’t sleep! If they aren’t asleep, they can’t die in their sleep!

In three tries, not one of my daughters has enjoyed sleeping on her back, on a hard mattress, without blankets or bedding. The first did most of her nighttime sleeping cuddled on my chest while I was propped up in a corner of the couch, half-awake with worry that she’d roll off of me, because the book said not to sleep with the baby on my chest, but I was desperate. The second was a non-stop eater, so we’d both end up asleep by the time she finished nursing. When she’d fuss, we’d roll over and she’d latch on the other side. It’s OK, What to Expect people, we weren’t co-sleeping; we were using the side-lying nursing position. That makes it OK, right? It’s too late to complain, she survived.

Desperation drove us to try putting our third girl in her car seat one night. Every time she fell asleep in the car, she’d stay asleep in her car seat another hour, once we got home. Something must be working, right? Getting her to fall asleep and putting her in the crib or bassinette, she would only sleep for 20 minutes. Just enough for us to almost doze off, before abruptly being back on duty. So, the car seat it is. She sleeps there every night, and has, as a result, been our best sleeper of the three. The crib is just a glorified changing table and, friends, you should always borrow a bassinet. They’re a waste of money, because babies never sleep in them, anyway. Someday they’re going to make one that cradles babies like their car seats, and when they do, babies will sleep again!

I’m glad for the declining SIDS rate. I don’t take lightly the heartbroken mothers whose babies stopped breathing in their sleep. I wonder that these little creatures are wired to prefer so thoroughly the very position that endangers them – sleeping on their bellies.

It is the seriousness of the potential outcome, no matter how remote the odds against it, that keeps me following all those tyrannical rules, from bike helmets, to car seats, to belly sleeping. But some days, my conscience just needs a break!

If you have good sense, instruction will help you to have even better sense. And if you live right, education will help you to know even more. Proverbs 9:9

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

We only go to church for the prizes

Since starting my maternity leave, we’ve managed to get the girls to church all of four times; all Wednesdays, never on a Sunday. And that’s just the kids – my husband and I have made it only once, and we ended up leaving half way through the program. This probably will strike you in one of two ways:

a) Wow, for a minister, you sure bailed the first excuse you got. There are plenty of hardcore church devotees, and women who want to ogle the baby, who harbor at least a little resentment for our prolonged absence. If they had a new baby, they’d be in church praising the Father, and letting their church family hand it around and give it RSV, as soon as they could walk without assistance. My assertion about this is substantiated by an email received when the baby was ten days old, lamenting our failure to attend, and the dashed hopes of many in the congregation who had anticipated seeing us that Sunday.

b) Wow, you took your kids to church when you could have been home sleeping with the newborn? For those who either don’t go to church, or only go to church when they want to go to church, it’s nearly unimaginable that we would make such an effort when we clearly don’t have to. Especially when being on staff means that coming within a three mile radius of the building makes us a target for people to wrap us up, demanding face time with the baby or help finding things, organizing things, or handling their personal woes.

Another indictment against our choice not to come every Wednesday night and Sunday morning, is that we’ve been in the holiest season of church life, Lent. While Baptists don’t always make a big deal about Lent, we want our kids to understand the incredible significance of the crucifixion and resurrection, so we usually set these six weeks apart in our family. We avoid meat on Fridays, do some sort of daily or weekly family devotions, and give something up or commit to a short term spiritual practice. It is completely out of the ordinary for us to spend the entire season of Lent away from corporate worship and Bible study. Let alone, eating meat on Fridays and failing to make a significant sacrifice (although we both agreed that we are giving up sleep for Lent this year).

More than largely neglecting church during Lent, we probably wouldn’t have gotten the kids there as much as we did, if it weren’t for the end of the year incentives they would have missed. They made it for the Pajama Party; Talent Show; to complete a book, thus earning a trip to Incredible Pizza; and to spend their Bucks at the last AWANA Store. We didn’t attend Palm Sunday worship; we skipped the Maundy Thursday communion service. We will, however, be in attendance this Sunday. I like to believe it will be for the exceptionally special celebration of Christ’s Resurrection, but some will probably notice that the Sunday we finally chose to attend included an Easter Egg Hunt after worship for the kids; meaning, of course, that we are still attending only when there are freebees to be had.

In addition to our failure to attend so far, I will go ahead and confess now that, despite our return to church this Sunday, we are likely to miss most, if not all, of the Sundays in May, as well. I don’t equate neglecting church with neglecting Christ, but I probably could put more effort into getting there; if I really wanted to go. I guess in all honesty, while I’ve missed church and don’t want our congregation to feel neglected, being there – and therefore being their youth pastor – while sleep deprived and worried about caring for and protecting a newborn is a hassle I just don’t want to endure until I have to.

Jesus finished by saying, "People were not made for the good of the Sabbath. The Sabbath was made for the good of people.” Mark 2:27

Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.

It is a long-storied fact that pregnancy opens your life up to the scrutiny of strangers and loved ones, alike. The clerk at Walmart that fondles your belly, the beloved family members who do conception math in their heads and insist they know exactly where and when you “did the deed.” Even if no one ever openly acknowledged your expanding waistline, you know it’s there for all to see – the very public evidence of a very private interaction.

I know that some women really enjoy the attention pregnancy brings. They will engage those variously curious strangers in long conversations about aches and pains, previous pregnancies, and all their hopes and aspirations regarding gender, naming, birthing, and sibling reactions. If you’ve gotten into one of those conversations with me, you may cry foul at what I’m about to say, because I, too, have occasionally shared one detail too many about my condition. However, in general, I loathe these exchanges.

I’m as excited as the next girl about the new family member. Despite the many aspects of my life that I consider to be fairly successful and fulfilling, there is nothing that comes close, in my mind, to the joy of being a mom, except perhaps being a wife. Talking about my daughters, telling stories about their various moments of accomplishment and hilarity, brings me great joy; if anything, I probably take more than my share of pride in my family. I am thrilled beyond measure about this little baby who’s going to be joining us soon and look forward to all those crazy moments ahead. Who will she eliminate on first? Which big sister is going to get the first smile?

But, as much as I try to be a straight shooter, there are people I want to share this experience with, and people who I just don’t. And there are things I want to share, things I will share if I get dragged into it, and things I just won’t share. We never told a single person, not even our parents or siblings, that we were expecting a girl the first time. We lied through our teeth and said we didn’t find out at the ultrasound; it was just something we wanted private, for ourselves. Over the course of three pregnancies, I’ve deflected a million name inquiries. My husband always suggests we’re considering the names of the present company, when someone asks. It’s hilarious. They get all flattered, and then realize he’s naming off everyone in the room. Fortunately, we don’t have to lie when we say we don’t know what her name will be; we are lousy at picking girl names. It always goes right down to the wire before we settle on one.  But if we did know, we still wouldn't tell you.

So if I’ve avoided or deflected your inquiries about our new addition, I hope I’ve done so with grace. I’m not trying to be mean or shut you out. I’m just not interested in bludgeoning everyone I encounter with information they do not need to know; it makes me uncomfortable, and I’m trying to keep, in my own way, this tender miracle sacred. As curious as others might be, my little family of four is about to change in a million ways, big and small. This new life is a sacred gift that belongs exclusively to my husband, my daughters, and myself right night. We’re going to welcome her, name her, embrace and assimilate her into our family; and those things are going to be all ours. Then we’ll play the “Circle of Life” in our heads and lift her up from the top of Pride Rock for everyone else to admire. I’m sorry if I’ve disregarded your input on her name and I’m sure I’ll soon disregard many of your well-intended suggestions for getting her fed or back to sleep.

When that time comes, feel free to gossip among yourselves about the limitations of our parenting, naming, or family planning, it won’t bother me. Just don’t ask me what her name is going to be in the mean time.  I hate to be a liar.

"No," the angel replied. "You don't need to know my name. And if you did, you couldn't understand it." Judges 13:18

I’m probably not as sheltered as you think…

…but maybe it’s not such a bad thing that people assume I’m so naïve. There was certainly a time when they were absolutely correct. I remember hearing what sex was from a fellow student in sixth grade. She suggested that the district could forgo hiring a new sex-ed instructor, because it didn’t require a whole semester. With a quick hand gesture she illustrated the act, and I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. As my mind raced in horror and curiosity, I tried to keep my face expressionless and casual. I didn’t want anyone to know I hadn’t known.

What always gave me away was my blush. Two things I struggle to control: my bladder and my blush. Feeling that heat creep up my cheeks from my neck makes me feel so self conscious I could cry. And that only makes me turn a deeper shade! Believe it or not, although I don’t know that I’ll ever feel secure during a hearty laugh, I did actually enjoy a season of total facial neutrality. In many ways, it was wonderful.

Taking custody of my 14 year old sister for a month after high school graduation, we looked out for each other in the familiar territory of our home town just fine. However, as soon as we started the cross-country drive to rejoin the rest of the family in Wyoming, the unfamiliar culture of rest stops and campgrounds was seriously intimidating. We realized we drew fewer uncomfortable leers from our fellow travelers, if we avoided bathing and invoked Detroit as our place of origination, instead of Belleville. By the time we got to our destination, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, I was getting into this “tough act.”

It came in handy. Working at the lodge, I was surrounded by all sorts of colorful characters, who were ready to pounce on any weakness or naiveté. It turns out that many people who choose to live an hour away from the nearest post office have something they’re hiding, or something they’re running from, and it’s a small, intense community. Crass jokes, bizarre behavior, methamphetamine abuse…and complete disregard for the division between youth and adult, ruled my relationships that summer. As much about adventure as survival for me, I soaked up the experience, learned all the nasty jokes, polished my banter, and lost my blush. Thank God, “New Student Days” started and I rushed off to start classes before I found myself alone in a trailer with an older man, or giving Crank a try. I definitely had enough Blackberry Brandy, often found abandoned in the break room by a drunken co-worker, to get my college experience off to a start.

It came in handy, my freshman year, that my blush was gone. You would not believe the things I could hear and say that year, and with a demeanor so casual you’d have to look at me twice to confirm that I was actually the one who had said it. It was fun to shock the girls and intimidate the guys. I had taken so much crap in my life for being shy, smart, and sweet, it felt good to finally take control and not have to be the one to back down every time. I felt respected, but was probably a bit of a tease. It was probably also a good thing that I could handle my liquor better than the other girls.

You can guess, however – it didn’t last. I was smart enough to spend the next summer back in Belleville with my old friends – and very little brandy. When I got back to school my sophomore year, I forged deeper friendships and my old identity resurfaced. Maybe a little edgier than before, I was pretty much back to being known as sweet and nice. Then a crisis of faith sent me foraging in the New Testament Letters of Paul, and before I knew it – I was blushing again, too. I was a little annoyed, but I realized right away that it signaled something right in me, not something wrong.

Blushing is so inconvenient. It’s like an open invitation to everyone in the room to read your mind. I hate it when I blush. We’re taking the youth group through a Bible Study this month about building healthy relationships, and, of course, we have to cover the intimate stuff, too. It’d be so much easier to get through the tricky stuff, if the kids didn’t see me struggle for words and turn beet red.

But what can I say? I’ve lived without my blush; and I like me better with it. Being able to spot Meth users has come in handy sometimes, though, so it wasn’t all a loss.

Keep your eyes on the LORD! You will shine like the sun and never blush with shame. Psalm 34:5

A training bra made me cry.

Hopefully it is just a hormone thing, but I felt the tell-tale itchiness around my eyes this morning at Walmart. It took me by surprise and was, well, embarrassing. Fortunately, no one actually saw me on the verge of tears in front of the girls’ training bras, but it happened, and I’m going to get it all off my chest.

You’re probably thinking that this all goes back to being sentimental about my daughters growing up – which, in all honesty, I am – but that was not the reason for this morning’s weak moment. This has been building up since my first venture into the girls’ section, when my “110th percentile for height and weight” toddler needed to start wearing 4/5’s at not quite three years old. Up until then, I’d noticed that there were platform go-go boots and camouflaged mini-skirts in the baby section, but was able to ignore them. There were still plenty of jumpers and Mary Jane’s to choose from. When I had to move out of the toddler section prematurely, is when I starting feeling strong discomfort with the fashion trends for young girls. I had to navigate aisles of low-slung jeans, and slim-fit t-shirts with sassy sayings; it was very discouraging to shop there for a three year old. I could have dressed my preschooler for a night out at the dance club as easily as for a day at the park.

I’ve read that marketers found decades ago that the cheapest way to add new buyers was to employ a technique called “compression.” Whatever you have successfully marketed to a particular age demographic, you then market to the next youngest age. They are usually primed to desire these styles and items, because they’ve been seeing them in use and associate them with the next stage of maturity. First they started marketing college stuff to high school girls, then once that was maxed out, they kept moving down. I think platform shoes on children who are just learning to walk pretty much illustrates how far beyond reason compression has pushed us.

I’ve tried to set a fashion standard for our family where modesty does not require fashion blindness, but little girls must look like little girls. Still, my daughters can both recite my typical response to their requests for high heels or mature clothing styles, especially when they try to invoke their friends’ fashion choices to support their cause. “[Insert friend’s name] is not my daughter, she can wear what her mom says is OK. You are my daughter, so you can wear what I say is OK.” I’ve been able to live with that, and overall, I think the girls have been comfortable living with that, too.

This morning, my “I can dress my children appropriately without judging other moms” mantra came crashing down, and it honestly smarts. As I walked past the training bras, one in particular caught my eye. It was so tiny. I think it was a 30A, or possibly a 28A. Put it this way, this bra might have fit a six year old. Now, especially the way weight and nutrition have hastened puberty in young girls, I don’t deny there might be a six year old out there that needs a training bra. But this bra, tiny as it was, had an underwire and a good ¼ inch of padding in the cup. This bra was not designed to help an awkwardly blooming little girl achieve modesty under her t-shirts. This bra was designed to make a very young girl look womanly.

My first thought was, “Fine, let some other mom buy this thing for her kid. My kids don’t need to be attracting that kind of attention – ever.” Then I thought about that other little girl. My girls are going to be in school with her. As the physical changes and self-criticism of adolescence set in, my girls are going to be comparing themselves to those little girls. The other kids are going to be comparing them to those little girls. What kind of a body ideal are our girls going to have by Sixth Grade, if they start wearing padded underwire bras in Second?

Kids are notoriously foolish. They won’t realize that it’s that girl's ridiculous undergarment that makes her look like a teenager or that my daughters’ shape is natural and real. Whether anyone says hurtful things or not, how can I shelter my girls from the warped perceptions that will inevitably arise from our cultural obsession with dressing little girls like miniature grown-ups? If I compromise my ideals, I contribute to the trend; if I uphold my ideals, my daughters may end up feeling awkward or inadequate next to their over-developed looking peers. There is no way to win; whether I buy padded underwire bras for my sweet, little girls, or not.

I thought adolescence was hard back when I went through it, but that was a cake walk. Raising these three girls to be confident and secure – able to show humility, yet feel certain of their beauty and value – feels like a bigger challenge this afternoon than it did when I woke up this morning. And it makes me want to cry a little.

Let's pray that our young sons will grow like strong plants and that our daughters will be as lovely as columns in the corner of a palace. Psalm 144:12

Attending a party shouldn’t cost you $25.

Some people think I’m a cheapskate or a freeloader. They may be right. And this post may severely inhibit my social engagements in the future, but I’m going to have the courage to weather your disapproval. I hate sales parties. Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, whatever it might be that you are pimping…if you want to get together and visit, let’s do it; if you want me to spend a minimum of $25 on something I don’t need, so you can rake in $150 worth of freebees, I’d rather not.  That's not a party, it's a fundraiser.

I developed my aversion when we were first married. We didn’t have the disposable income to drop 18 bucks on a lipstick or buy a $20 potato peeler, but I felt obligated, whenever someone invited me to a party, to try and come. And once I was there, it never felt like a choice. You eat a few bites of cheese dip, listen to the sales spiel, and then around comes the order form. If, like me, you have perused the entire catalog in search of any token item you might be able to afford, let alone find use for, you watch your fellow guests like a hawk, waiting to see if any of them passes on the forms without filling one out. Over and over again, they take the order form and make a purchase. It always came down to me. Either I was going to choke up the money and make a purchase, or I was going to be the only person in the room who failed the host. And there’s never anything in the catalog for less than $20.

On top of the overpriced junk I either brought into our home or had to find a recipient, for whom it would actually be a suitable gift, most such parties were followed by three more invitations to the same darn party. For the salespeople, it is a giant pyramid scheme. By the time you go to a few parties and overpay for an item at each one, you develop the strongest urge to victimize all your friends again, by hosting your own party. If you’ve had to pay $25 for a lousy carrot cake mix, you are at least going to throw out a bowl of your own Chex-Mix and see if you can scrounge up enough sales for some free moisturizer. I’ve been tempted…very very tempted…but I’ve never given in. I have never thrown a single one of these beastly parties. I don’t own any real Tupperware that wasn’t handed down by my mother-in-law after our wedding, and I will never hoist anyone to the Pink Cadillac sales level.

Life got busier and I eventually had a conflict that prevented my attendance at one of these shindigs. It felt so good to say no, to get off the hook and spend my next $25 on something I actually wanted. I said no more and more often. Occasionally, someone does invite me to one where the goods actually seem interesting enough to risk attending, but my favorite invitation is the one that includes, “I’m going to have some snacks and wine, and I really just wanted an excuse to have some friends over, so come say Hi, even if you don’t want to buy anything.”

I go one step further when I invite people to my house. The invitation usually reads something like, “We’ll have snacks and wine. Let’s get together.” No strings attached.

They invited me four times, but each time I refused to go. Nehemiah 6:4

I don’t make Resolutions.

My husband has mastered small talk. He can strike up a conversation and hold his own, no matter how awkward the circumstances. To his usual repertoire of “Have you seen any good movies lately?” he adds a January Special, “Did you make any New Year’s Resolutions?” Almost everyone he asks seems to have some sort of answer. And they generally coincide with the typical Top 10 – plus a more interesting offering here and there. New Year’s Resolutions seem nearly universal.

Except for me. He always tries to pin me down to one, but I’ve never seen much use in making an official New Year’s Resolution. It seems like declaring a particular NYR is almost a surefire method to doom your self-improvement efforts. It’s more useful to declare on January 1st, “This year, I’m going to take up smoking, eat more bacon, and be 5 minutes late to every scheduled appointment on my calendar.”

I am, however, a huge fan of self-improvement. Resolutions just create pressure I don’t need. I think I make my most productive efforts when a particular change inspires my resolve, rather than just sounding good when spoken in a single sentence. The best thing about these changes is that they don’t require a particular day on the calendar to start. Sometime last January, perhaps as late as the third week, I realized that my writing muscle was getting flabby. The concept of this blog began to float around in my head and before I knew it, I was committing myself to a weekly writing ritual, which I have now faithfully kept for nearly a year. I have yet to run a load of laundry every week with that kind of consistency, and, as you know, my elliptical doesn’t get the workout it should, but my personal resolve kicked in and here we are.

Someday I hope to find the discipline to eat right, exercise daily, clean the floors every week, and get out of bed an hour sooner. But I don’t dare declare any of those as a New Year’s Resolution; that would just be surrender. For now, I’m just waiting to see what inspires my deeper resolve in 2011. Hopefully, before too much longer, it’s will be getting a crib set up and finding a car seat. But we’ve got three months…it’ll happen…

But Daniel resolved not to defile himself with the royal food and wine. Daniel 1:8a

I’m a re-gifter, but I still don’t want your junk.

As the holidays are approaching, my husband and I are once again confronted with the challenge of gift-giving. It starts early, when you have out of town family to consider. It is always amusing to plan gifts with my husband; I have some values about gift giving that have been both refreshing and challenging to him through the years, because they differ so significantly from his family of origin. I remember when we were dating how he saw a Star Wars cap he liked and made the purchase, then dropped it off at his parents for them to give him for Christmas. They nonchalantly pulled the cash out and made the trade. I almost fell on the floor.

In my family, the importance of surprise in gift giving far outweighed the importance of the gift’s perfection or actual monetary value. There was almost no point in giving my parents a gift list, because we never got something we actually asked for. Instead we got crazy stuff that sometimes confused, but always entertained. Most of it was socks and chapstick, but at the end of the morning we’d end up seated back-to-back to tear the paper open on three sets of matching roller skates, or a complete family set of lazar-tag equipment. Sometimes it was a perfect match, sometimes it wasn’t, but it taught me a valuable lesson about gifts that has served me well: don’t expect anything.

In my opinion, the minute you start thinking you’re entitled to something you really want or need, something that has a specific use or value to you, gift giving becomes a perfunctory exchange of commodities. If you need a particular perfume, go buy what you like. If you want a gift from me, expect something that has a little flavor of me, and a little flavor of you. Something that reflects the joy I feel in having a relationship with you.

That, to me, is the essence of gift giving. It honors the relationship. The gifts we give are derived from those first gifts, brought to Jesus by the Magi. Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh: gifts no infant would enjoy. But they were meant to demonstrate the meaning of his Advent; that divinity had come to Earth to reach out to humanity in sacrifice. It honored the new relationship God was forming with us.

So, I am not ashamed to say that I regift. I’m not crazy or independently wealthy. If I get something lovely, that I’m just not in love with (especially if it is a commodity offered to me out of obligation, instead of a reflection of relationship), and I know of someone for whom it might just be a match, I will more than gladly turn it out in lavish new paper and bow for someone else to enjoy. But when I get stuck with one-off kitchen towels with a mushroom motif, I draw the line and put them in the rag bin.

I try to pay attention to budget, but not cost, in gift giving. What I try to pay the most attention to, though, is my friends and loved ones, so I won’t be at a loss when the time comes to give them something. I might give the occasional lame duck (not sure my sister-in-law was as excited about the first season of Big Love as we were), but now and then I really hit the nail on the head – and isn’t that fun for both of us? Best of all, no one ever has to wonder whether I just pulled something off the shelf and passed it off on them. I’d sooner give you a gag gift of fake barf I think will make you laugh, as a set of diamond earrings that I don’t think you’ll really love. I’m out for one thing – to let you know you matter to me.  The real gift is my affection - some people accept it with joy, others would prefer a gift card.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17

I Lost Interest in the Chilean Miners on Day 2

Although I would have to have my head in a hole not to know that on Day 69, the last one was brought to the surface, the tunnel was capped, and the international community gave a rousing standing ovation to the Chilean rescue effort, none of this captured my fascination. Nice work, everybody, now back to our regular programming.

I tried to muster my compassion and at least read an article about the rescue. But I got bored and started to skim two paragraphs in, when they started giving a book-jacket type bio of each miner in the order they were rescued. For real? Are we picking out heroes and villains for the TV Movie already? Based on?? I don’t know these men. I don’t share language or culture with them. The only reason they suddenly mattered to most Americans was because of the cameras pointed at them. If I were a geologist or something, I might have taken interest in the details of drill bits and torque, in case, some day in the future, I myself was responsible to free others from a half mile below the surface. If I were a specialist in Latin American politics, I might have been captivated by the political implications of all the positive media attention on a regime no one cared about back in July. But for that matter, how much did we care about those 30 miners back in July, either?

Do we care enough to lobby for safer mining in Chile and the U.S. (where our own mining mishaps have recently been considered newsworthy, as well)? Do we care enough to cut back on our use of the non-renewable resources these man go into the ground to retrieve for us?

I’m not heartless. I’m glad those men didn’t die in the mine. But how many multiples of 30 have died or languished in the last two months, while no expense or effort was spared for these guys? How many innocent lives were lost to things that such a font of attention and money could have prevented? I don’t know for sure, but I have the feeling that it’s a cheap fix to spend our compassion and jubilation on 30 Chilean miners, when there are people in need of rescue all around us. We’ll celebrate with Chile today, but then we go back to ignoring the people around us everyday, who are neglected and trapped by their own plights.

Just in our youth group, there are such deep and compelling needs. Broken families, grave illness, and drug addiction are just three of the many troubles confronting these kids and their families. I could turn myself inside out, trying to reach them in their every need and, short of adopting half a dozen more teenagers into my family, there are some needs I can’t address. But I know that if that kind of need and pain makes its way into a small youth group on the edge of the city, there are so many, such deeper needs, right in our own neighborhoods. So rather than sit in front of the TV, dispensing hours of love and compassion on 30 Chilean strangers that NBC says I should care about, I didn’t. Sorry, but I said a prayer and moved on. I was needed elsewhere and, frankly, I think you are, too.

When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Matthew 9:36-37

We Blew Off Meet-the-Teacher

I thought Meet-the-Teacher was to accommodate weary children who needed the reassurance of seeing their desk and locker ahead of time, in order to go to school the first day without a humiliating attack of separation anxiety in front of the other kids. Obviously, my blog wouldn't be much fun if I got things like that right, now would it?

Turns out Meet-the-Teacher is actually about parent volunteerism. Your child's teacher doesn't want to spend the first ten minutes of the first day of school helping the kids put their school supplies away. Instead, they want you to give up two precious hours of your now-dwindling summer vacation to drag your kids into school and put the supplies away for them. It is not enough that you have to drop $50 every August on glue sticks and markers that they are just going to send back home to you next spring, feeding a marker drawer that most seriously does not need one more marker in it. No, you also need to deliver those supplies and place them around the classroom in the designated locations, as described on the prepared sheet you are presented with at the door (often your only actual interaction with the teacher at Meet-the-Teacher).

Because of my serious misunderstanding about the purpose of this event, I thought little of it when we spent our Monday night doing our usual things, and didn't realize until Tuesday afternoon that we'd missed it. My kids did not seem upset, and were comfortable with our assurance that we would get there early for the first day.

When we arrived at school well ahead of time on Wednesday, we were met at the door with a stern admonishment from the office staff that when I ordered our pre-packaged supplies from the PTO, I had put down the wrong grade for my older daughter. Fortunately, my daughter's scholastic career was salvaged by a kid in the proper grade who had moved out of town, so we could switch the boxes. No mention of a refund for the two bucks I overpaid by ordering wrong.  I guess I could just take it out of the money we'll bring in selling wrapping paper next month.

Oh, hush, they're not nervous, they just didn't like the sun in their eyes.

When we arrived in the classrooms, we were chided that our two were the only children out of the whole school who had failed to come to Meet-the-Teacher and then handed our to-do list. We set to work righting our wrong, assembling their supply boxes, and finding the glue stick bin. We tried to be unobtrusive, working quickly and quietly so the teacher could finish her prep without having to actually meet us.

My husband was quite chagrined by the whole experience. He worries about the pressure our kids must be under, going to a school that takes itself so seriously. I used to feel that way too, back when I cared what the teachers thought of us. I learned that they get to know us through our kids. And we have two sweet, smart, attentive kids, who follow the rules and are good leaders in their classes. They may think we're schlumps today, but by conference time, they will be eating out of our hands.

I won't teach my kids to blow off the school's expectations with complete disregard, but I will try to give them enough self-assurance not to obey just anyone who claims authority over them, or stress out, feeling like everything they do is always wrong, because there's someone with a wagging finger around every corner. We aren't going to raise lemmings just to make things convenient for their teachers.

And, although it was an accident this year, I might just skip Meet-the-Teacher next year. I'd rather give up an extra half hour the first day of school than battle the crowds for two hours on a nice summer night. Eventually the teachers will start warning each other ahead of time about us, and they won't seem so surprised.

Don't you know that you are slaves of anyone you obey? You can be slaves of sin and die, or you can be obedient slaves of God and be acceptable to him. Romans 6:16

I Don't Do My Best

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of my energy attempting to do everything to the best of my ability. And that is what I tell my own children: do your best. Your best is always good enough. So I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite, in that, I slack. Not only do I slack, but lately, I've been coaching others in the art of slacking. It is a brilliant antidote to high blood pressure.

It started in college. Every semester, I'd take the B-path in the class that demanded the most. By underachieving in that class, it would free up hours of study each week, leaving me ample free time to hit the parties, join a club, or lay around my dorm room watching Quantum Leap. Don't tell my kids this, but straight A's are overrated. If that's all you get out of college, you miss out.

If I devoted myself to it, I'm sure I could have a lovely, immaculate home that would be the envy of all my friends. But I don't. Instead I figure that as long as you're drinking my wine, and playing my RockBand, you aren't going to complain about the pile of old mail on the kitchen counter or the toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror. So far, most guests are willing to return, and good riddance to the ones that weren't. I hope I'm contributing to my friends' housekeeping satisfaction; when they get back to their dust and cobweb-free homes, they probably feel like Martha Stewart.

I don't subscribe to the do-more, be-more, have-more lifestyle that Oprah and Self offer. I think fun, love, and contentment dwell in cutting loose those pressures and savoring "enough." I don't need to win Mother of the Year, gain public recognition in my profession; I don't need to be the prettiest, smartest, or even the nicest. I accomplished enough of that crap before the age of 18 to know it doesn't matter in the long run, or make you a better person. Now I prefer the lower-stress strategy of "do enough, well enough, to be able to look at yourself in the mirror at the end of the day." As long as my husband, my kids, and my Lord are content with me, I am, too.

Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun .Ecclesiastes 2:11