I don’t know what Women’s Lib even looks like.

When I was a kid, I thought the Bunkers were my grandparents. Literally. During my early childhood, on my parents’ TV each week, they appeared to be identical to my grandma and grandpa; so much so, I remember it being confusing. On visits to their house, my grandpa could be found ruling from his throne in the living room, while Grandma was always in the kitchen, making him dinner. He’d interrupt her meal preparations periodically to have her come change the channel for him, and she’d drop whatever she was doing and come flip the dial. I loved my grandparents, but I knew from a young age that I was not going to have that kind of marriage. Grandma never even got a driver’s license; she was dependent on Grandpa to take her wherever she needed to go. When I pictured my someday life, a doting, enslaved wife was the last thing I wanted to be.


 I was blessed that as I grew up, I had the chance to know Grandma better. I eventually realized that my first impression of her could not have been more wrong. The woman I first thought of disparagingly as her family’s housekeeper and cook became one of my greatest role models. My same grandma, who refused to get a driver’s license, had once hotwired a Model T with a hairpin and took her aunt on an afternoon road trip, just to spite her cranky uncle. Grandma, who served and doted on grandpa, had once assisted in his appendectomy. She likes to say she “already knew him inside out” before they dated.

Part of why Grandma had seemed so old-fashioned to me was because she was far older than my other grandparents. She was nearly an old maid, by the time she married Grandpa – thirty. She once explained to me her reason for marrying so late, “it was not for lack of opportunity,” she clarified. There was a war going on, and she wasn’t going to marry someone, just to have him go off and die in battle. Despite the pressure to conform, Grandma stood her ground. Sure enough, she married Grandpa after a short three months of courtship – once the war was over.

I also realized that if Grandma hadn’t wanted to change the channel, the TV would not have survived a day in the house. Tenacity is one of Grandma’s essential characteristics. Having waited so long to get married, becoming a mother wasn’t easily either. Her first child was a micro-preemie, born in an age when micro-preemies were miscarriages. Grandpa once described how my aunt could fit in the palm of his hand when she was born. Grandma never got big enough to wear maternity clothes. But her nurse-friends at the hospital all chipped in to get Grandma an incubator and they sent the baby home for Grandma to watch over. She pumped her milk and coddled that little baby – I believe she willed her daughter to survive. And if Grandma makes up her mind, only God can come between her and what she wants. My aunt grew up without any developmental impairments.



When the doctor delivered the news that Grandma’s second child had been born with a cleft palate, she matter-of-factly retorted that she was just going to have to love him double. Her nurse-friends came through again, with softer nipples from bottles that had already been broken in by other babies. She filled her baby’s cleft with those soft nipples, so he could suck and get the nourishment. He was another baby willed by my grandma to survival.



She kept her promise, too.  She's spent the rest of her life, loving my dad double.  And most people never guess the serious birth defect he overcame.

My grandparents, off on an adventure
 together in their younger days.

Grandma didn't become the first female astronaut or build a personal empire, but she made a way for herself, by herself when necessary.  She's been on her own again, since Grandpa died over 20 years ago.  Serving her family was a calling for her; one she pursued with all the energy and conviction she had.  She knew who she was and what she wanted and nothing would stand in her way.  I've learned from her what a gift it is to have a loving, committed marriage, and to bear and raise healthy kids - and that, as long as you have a choice, choosing to serve others is noble, not demeaning.

Grandma's 95th birthday is next month, but it looks like she'll celebrate that one with Grandpa and Jesus.  That is, of course, unless she makes up her mind not to go.

After Jesus sat down and told the twelve disciples to gather around him, he said, "If you want the place of honor, you must become a slave and serve others!" Mark 9:35

I loved my job at McDonald’s

It offered free uniforms, on-the-job training, and a complimentary pop whenever I wandered in – beat that! They said in my first training session, I guess to help us keep our dignity, that 25% of the adult population had worked for McDonald’s at some point in their lives. Believe it or not, I could see why. Some days I’d like to go back.

During my year and a half at Mickey D’s, when I was outside the restaurant, I was an overachieving high school junior. My days were packed from dawn to dusk with Student Council, S.A.D.D., National Honor Society, Tennis, choir, College Prep classes, and even a social life; yes, it lasted only one year, but I had one in 11th grade. Going to McDonald’s for a three hour shift was better stress relief than stopping for yoga, because it paid. It was wonderful to have a few hours to myself, where I could put on the cruise control and be occupied with busywork.

Unlike outside life, McDonald’s provided clear, streamlined, efficiency. There were simple routines to follow for collecting the food items, making change, even stocking ketchup. There was nothing to second guess, no extra points for creativity. Everything I cooked had a beeper that alerted me when it had reached perfection and no one expected more of me than 30 seconds of my undivided attention to punch in their order accurately. Just by offering a smile or a friendly, clear tone of voice over the drive thru speaker, my shift would be cluttered with compliments from pleased customers.

Most of my life since McDonald’s has required a lot more of me. I have to interact with people who have ambiguous motivations. I have to juggle my personal life with ministry, which can often create very blurred lines. From establishing appropriate clothing each morning based on my kids’ hot or cold tolerances and the forecast, to answering the 10pm call from a nervous grandmother who needs reassurance that her grandchild will enjoy children’s church, life keeps me on my toes. Very rarely do I actually know what someone wants from me, can I give them exactly what they want, or will they commend me for just being kind to them during the exchange. Nor am I always as kind as I was in the drive-thru.

Let’s face it, McDonald’s is a wonderland that does not exist in real life. If only it didn’t make you fat.

We don't want anyone to find fault with our work, and so we try hard not to cause problems. 2 Corinthians 6:3

I am hardheaded

The deck needed to be freshened up. We had a day and a half without rain in the forecast, but we were pretty sure we could get it done in one night. After all, the rails and spindles were still good to go, it just needed freshened up. And it was incredibly beautiful out, so I was really looking forward to working outside after spending so much time indoors with the baby.

My husband agreed to hit the hardware store on the way home from work and pick up some stain. He hates making those kind of choices, so I imagined him trapped in the stain aisle at Menard’s, unable to commit to either tan or brown. I wanted to relieve the pressure, so I encouraged him, “just grab whatever, hun, you can’t make a mistake. We’ll use whatever color you pick.”

Those words came back to haunt us both. The baby had just eaten; we were in our paint clothes; we had an hour before dinner. It was time to hit this job. And the stain color is: REDWOOD. You could have pushed me over with a feather. “Red, hun? You want to stain the deck red? Are we living in a doublewide?” But those words were only in my head, as I stifled my reaction. I am, above all else, a woman of my word. I promised he couldn’t mess it up, so I kept my tone of voice positive as I suggested, “With this color, we’re going to need to hit all the spindles and get out the ladder for the outside of the rails.” We him-hawed for only a moment before setting about the task.

I realized five minutes into the job that I was too casual when I mentioned the extra work it was going to be. As he rolled out the dark red onto the deck boards, it gave him time to reflect. It hit him how awful the deck was going to look, if we didn’t get that glorious red onto every nook and cranny. He began to rant and complain about the color choice, “we’re going to have to stain all the rails and spindles. We’re going to be out here for two days, if we’re going to do this right; what possessed us to be so ambitious in our color choice?” It was like he read the rant right out of my head, but now it was our color choice.

Instead of engaging my husband in an intelligent conversation about what color we really wanted to stain the deck, I had charged forwarded, bullheaded, refusing to acknowledge that I was wrong to say I’d joyfully paint any color he chose. He had made his choice with incomplete information. He didn’t grow up in a trailer park, so he had no inhibitions about redwood; he’d trusted the color sample on the outside of the can, which looked more brown than red. While I’d imagined the long delay caused by a choice between tan or brown, I had not actually said out loud that I was assuming we would be using an earth tone. My reticence made me complicit. I was on the hook, as much as he was.

It was not the enjoyable evening I had hoped for, but we did get the deck stained. We even avoided the ugly argument that could easily have developed from our mutual dissatisfaction with the color choice. I was as determined to stay positive about the job, as I had been about not disparaging the color. Once the whole thing was done, we went inside and I played Sammy Kershaw’s Queen Of My Double Wide Trailer for him. He’d never heard it before. We had a good laugh about our "classy" deck. And, for the record, it actually does look really good.

A bear robbed of her cubs is far less dangerous than a stubborn fool. Proverbs 17:12

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

My knees are against me

My husband and I have started feeling our age in the last couple of years. When we got a church softball league going last summer, and found ourselves playing teams of twenty-somethings, it was sad how much more nimble they were, and how much more accident prone we were. They celebrated afterward with cold beer in the parking lot. We had to buy beers from the snack bar; the ice from our coolers was for medicinal needs. My brother-in-law is a physical therapist and about ten years younger than us. We were so grateful he joined the team; he handled both the triage and Center Field.

In the latest chapter of my failed athleticism, my husband suggested to me this morning that I should bail on a short, 1 mile, Fun Run I signed up to do next weekend. It’s the ultimate insult to consider myself inadequate to complete 1 stinking mile. My six year old could probably run a mile – in high heels and a party dress.

The doctor cleared me for exercise last week, and, while I have managed to drop the baby-weight, the scale really doesn’t tell the whole story; there is plenty of soft on me. I thought, perhaps, this should be my summer to really pursue a higher degree of fitness. I printed out a 22 week workout plan that is supposed to take you from couch potato to Sprint Tri-athlete. We decided that the swimming part was going to be too complicated for now, childcare wise, but my husband agreed to join me in the biking and running. I even went and purchased shoes that are actually designed for running; they're so uncool looking, I wouldn’t wear them to Walmart. Well, OK, maybe Walmart, but not Target.

We stepped up the workouts last night, and started to jog 2/3 of the time, and walk the other 1/3. I knew it was doing me good, when I started having to push myself to get through the last couple intervals. I kept putting one foot in front of the other and thought, “Oh, yeah, I can do this thing!” Celebrate with me – my half mile split was under ten minutes! I can hear the roar of your chuckles already, but if I can finish the run in less than half an hour next weekend, I get a medal!  And I won’t get run over by the serious runners when they start their race. By the way, if 1 mile is a “fun” run, why would you run further? Is a 2 mile run a “funner” run? A marathon must be hilarious.

I woke up this morning with a pain in my right knee. I looked it up online and have self-diagnose Iliotibial Band Syndrome. It says the first recourse to heal it, is to rest your knee. What? I decide to get out and exercise, and the moment I start feeling some sense of accomplishment, my knee decides it needs rest? This hardly seems fair. Even worse, my husband took my knee’s side in the matter. I feel so betrayed and old.

Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way. Isaiah 35:3

Daytime TV may suck out my brains

I’m a TV snob. While we do normally watch a vast array of programs, even that scandalous reality television is on our usual diet of boob-tube consumption, we generally have the television on for just a few limited hours a day. The kids watch Electric Company once their homework is done, and my husband and I take in some Prime Time after dinner. This, of course, is “High” television, right?

But boob-tube is actually pretty descriptive of my viewing habits lately, and I’ve found myself able to tolerate at least one of the shows that are on, at nearly every hour of the day and night. I now know that the SNL skit about Kathy Lee and Hoda is not exaggerated; they really do drink alcohol and act giddy. I know that you can skip the whole Dr Oz show, because he recaps his findings at the end of the program; just flip over for the last two minutes. I know that Kate and Will are scheduled to kiss at 8:25 EST this Friday morning; can’t miss that. And I know that Julie Chen and Leah Remini are uncomfortable bathing with their kids or kissing them on the lips; it’s hard to imagine what life would have been like without this knowledge. Sometimes I’m pretty sure I can feel my IQ dropping while I consume yet another celebrity interview or expert opinion on whether the toilet roll should be installed to dispense over or under.

My first strategy to preserve my brain function was to surf for cooking segments. At least I could gain some useful knowledge that would help me feed my family better or more interesting meals. So far, however, I have not cooked a single one of Rachael Ray’s “What’s for Dinner Tonight.” But I have attempted and consumed Buddy Valastro’s funnel cakes. Yep, imagine that, deep fried pancake batter tastes great! Not only did we make them, but while on a diaper and groceries run, I purchased better equipment to improve our funnel cakes next time. So, while we are enjoying the delicious “fruits” of my cooking segment viewing, I wouldn’t suggest that it has improved our family’s standard of living.

My next strategy was to opt out and read during the baby's mealtime. I quickly found out that reading What to Expect the First Year while nursing is like juggling fine china and a brick, so I switched to this month’s This Old House magazine. The magazine was easier to juggle, but only lasted a day. So now I’m heading back to daytime until next month’s arrives.

As long as we get through the first three months without getting sucked into any soap operas, my dignity will remain intact. Let’s all agree to blame my declining vocabulary on sleep deprivation, instead of The View. Agreed? The real irony – I’ve read that breastfeeding is associated with higher IQ in the baby. Apparently she’s gaining the brain cells I’m losing with this endeavor. That makes it all worth it.

Our people should learn to spend their time doing something useful and worthwhile. Titus 3:14

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

I shouldn’t have been so polite

I knew going into it that caring for a newborn again was going to test the very limits of my endurance. Anyone who says they get “baby fever” and crave having a newborn in the house, must never have breastfed. The first two weeks nursing a newborn are the toughest challenge of parenting, in my opinion. For those who have not personally enjoyed the experience, imagine getting a hickie from a half-inch vacuum nozzle, on the most sensitive part of your body, twice every three hours. And if that weren’t enough, tolerate that discomfort and continue to nurture your other family members on 4-6 hours of sleep a night, obtained in 1 ½ hour increments. I don’t mean to say that bottle fed infants are a walk in the park – I have no idea what creative means bottle fed infants use to test your adoration. That, of course, is key; I’m already so smitten with this helpless little creature that I couldn’t imagine offering her any less than my best. Even if it kills me. And I know we’re going to make a great team by the end of this early part, able to head out on a whim; her food supply secure in my bosom, without a bagful of bottles, cold packs, formula, and purified water.

If only she were always this peaceful!



 None of the newborn stuff has been much of a surprise, our little golden girl is actually a much easier baby so far than either of her big sisters were. She caught on to nursing quicker, she often sleeps between nighttime feedings, and she never broke a capillary in my breast and burped up a flood of red milk and blood clots (my middle daughter was a rather voracious nurser). What has been a real surprise, however, is how different I am as a 35 year old new mom, than I was as a 25 year old new mom.

Take, for instance, hospital visits. When my first daughter was born, we had visitors who came the following afternoon and, despite my head-bobs and lack of color, stayed 2 ½ hours. In my fear of being impolite, I didn’t take back my baby, demand that they leave, or hint about my exhaustion and her need to nurse. Many similar scenes were repeated in our living room, once we got home. In contrast, with this baby, when my husband told me visitors had just called and were on their way, I shrugged my shoulders, continued to get my clothes together, and said, “if they get here while I’m in the shower, they’ll have to wait until I’m done.” I’ve told people “no” who wanted to drop in; I’ve taken my baby back and reminded visitors how little sleep I had; I’ve turned the phone off and ignored a ringing doorbell. This time around, I’ve also developed a much higher tolerance for letting outsiders see a messy house when I do welcome them in.

On the upside, although I may have been a little impolite, there aren’t nearly as many dirty clothes and dishes for others to see. The payoff to putting up stronger boundaries has been better sleep, a baby who found her schedule quicker, and having some energy leftover to make meals, wash clothes, and keep my older kids from feeling neglected. A newborn is a fulltime job, I spend over 8 hours a day, just feeding her, let alone diaper changing and soothing cries. My husband is a willing helper in the evening, but we don’t have a whole lot extra to offer, even for our most welcome and beloved friends.

It is an honor that so many people want to welcome and love my daughter; I’ve been able to enjoy their affection so much more, by having it channeled into portions small enough to accommodate. I only wish I had known ten years ago! My advice to young moms – do what you have to do and send visitors away after 15-20 minutes. That is, of course, if they are there to ogle the baby. If they’re washing your dishes, they are welcome to stick around until they’re done.

And when you welcome one of these children because of me, you welcome me. Matthew 18:5

Roaches kinda’ scare me.

Nothing inspires my evolutionary inferiority complex more than cockroaches. They’ve got survival perfected. They can live anywhere, and survive anything. I would be in complete awe of their perfection if they didn’t make me feel queasy, just thinking about them. To some degree, roaches are what stand between me and residence in a warm weather climate.

There are so many things about cockroaches that revolt me. The greatest, by far, being their intellect. I’m disgusted by June Bugs and Water Beetles, too, but they don’t run for cover when you enter the room or flip on the light. That high speed dart for safety that roaches make, makes me feel violated. And have you ever tried to step on one? Even if you’re reflexes are actually quick enough to make a hit, it is pointless, unless you add an ankle twist. Their hardy exoskeletons flatten down thinner than paper and, while the ankle twist ensures their loss of life, it also means cleaning up roach guts. And the trickery! If you don’t add the ankle twist to your roach stomp, all you accomplish is squishing out a pile of eggs onto the floor, so that you can enjoy the company of more roaches later! Revolting!!

I’ve been fortunate in that I have not had to share my residence with roaches for decades now, but I’ll never forget the terror, as a young girl in Southern California, of having a roach slowly creep up on me from across the bathroom, as I was helplessly confined on the throne. Or the enormous size of the roaches that scurried in every direction when anything banged into the garbage cans by the back gate. I’m quite confident that human survival is not based on our superiority to roaches, but is because the roaches held an international convention and decided to let us live. After all the more we propagate, the simpler their food collection goes.

I was reminded, a couple summers ago, of how much I despise roaches and what a blessing it is to live in a home without pests, during Youth Service Week. We were taking the church’s teens out into the community for a week of service projects. One of the days, we prepared an apartment for newly arriving refugees. You’re probably already feeling ill, but try to be brave as I describe this apartment.

We came into the apartment in the full light of midday, but a few roaches scurried for cover out of every room we entered. As the youth set to work cleaning the kitchen cupboards and stocking them with pots and pans, the other leaders and I noticed that the wall sockets and light fixtures were producing an overflow of baby roaches that ran across the walls and ceiling every couple minutes. In four years of living in the southwest, I never once saw a baby roach. You normally wouldn’t – they would be protected in a nest away from humans. We concluded that the walls of this apartment were so teeming with roaches that even the babies were coming out into plain sight in the middle of afternoon brightness.

We were amazed at the bravado of the youth. Every time they bumped the refrigerator, another bug would run out and then try to run back. They were pouncing on them,quickly learning to add the ankle twist and taking delight in the game of roach stomping. They apparently had such limited experience with roaches, they didn’t know the disease-spreading un-cleanliness the bugs' presence indicated. I wanted, every minute of that afternoon, to run screaming from the apartment, burn my clothes before entering my house, and scrub down in a boiling hot shower. Instead, I hung in there with the kids and kept cleaning. I imagined the cockroach disco party that was going to greet these new refugees that night. I wondered at the circumstances of a refugee camp, that this crummy, roach infested apartment could seem like a luxury, as the refugee service workers assured us it would. I said silent prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude for my own, pest-free house.

I have the privilege of being fearful of and disgusted by pests like roaches. I have the privilege of single family housing, where my pest prevention is not dependent on 500 or so other people, who, out of limited means and low personal functioning, share and attract pests into my slum.

I’m horrified by cockroaches, mice, and bedbugs, in part, because I can be. I’m humbled that it could be called an act of service to prepare an apartment for someone, in a building where I would not be willing to spend a single night - and barely made it through an afternoon.

Swarming insects are unclean, so don't eat them. Deuteronomy 14:19

Two Truths and a Lie II

The lie was (b).  I actually have never gotten a speeding ticket, let alone two on one trip.  However, I cannot say that I never deserved one; I've had my share of lead-foot.  Anymore, though, it is a simple math exercise for me to acknowledge that if I'm late, speeding is not going to save me.  Even on a three hour trip, it's only a fifteen minute difference whether I drive 70 mph or 80 mph, but it could be a hundred dollar difference if I get a ticket.  Not worth it.

(a) On a visit from college, my mom had recently purchased a "Jars of Clay" CD that I listened to quite a bit while I was there.  It was in my stuff when I was packing up, and when I discovered it, I didn't bother to dig it out and return it, rationalizing that since she hadn't asked for it during the visit, my mom wouldn't notice it gone, anyway.  My rationale was blown a couple weeks later when she brought it up during a phone call.  In a moment of uncharacteristic grace, however, she turned my theft into a gift, telling me I could keep the CD.

(c) Winning the town's festival queen title after high school graduation gave me a valuable feeling of connection to my hometown during my otherwise homeless first year of college. The organizers were non-communicative while I was away, even though I had offered my contact information. I enjoyed reading up on the local news through the newspaper subscription I'd won from them, though, and the year went by. When school got out and I was able to return, I found out I'd been entirely written out from ever having even won the title. I contacted them, but they didn't want to deal with me, so I showed up in my crown and sash when the new queen was to be crowned.  I was threatened with ejection if I caused a scene, but I never had any intention of doing more than just show up. In retrospect, that was certainly enough.

Two Truths and a Lie

So, in honor of April Fool’s Day, I thought about confessing something horrible and then saying April Fool’s at the end. But then I thought that would be too obvious. So I decided we should play the age old party game, “Two Truths and a Lie.” It will be up to you to decide when I’m fooling and when I’m for real.

a) I stole a Christian CD. Oh, the irony. I was too broke to afford a new CD and the owner, I rationalized, didn't really appreciate how cool the music was. These are the lies we tell ourselves to justify our actions when we know we're wrong.

You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God. James 4:2

b) I got two speeding tickets on the same trip. An expensive week of seminary. I knew how long it took to drive each way to Kansas City, and I knew what time my classes started, but somehow I didn't apply that math and found myself trying to make up time on the way.  It cost me time and treasure.

If you plan and work hard, you will have plenty; if you get in a hurry, you will end up poor. Proverbs 21:5

c) I crashed a beauty contest, dressed in a formal, and wearing a crown and sash. It was a hotheaded and vengeful action.  The organizers had insulted me and I felt otherwise powerless to defend myself, so I took the wrong action and made myself the joke.

Be beautiful in your heart by being gentle and quiet. This kind of beauty will last, and God considers it very special. 1 Peter 3:4

Don't be a spoil sport if you already know the answer. Just vote for which one you think is the lie and I will confess the real ones later this week.

God Said "No" to Us.

Heading into the week of Spring Break, it looked like our family was about to turn a huge corner. In very similar fashion to how things progressed with my older two, mild contractions started getting harder and closer together until we decided it was time to drop the kids off at Grandma and Grandpa’s and head in to the hospital. The girls were thrilled and my younger daughter bragged that she’d prayed all day that her baby sister was going to be born today. In a surprising twist, however, all the discomfort I was enduring was not actually accomplishing anything! We got sent home! We’ve put another uncomfortable week into this waiting game, complete with waking up many times a night to sweaty, apparently unproductive, contractions. Many Tylenol PM’s later, I wonder what’s going to be left of me if I don’t get some sleep before the real thing sets in!

Despite my complaints and discomforts, this week turned out to be one of those true blessings: the gift of our unanswered prayers was a tremendous week of togetherness with the two big girls. Instead of spending it on late night feedings, sore body parts, and all the readjustments of infant care, I got to spend a week lavishing my girls with time and attention. My husband managed to take a couple of the days off, as well, making for a couple true family holidays! Many times, I’ve lamented that since they started school, I don’t get nearly enough time with my girls. I’ve resented the cost of child care over breaks, not because I don’t value the people who care for my children when I can’t, but because I hate the thought of paying someone else to do what I would so much prefer to be doing myself.

This week was such a fantastic counter-experience. Not because we went crazy and spent a million dollars on entertainment and activities, because we didn’t; we didn't even end up going to the movies, which seemed like a sure thing at the start of the week. It was all the little moments that brought us so much joy. We went to the park 3 days in a row. My older girl mastered kite flying. My younger daughter woke up and sneaked into my bed for a morning snuggle, spending more than a half hour straight talking my ear off about her friends, her fears, and her imaginings. Both girls got to spend 2 hours swimming at the community pool with Daddy, perfecting their back floats and finding out how helpful goggles are for retrieving rings off the bottom. We did a $3 shopping spree at the Dollar Tree and have played with Silly Putty A LOT since. We went to the St. Patrick’s parade and caught beads. We ate a feast of hard shell tacos at Taco Bell on 65 cent taco day and gave the backyard playset a good workout. We’re still hoping to squeeze in another swim, and some home-manicures…maybe some baking.

All week long, the girls nagged and begged for their baby sister to arrive; and I certainly shared their impatience. But, as with so many things, God knows best. I got to enjoy my daughters in such a special way. I’ll treasure it forever. We’re so excited to welcome their new sister, but this was a perfect celebration of the family we’ve been so far. And I’m so grateful God said "no" last Saturday.  We'll take a "yes" now, whenever we can get it, though.

After the stone had been rolled aside, Jesus looked up toward heaven and prayed, "Father, I thank you for answering my prayer. John 11:41

I’m trying to give up the martyr-thing.

We saw a classic rerun of Raymond last night. It was the Christmas episode, where Ray uncovers Deborah’s martyr-complex by offering to watch the kids so she can go to a movie. She turns him down and he realizes that she can’t go to a movie, or she’ll have to quit telling people how she never gets to go to movies. Unfortunately, it’s one of the most hilarious scenes from the series, because it rings so true. It does to me, anyway. From what I see on Facebook statuses, I don’t think I’m the only one.

There is not a doubt in my mind that the entry of women into the workforce effectively doubled our load, possibly more than doubled it. Some of that is biological necessity. If my husband and I could gestate and lactate on a 50/50 basis, the last ten years of my life would have been substantially altered. I’d have gotten more sleep, that’s for sure! But I’d have missed out on some of the most amazing miracles reserved for my gender, as well. During those ten years, I’ve done my share of martyring. I often joked, while enjoying the blessing of having my infant daughters at work with me, that my husband should try it for just one day; he’d probably have had me quit my job that very night. Maybe so, maybe not, but giving up wine and sushi for 9 months, getting up in the middle of the night to nurse my babies, and scheduling staff meetings during nap time is, to a large degree, the stuff I do just because I’m a woman – because I am a mother, it comes with the choice to procreate. But the fact that we owned our front-loaders for five years before I bothered to show my husband where I keep the soap and how to run them is full-on martyring. There is no biological necessity to my running every load of laundry our family dirties.

I bemoaned to my sister once that it was disgusting to unravel dried out, sweaty dress socks that had been thoughtlessly thrown into the hamper inside-out and tangled. She looked at me sideways and said, “Then why don’t you hand them to your husband, mention that it is gross, and ask him to unravel them for you.” Duh. Of course, my husband had no idea that it was even a problem for me, because I was being a martyr and complaining about my load, instead of sharing it.

We went through a two-part personal process last year that really highlighted to me my own shortcomings in this area. First, we began talking about having a third child. There is no way I could consider taking on the biological necessities of another baby, if I continued to try to brave the burden of martyrdom. Then, we started a six-week devotional study that was supposed to help us simplify our lives. The opening self-assessment was a clear call for change, as well. It’s not easy to spot all my problem areas, but I’ve been working on it. The girls are now doing small things, like emptying the dishwasher, and I’m being more diligent about making sure they clean up their own rooms and playroom. My husband’s been pitching in at least once a week to prepare dinner for us and picking up other odds and ends chores, like loading the dishwasher now and then. My older daughter learned to vacuum this month, and is my biggest helper in switching out the laundry loads and putting the towels into the cupboard. Everyone, even my younger daughter, has been taking more initiative on things that I didn’t even ask for, like noticing when the dog needs to go out and filling her water dish.

Aside from the occasionally disgruntled child, who would rather watch Martha Speaks than unload the washer, everyone has been unimaginably amenable to sharing more of the load. There is still plenty for me to do, and sometimes I get impatient, overseeing a poorly done chore when I could just as easily step in and do it right. Overall, however, our house is becoming better organized and easier to manage, and I’m finding time for some of my own important pursuits – like blogging, gestating, cooking from scratch, and even sewing vintage aprons. Keep me in your prayers that I don’t backslide on this one…

Being a martyr is overrated. Even Jesus begged for a different outcome, and his suffering was to accomplish far more than a tidy house or stain removal.

Jesus walked on a little way. Then he knelt down on the ground and prayed, "Father, if it is possible, don't let this happen to me! Father, you can do anything. Don't make me suffer by having me drink from this cup. But do what you want, and not what I want." Mark 14:35-36

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

Weigh me down with Caramel deLites and throw me in the ocean.

We got our first delivery of Girl Scout Cookies. One box each of Caramel deLites and Peanut Butter Patties. With great restraint, the girls and I put them away, unopened, to enjoy as dessert after dinner. It was hard, but we were having meatloaf, a family favorite, and planning to watch the latest episode of Survivor, so our anticipation sustained our resistance.

After dinner, each girl was allowed to choose three cookies, as did my husband and I. And they were every bit as fantastic as we remembered from last year. How does one even choose between the two supreme flavors of the universe: peanut butter and caramel? If you’re a kid, you have to. But if you’re an adult, you only have to wait until you’ve tucked the kids in for the night.

After bedtime, we indulged in a few more cookies and a nice cup of milk, watched the nightly news, and then trudged off to bed ourselves. On my way out of the living room, I noticed that we hadn’t put the cookies away and it crossed my mind that perhaps we might come out in the morning to find the tray empty, but I was sore and tired, so I did nothing about it. After all, we were expecting another couple deliveries over the week, as there are a number of Girl Scouts in the neighborhood, so we order a box or two from each of them. Plus the girls were pretty unlikely to actually consume all the cookies that were left before we could intervene.

My younger daughter woke up before everyone else in the morning, and my husband heard the telltale rattle of the cookie tray and wrapper. When I came out to breakfast, he seemed a little proud of our girl, in that, as soon as he came out into the living room, she promptly confessed to having eaten a Girl Scout Cookie. I too was impressed by her self control and honesty, and relieved that she knew better than to scarf down every cookie in sight. I hated it, though, that she felt bad for it.  I wish, I could take away the guilt she felt for eating a cookie when she knew she shouldn’t. I left a tray of open Girl Scout Cookies on the side table in the living room. My daughter showed the personal fortitude to eat just one cookie. If it had been me, I would have eaten three, at least.

I know she knew better, but I definitely knew better. Instead of considering the situation I was putting my kids in, I selfishly thought only of myself. As long as I was going to get to enjoy more cookies, I wasn’t worried about the inviting temptation I was laying out for them to stumble into. It’s not the end of the world that my kid ate a cookie without permission, but if my daughter can confess to her cookie consumption, let me confess to my lazy parenting. And my hope that I’ll do better next time. After all, the scripture promises grave consequences for leading a child to sin.

It will be terrible for people who cause even one of my little followers to sin. Those people would be better off thrown into the deepest part of the ocean with a heavy stone tied around their necks! Matthew 18:6

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

I’m a demanding lover.

We learn about relationships through friendships.  I was a very isolated and lonely kid, so when I first came out of my shell and started making friends, those who ventured to connect with me were probably overwhelmed pretty quickly. I thought affection was static. If someone said we were “best friends,” I took that as a lifelong commitment; surely a “best friend” is going to stick by me, no matter what, right? Even if I act obnoxious, eat all their potato chips, and wear something completely embarrassing to the winter dance? I would throw myself into friendships and then be terribly hurt when my beloved friends wanted to move on. Over time, I learned that friendships come and go, they have dawns and dusks and, in the end, it is very rare that anyone will truly care about you “no matter what,” or even appreciate the kind of devotion that I was so anxious to offer. 

I caught on to the transitory nature of most friendships, but my early romances were similarly misguided. If I uttered the word “love,” let alone heard the word “love” uttered in return, that was it. That word was never casual to me; it carried the weight of intense commitment. I could have ended up a very broken person, had I attracted more boyfriends. As it was, I was lucky and few took interest. I endured just one, pivotal heartbreak. My parents’ marriage ended shortly after that, and between the two failed relationships, I came to the hard realization that human beings cannot love each other “forever and no matter what.” Being in love, it seemed, was just not the magical bond I thought it was.

I set out to test my theory that no one could love me unconditionally. I dated more than I ever had before, but introduced every guy to as many of my thorns as possible. If I disagreed, I challenged them. If I didn’t like the meal, I said so. If I had a paper to write, I wouldn’t make time for a date. Sure enough, guy after guy would last two or three weeks, then head off to find easier prey. I didn’t mind, because I honestly believed there was no other way to find a guy who was going to love me the way I needed. Why waste my time or theirs, if they weren’t the one for me?

My husband wandered into this snare of mine, right as I was hitting my groove. The night we met, I wouldn’t give him my phone number. He didn’t have a piece of paper, and I just knew he wouldn’t remember it; he wasn't even drinking, he was the driver for his friends. I told him my last name and said if he really wanted to call me, he could find a college phone directory and look me up. I was shocked when he won my scavenger hunt and left a message with my roommate that weekend. I called back and he sounded so happy I almost hung up on him. He had to be putting me on; no one had ever been that excited about a return phone call from me.



On our first date, he was smiling so big, driving along, that he looked to me like the happy skeletons you see as Day of the Dead decorations. Not one to keep these things to myself, I told him, “You’re smiling so big, it’s like I can see the shape of your skull.” He just took it in stride; I don’t know why he didn’t turn around and take me home, but he didn’t. Mini-golfing was fun, and I even had a night open in about a week and a half for a follow up date. I knew he wouldn’t call. He didn’t. He left me roses on the doorstep, instead. No guy had ever given me flowers before.

One of our first pictures together - 7 months into it.
Was I that hard-headed that we don't have any pictures?

To this day, my husband has stood by me, thick and thin. He’s taken my crap and dished enough in return for me to know he’s for real. It was Valentine’s weekend, 1996, 15 years ago this weekend, when I first told him that I loved him; I’d already known it for a month, but didn't tell him. I still feared that his infatuation was going to wane and he would realize I’m not as exciting a catch as he seemed to think. I warned him when he proposed six weeks later that he better think it through, because if he married me, there was no escape clause; nothing was going to keep me away from him short of a restraining order. He told me that sounded good to him and gave me permission to love him with all my insane tenacity. And I do.

In general, I don’t love as easily as I did. I share a generous portion of filial, “friendly love,” but the agape – the bottomless, endless, tenacious love that says, “no matter what” – you might have to be a little unstable yourself, if you even want me to love you that way. It could involve a restraining order someday, after all. I feel incredibly blessed for the daring man who was brave enough to want that kind of love from me - and keeps right on giving it back.

I hope for each of you this Valentine's Day that you know the blessing of love unconditional.  That kind of love is a glimpse of the Divine - the only truly dependable source of "love no matter what."

Love is always supportive, loyal, hopeful, and trusting. Love never fails! 1 Corinthians 13:7-8a

It takes a Roethlisberger to make me a Cheesehead.

We usually have friends over for the Super Bowl, and I usually, at some point, find myself torn between football and entertaining. Since our Vikings never go to the Super Bowl, I like to take the part of the underdog, and always hope for an exciting game. I don’t know why I bother, though, because I end up chatting it up in the kitchen while I cut more celery sticks anyway.

This year, the Super Bowl is turning into a real drain on my sportsmanship. Instead of rooting for one team or the other, I’m tempted to root for injuries and wardrobe malfunctions. It may be the first time ever that I can spend the whole game refreshing the bean dip and playing Spoons without feeling like I’ve missed a thing. If there were a possible outcome where neither team won – I’d root for that.

Although I think Wisconsin is an exceptionally beautiful state, I can’t imagine living among Packer fans. There were actual tears from Cheeseheads at our 1998 Super Bowl party, when their presumed championship over the Broncos didn’t come to fruition. People who are so crazy for a team scare me. And irritate me. Between the ticket prices and the weather, I just don’t get it. One fan will spend enough on game day to feed a starving African village for a year. And who loves a football team with such earnest as to spend four hours out of doors in below zero weather – occasionally dropping the parka to show off their bikinis and body paint? Aside from the insanity of actual Packer fans, I find it most irritating that people who know as much about football as they do about nuclear physics, almost universally, claim a deep and abiding loyalty to the Packers. If they really don’t care, why not go out on a limb and be more original? Cheer for the Lions. No one around here ever jumps on the Lions’ bandwagon. Green Bay Packer fans lead me to seriously question whether the Midwest is really the center of common sense and down to earth good judgment that I’ve always believed it to be.

I could have probably, easily, taken the Steelers for Sunday’s game and rooted with fervor for them to pound the Pack. Could have – if only they weren’t quarterbacked by Ben Roethlisberger. In fairness, I did not presume to remember the details of the allegations against Big Ben, so I did a double-fact-check and remembered, once again, that if the guy is not a rapist, he is an attempted-rapist. These guys have ample opportunities to woo consenting women, who want their advances. Why drag a college girl into the bathroom of a club and force yourself on her?

If it is up to me, I’m rooting for Roethlisberger to get sidelined by a nasty groin injury. Then I can root for the Steelers. Otherwise, I will, reluctantly, suck it up and cheer for the Pack. Please understand, however, that is only if a team actually has to win this year. How many OT’s do they have to blow through to tie? I know. I’m a terrible sport; I need to leave the judging to God.

But Christ has no favorites! He will punish evil people, just as they deserve. Colossians 3:25

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 collect Barbies

Between Women’s Studies courses and life experience, I knew by my mid-twenties that things needed to change in our world. While men can be wonderful leaders and a lot of fun to banter with, women have taken a backseat for far too long. I had to stifle my disgust when we went to my seminary orientation and the male students kept brushing past me to shake my husband’s hand and welcome him into ministry. One man, when my husband corrected him without much warmth, stumbled over his own words as he proclaimed, “I, of course, fully support women in ministry!” Of course, he knew and supported the theological position of our seminary, but immediately upon meeting a new couple, his imbedded beliefs surfaced and he brushed the woman aside to greet the man.

Those imbedded beliefs are what I hoped to battle in the next generation. I was not going to socialize my children along gender lines. We prepared for our babies by buying neutral sleepers, yellow and green. We decorated the nursery with Bat symbols and action figures. When the girls got older, we balanced their ballet and tea parties with basketball and camping.

We couldn’t believe it when Barbie came into the picture. Not Barbie! I’ve heard that if she were a real woman, she’d be missing two ribs and several organs. She lives for fashion and big hair. Barbie? Really? They wanted Barbies? There is no denying it, though, my daughters love Barbies. My older girl dresses them up, replays scenes from her favorite shows and movies, and has them stage rescues in concert with the 12” Star Wars figures. My younger girl can spend two hours with a naked Barbie and her puppy, coming up with a million lines of dialog. Barbies completely spark their imaginations and aspirations. Veterinarian Barbie, all the Wizard of Oz Barbies, Super Hero Barbies, Barbie cars, Barbie pets, homemade Barbie gowns for weddings and Nobel Prize banquets.

Well into the explosion of Barbie dolls and accessories, my husband and I noticed that the Barbies that proved the most interesting were usually also the most expensive; and that did not factor into the way they were used and abused by the kids. The girls would ask for a $40 Glinda Barbie for Christmas, and then have her beautiful outfit dismantled by MLK Day, buried deep in the Barbie bin for all eternity – and making Glinda basically the same as any of her naked cohorts – crazy red curls as her only distinction. So, I decided that from now on, the really cool Barbies are going to be “mine.” If we are going to purchase Dorothy Gale, I am going to control how much time she spends in the Barbie house and whether Skipper is allowed to try on her Ruby Slippers.

Somehow, the Barbie thing turned into a lot of fun. Turns out, I don’t share them after all. They’re all MIB (mint in the box). I can find about one cool Barbie a year marked 75% off at Target, keeping our investment down to less than $10 a year. And just modeling my respect for the collection has influenced the girls to use a little more care and caution on their own “special” Barbies. My younger daughter, after months of unrequited lust, put up the $40 out of her own Christmas money to get the “vintage” 1985 Peaches and Cream Barbie. Peaches, amazingly, still has her clothes on, has her ruffled stole wrapped around her, and goes back into her box whenever my girl cleans her room. I’m not holding my breath that she won’t eventually dissolve into Barbie-bin nakedness, but it’ll feel like a success if she makes it to Valentine's.

Maybe I’m a sellout – but as long I can overhear my daughters' Barbies pursuing higher education, becoming President, and telling Luke Skywalker, “That’s OK, you wait here, I’ll rescue the hostage” – I think I’ll be able to live with myself and enjoy my rockin’ Barbies.

I gave you the finest clothes and the most expensive robes, as well as sandals made from the best leather. I gave you bracelets, a necklace, a ring for your nose, some earrings, and a beautiful crown. Your jewelry was gold and silver, and your clothes were made of only the finest material and embroidered linen. Your bread was baked from fine flour, and you ate honey and olive oil. You were as beautiful as a queen. Ezekiel 16:10-13

I miss my sister.

Maybe it’s my resistance to the hard reality that I can’t travel for at least the next six months, but, despite the possibility of being groped by a TSA at the airport, or that I wouldn’t be able to walk after the long car ride, I’m feeling an incredible desire to be together with my sister right now.

Proof of the variety one gene pool can offer.



We’re used to not being together. Growing up, I guess we probably looked forward to it. Sharing a room with her for the first 15 years of my life, our personalities clashed like oil and water. I went to bed early; she stayed up late. I made sure my socks got into the laundry; she stole my clean socks. We could easily have become the kind of siblings who live worlds apart and only see each other at funerals and weddings. As time and geography would have it, we haven’t lived in the same state since she was 15 and I was 18, except for a few short term occasions when we were able to coordinate summer jobs or such. On those occasions, there were always moments that reminded us how incredibly different we are. And there were always moments that bound us together in ways time and space could never sever.



Despite the challenges of our personalities and distance, my sister and I found each other while we were teenagers. We discovered the sweetest family treasure – sisterhood. That one person you can go clothes shopping with, who won’t shy away from acknowledging your figure flaws and helping you mask them. The one you can trade skin care tips with, because you both have the same weird sensitivities. The one who knows how you’ve hurt and what you’ve overcome to become who you are and won’t be offended when you’re frank about the things that really sucked along the way.

My sister is renting her first house, and although I did get to drive through the neighborhood with her last spring, I’ve never gotten to see her place. I don’t know what kitchen gadgets she’s missing or get to help find the perfect curtains. She’s in her first teaching position, about to graduate from grad school, and I haven’t gotten to sneak in a lunch with her or see her classroom, or meet her students. I’m even a stranger to her dog.

By the same token, I could have really used her help to find flattering maternity clothes (if such a thing exists). My older daughter was a brave friend, and gave decent advice for a nine year old, but it’s not the same as having my sister there. I’m going to arrange a nursery, think of a name, and eat a lot of chocolate in the next couple months, and I can’t help wishing my sister was around to be a part of it. I’m feeling especially girlie right now, and she’d be the one to help me through it.

I’ve got great friends and an awesome husband here in Iowa. But they’re not my sister. Why must Colorado be so far away?

Love each other as brothers and sisters. Romans 12:10a

I Pretended to Love Winter.

When we got married, we had a five year plan. It wasn’t detailed or specific, but in five years, we planned to live somewhere warm. Both of us being from the Midwest, we felt we’d endured our share of chapping and shivering, and it was time to bail. As we settled into married life, however, the smaller scale amenities of Central Iowa ensnared us. Ten minute commutes, solid job opportunities, affordable homes, and good schools trumped Old Man Winter and before we knew it, we couldn’t even consider the possibility of giving everything up to chase the sun. Even now, several record-breaking winters later, when we have the opportunity to vacation in beautiful places, it only takes driving by a dilapidated school to remind us why we stayed in the Midwest.

Even though a warmer climate was not in our future, someday our children are going to face the same choice. Although I hope that the warmth of our love will be enough to tether our girls, I am not one to leave these things to chance. If I really want to have grandkids around to visit me in the nursing home, I need to build strong winter memories in my kids while they are young and impressionable.



Footies are essential to winter joy.

 I set out to convince my daughters that I love winter. The first step is to invest in proper winter gear. If you’re going to live in Iowa, you need snow boots & pants, a warm parka, preferably with a fur trimmed hood, and, if you get cold easily like me, a nice set of mittens. Don’t go fashionable and opt for leather gloves and a trim pea coat, or you will hate your life. Footie PJs to sleep in doesn’t hurt, either. Then you must outfit your offspring similarly. If you buy them crummy mittens, they will leave you for L.A. someday. Remember that.

I learned in teacher training that memories are built by repetition more than duration. You don’t have to spend hours out in the cold; you just need to spend a little bit of time, regularly, for your kids to believe you played outside all winter long. When my younger daughter was small, I’d get home from work and bundle us up to walk up to the school. I’d pull her up there in the sled, load my older daughter on behind her, and drag them home. Even on the coldest days, they thought it was a hoot and I stayed warm from the exertion. Hot chocolate and vanilla wafers afterward didn’t hurt either! If there’s a Saturday with a few inches of snow on the ground and at least 15-20 degrees above zero, we’ll drop everything and brave the snow, making angels, getting buried, building forts, whatever. We discovered one winter that you get the park all to yourself, and you literally fly out of the tube slide, if you head up there on a snowy winter day. Thank goodness for bundling, or I’d have broken my tail bone. At least once a winter, we try to hit a pond or outdoor ice rink. Gliding around on the ice makes us feel like part of a Christmas Special.



Enjoying our awesome snow fort last year.


While some of these activities might be a good time, I do them in service to my kids. If they love winter, they’ll never leave us. For them to love winter, they need to believe I love winter. One afternoon our neighbor came out on her deck while we were sledding down the side hill in our backyard and said with a laughing smirk, “Wow, Emily, you must really love winter; you’re outside all the time.” I smirked back, thinking, “Ha! If I’ve fooled her, hopefully I’m fooling my kids!”

There are many occasions that I’ve heard people suggest one should “fake it ‘til you make it.” Apparently loving winter is one of those things for me. Heading into the third trimester of pregnancy, and having been told to back off from strenuous activities, I have the perfect excuse, this winter, to take a break from faking it. My snow pants won’t zip, so I can’t do the snowball fights and angels. No skating, no skiing, no sledding. Perhaps my greatest winter joy – I can’t even push the snow blower this year. I even have to wait for my husband to clear the deck for the dog to go out. I should be loving this. This is the best winter ever. Instead, it is driving me crazy. The kids are out there playing and I can’t go with them. I can’t get the sled out and break a path for them down the hill. I feel like a hobbit, hibernating in a hole. There’s a fantastic winter going on out there, and I can only watch through the window.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, maybe it’s hormones. But I have to suspect, that maybe, just maybe, somewhere along the line, I quit faking it; it became real. I started enjoying winter. After all, it doesn’t last forever. The pear trees are already budding and in just a couple short months, the crocuses will be poking through. I’ll always love summer best, but, it turns out, I’m a bit of a winter girl, too.  I had no idea.

God’s voice thunders in marvelous ways; he does great things beyond our understanding. He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’ and to the rain shower, ‘Be a mighty downpour.’ Job 37:5-6