2012 Reading List

If only there were more hours in the day to read! I did check several books off my list this year, but every time I drive past a library, I feel the pull of shelves full of unread books.

I started the year by jumping on the bandwagon and reading all three Hunger Games books. Like everyone else, I was completely sucked into the story and couldn’t stop thinking about the characters. (Peeta is one of my favorite literary characters ever. If you just saw the movie and didn’t read the book, you’ll have no idea why.) Like George Lucas and J.K. Rowling before her, Suzanne Collins created more than a series of books. She created a new civilization, and I fell in face first. Still, part of me wishes I had stopped after the first book; the others weren’t nearly so satisfying.

Back to Rowling, my big kids and I finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, leaving us with just one book left. Regardless of what happens to Harry, I’m afraid I’ll be drenching the final pages in tears as this special time shared with Braden and Addison comes to an end.

My only other fiction book of the year was The Last Disciple by Sigmund Brouwer and Hank Hanegraaff. First-century persecution of Christians—including the phrase “human torch”—has never been so real to me.

In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson has been on my list for a couple years, and I finally picked it up, thinking I was getting fiction. Turns out, it’s a real story and reads more like a history book than a thriller. Still, I read it quickly and found that it answered some of my questions about why the world stood by and watched as Hitler rose to power.

Also in the secular non-fiction category were The World Is Flat by Thomas Friedman and The Death of the Grown-Up by Diana West. I read both of these too late (Flat predicted that some day we’d be able to take pictures on our cell phones), but they were still interesting. The latter, however, felt a little like watching 72 consecutive hours of Fox News. I agreed with it more or less, but the ceaseless political drumming got a bit old.

I edited one autobiography this year and read another. The paid one was the story of a woman who escaped the Liberian civil war with her husband and a toddler strapped to her back. If you don’t know anything about the history of Liberia, google it. We all should have at least a 10-minute education on the subject, starting with why their flag looks so much like ours. The other autobiography, A Heart for Freedom, is the story of Chai Ling’s role in the 1989 Chinese student uprising. I know next to nothing about Chinese history, so this one was helpful, too.

Two friends, one from a long time ago and one I’m blessed to know today, released great books this year. Margot Starbuck was my RA in college, and I always thought she was a mixture of quirky and profound. That’s also how I would describe her book, Small Things with Great Love: Adventures in Loving Your Neighbor, written for people with kids, laundry, jobs, and mortgages who still want to change the world. It’s also very funny, and I loved it. Also in the “loved” category is my friend Becky Grosenbach’s book Flying Cheese: Stories from an Ordinary Life. Becky could write about, well, cheese, and make it meaningful. Don’t let the subtitle fool you; she may appear ordinary on the surface, but she’s a gem, both as a writer and a person. You can get a copy at http://www.beckygrosenbach.com/

Finally, I made some progress in my goal to read all of C.S. Lewis’s published works. The Great Divorce, while not my favorite, is a good reminder that Lewis was not just a great thinker but also the master of metaphor. He is certainly one of the most creative storytellers who ever lived. I’m still relishing the brilliance of the Screwtape Letters, a couple paragraphs at a time. The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed, written 20 years apart and separated by the most significant event in Lewis’s life—his marriage and the subsequent death of his wife, Helen—are best read together. Lewis wrote as a casual observer of pain in 1940; in 1961, he’s in the trenches. He sees the difference himself: “Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not in imagination. . . . If I had really cared, as I thought I did, about the sorrows of the world, I should not have been so overwhelmed when my own sorrow came. It has been an imaginary faith playing with innocuous counters labeled Illness, Pain, Death, and Loneliness. I thought I trusted the rope until it mattered to me whether it would bear me. Now it matters, and I find I didn’t” (A Grief Observed). His return journey to faith after Helen’s death is perhaps Lewis at his best, or at least his most real.

I plan to read more Lewis classics in 2013, along with Rachel Held Evans’s book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, and The Googlization of Everything (And Why We Should Worry) by Siva Vaidhyanathan. Braden is interested in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, so we may read that one together. And if hours start magically appearing in the day, I would love to read Les Miserables this year after seeing the film a few days ago. There’s nothing I love more than an awe-inspiring story.

Things I Love

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT CHRISTMAS

Christmas music (I would listen in August if that’s when the radio stations started playing them)

Ornaments with my kids’ baby pictures

Fun mail interspersed with the bills

People who really get into their lighting displays

Watching my kids watch Elf

Happy, singing bell-ringers outside Walmart

My mother-in-law’s cranberry cake

My Carpenters’ Christmas album

Caroling

The peppermint shake at Chic-fil-a

Live nativity scenes

Luke 2

Kevin off of work

Christmas trees in windows

Nester the Long-Eared Donkey

Little girls in Christmas dresses

Cars with antlers

Candlelight services on Christmas Eve

Christmas break with the kids: going to bed late, sleeping in, no lunch-packing, playing games, watching movies, wearing our PJs until noon, teaching Braden where we keep the silverware and the syrup a mere four months after we moved

Anticipation

THINGS I DON'T LOVE QUITE SO MUCH

12 Days of Christmas workouts, complete with 144 push-ups

Stocking stuffers

Never having enough tape

Overspending

Gluttony

December 26

Processing the Unthinkable

I usually don’t sit down to write a blog post without knowing my point in advance. This time I don’t know what my point is. I’m just processing.

Three and a half years ago, I watched my friends go through the brutal, agonizing, unimaginable process of losing their teenage son to cancer. About the same time Ian died, a local news story threw me for a loop. Two college girls, home for spring break, were getting ready for a family outing by filling the family vehicle up with gas. Somehow a truck ran into the fuel pump, igniting a fire ball and trapping the driver between the vehicle and the pump. She was gone within seconds. Ian experienced the ups and downs of cancer treatments, prolonged hospital stays, and prayer vigils, while this girl was alive and well one minute and gone the next. Such different experiences, yet two families experiencing the same devastating loss.

Now another set of parents we know are enduring the cancer journey. Instead of starting kindergarten with my daughter this fall, their son was admitted to Children’s Hospital in Denver, where he’s been for the past four months. His cancer is aggressive and scary. Their battle has been the talk of our school. On Friday, the school held a blood and money-collection drive for this little boy.

I went in about a half-hour before school got out to drop something off for him. An armed guard stood at the front of the school. Very odd. I walked around to the office door, where the secretary ushered me in. As I walked down the hall, an announcement was made that no children were allowed to walk between buildings without an adult. Carpool would also look different today. After dropping off my card and appreciating all the hard work that had gone into the fundraiser for this little boy who is fighting for his life, I called Kevin to find out if he knew something I didn’t. He told me about the shooting in Connecticut. Twenty children dead, many of them kindergartners. They went to school alive and well—probably thinking about spelling tests and Christmas parties and what they’d do at recess—and ninety minutes later they were gone. Just like that.  

Do I have a point? I’m not sure. I just know that I’m struck by the contrast of parents who endure grueling, endless battles for their children’s lives with those whose lives are ripped apart in a second. Certainly neither is preferable; both are heartbreaking. Both seem so wrong, so appalling.

Not knowing what to make of any of this, I wrote to my friend David, Ian’s dad, to see how he’s processing the news from Connecticut. Is it different for him, I wonder? He was kind enough to make his response available to us all, for whatever we can gain from it as we all seek to process Friday’s horror.

One thing I can say for sure. Anyone’s pain touches me more deeply than it did before Ian’s suffering and death. So as I read about the shooting in CT it brings tears to my eyes and leaves an ache in my soul. As I was listening to a report on the radio my whole body recoiled inside. In the past my response would have been much less intense. Unlike many others, I can and do imagine what those parents may experience in the coming days and weeks and months and years. So I grieve with them differently than others might.

I can also say that even with a prolonged illness and when you know that death may be imminent, the death of your child takes your breath away.  Death of any kind is so final, so violent, so “wrong."  It is an ugly tear in the fabric of life as life was intended to be. I don’t know about others, but I never emotionally or mentally rehearsed for Ian’s death. I did not expect him to die. I was fully believing that he would live. So although others may be puzzled in view of what transpired before Ian’s death, I was shocked when he died. 

However, I had a “privilege” that none of those parents in CT had. I was THERE when Ian died. I was able to say goodbye. I was at his side when he drew his last breath here on this earth. I imagine that those parents are horrified by what the final moments of their child’s life was like. And imagination can be worse than reality.  That’s a horror I’ve not experienced. 

I have no desire or sense of leading to personally connect with those parents in CT. It feels presumptive to think that we could somehow truly understand their pain. When one is in deep pain, and someone says, “I understand,” you know that they don’t, and it feels like they are treating your pain as commonplace. 

On the other hand, I think that every parent who has heard of the shootings in CT feels a heart connection with those families. President Obama clearly does. But my emotional nerve endings may be a bit closer to the surface and a bit more tuned to resonate with the pain of those parents. 

What to Do with the Virgin Mary?

Last night we were reading Christmas verses with the kids, stumbling over the repeated use of the word “virgin” and the “union” that Joseph didn’t have with Mary until after Jesus was born. Of course someone’s gonna ask, “Hey, dad, what’s a virgin?” Of course dad’s going to quickly blush, then just as quickly regain his composure and say, “Well, remember when mom took you on that trip to Denver—just the two of you?” Now the asker is the one blushing.

Kevin and I chuckle at the level of “ah-ha’s” rippling through our living room. Our oldest, with his own “camping trip with dad” experience—not to mention his place in the junior high world—no doubt understands what’s going on here more than any of the other kids. He’s clearly ready to move on to the shepherds and the wise men and get past the virgin part already. Our 11-year-old, the one who asked the question in the first place, shows just enough familiarity and discomfort with the topic that I feel the “trip to Denver” was not made in vain. The 8-year-old wants everyone to believe she knows exactly what we’re talking about. “Oh, yeah, I know,” she says with great wisdom, and then moves into a conversation about Ferraris on Union Boulevard. (Your guess is as good as mine.) I give a quick sigh of relief that we live in a culture in which 8-year-olds can still be little kids. And what’s our 5-year-old doing? Picking her toe jam and singing a little song to herself. I’m not sure she even knows we’re having a conversation, let alone that it involves virgins and unions.

Thank you, God, for your creativity in saving the human race, and for the interesting conversations we get to have with our kids because of it! 

Living Fully Present

Last year my daughter’s preschool teacher told us the story of her own daughter’s birthday outing. The girl was turning 13, and she invited a few friends to go out for dinner. The three girls sat in the back seat, birthday girl in the middle, while the mom drove. Before long the two friends had pulled out their cell phones and were texting other kids and even each other. Instead of giving their attention to the guest of honor—not to mention the one who was paying for their dinner—the friends focused on what they might be missing elsewhere in the world.

I thought of that story as I read an article in Newsweek several weeks ago, “Just How Many Facebook Friends Do We Need?” The article documented what I see all around me and what I dread for my children:

“All of which leads to the crux of what makes friendships different for young people today: the nefarious Fear of Missing Out. It’s because of FOMO that 20-somethings are so focused on their smartphone screens, so preoccupied with potential friends that they forget to be with the friends they already have. The FOMO mentality is leading millennials to become smartphone-addled cyber-sluts, constantly texting and emailing, always on the prowl for the next better thing.”

Cyber-sluts. Harsh but accurate.

I feel like I need an entire lifetime to teach my kids how to do well in the area of relationships. I’m still learning every day myself. But beyond following the golden rule, I think the best instruction I can give them is this: Be fully present. The person with you gets the best of you. Period. Whether that’s the drive-thru guy at Wendy’s, the pastor at the front of your church, or the friend sitting next to you in the car, they get your best, not your scraps. And in cases where that’s just not possible, you ask permission—yes, even of the Wendy’s guy—before you turn your attention elsewhere.

This seems like a no-brainer. And yet it’s not unusual to find a family of four ignoring one another at a restaurant table, smart phones in hand, texting wildly, on the prowl for the next better thing.

How do we avoid becoming that? How do I teach my kids to live fully present? Like most things, unfortunately, it starts with what I’m modeling. I have to live fully present. I have to remember that my attention is a gift and to hand it out intentionally, strategically, lovingly. It really comes down to loving others. More than a phone. More than our appetite for entertainment. More than our desire to be included. More than ourselves. 

To Lie Or Not to Lie

It’s the little milestones that hit me hardest. After 13 years of parenting, I think our spanking days might be over. We’ve been conservative spankers—only for blatant disobedience or bold-faced lies—but we’ve still had our fair share. I’ve heard that you shouldn’t have to spank a child older than five, that you should have a pretty good grip on willful disobedience by then. Camryn, our baby, is five.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, Camryn can’t resist helping herself to a piece of Laffy Taffy from her Halloween basket. She hasn’t asked if that’s OK. When I question what she has in her mouth, she begins frantically chewing. When I ask again, she reaches into her mouth, pulls something out, and hides it behind her back. “Just my tongue,” she says through the taffy remnants hanging from her teeth.

“Don’t lie to me, Camryn,” I say in a way that means business. “Tell me what was in your mouth.”

She holds firmly to her answer, enunciating more clearly this time, in case I hadn’t heard her the first time: “Just. My. Tongue.”

Now Kevin gets involved, prying her hands apart to reveal the evidence. (Yes, “caught red handed” came to mind.) The tears begin right on cue, accompanied by the wails and gasps, “I couldn’t stop myself! I really wanted the Tappy Tappy, and I just couldn’t stop!”

We’ve now attracted a crowd of gawking siblings, so I escort the sticky, salty mess to her bedroom. I explain that this is not about the candy; it’s about the lying. Lying is the cardinal violation in our home. You may get away with jumping off the furniture or covering your feet with purple Sharpie, but you don’t lie to me. Lying compromises relationship. I know all my kids will do it—have done it—but they’ll definitely feel the pain of it if they do.

Camryn feels the pain across her adorable little buns. Surely it was easier with the other kids than it is with this one—this last one, this sweet little one who has so completely wrapped us around her finger with her cuteness? Then I think of her older sister, the one who told any stranger on the street who would listen, “Daddy pank me. My daddy pank me too hawd.” For a year. Yeah, that wasn’t easy. On this day that sister stands cowering with the other kids, ears covered, tears in her eyes, whispering, “Why did she have to lie? Why didn’t she just tell mom about the candy?” Ah, they learn.

Later, after the crying has lessened some, another sister visits Camryn in her bed. I hear Camryn say, “I just couldn’t hear the Holy Spirit!” She sounds disappointed, like the Holy Spirit let her down. I pray He’ll speak louder next time, even as I smile.

Then I walk into her room, unsure of the reaction I’ll meet. I teeter on the edge of her bed, wondering if she’ll power up the sobs again or bark at me to get out. But she doesn’t use words. She just pulls her head out from under the covers, then her arms, then grabs me and pulls me in, hard. Little tears continue to roll, but I know we’re at the end of this battle, and this is my favorite part. Relationship restored. I hold on a little longer and a little tighter than I would on any other day. Yes, I think our spanking days are over. 

Is This Progress?

I live in a state that voted to legalize marijuana. Nevermind that it’s prohibited by federal law. I live in a country in which my president, after the announcement of his reelection, makes his first public statement by “tweeting.” I feel like a pioneer woman who’s found herself on a rocket ship. How did I get here and where is the world I once knew?

One of the TV commentators said that America is becoming less white, less religious, more liberal, and more tolerant. While I don’t doubt that’s true, everything in my world screams to the contrary. During the course of the election, I did not see one Obama sign. Not a single bumper sticker. I can’t think of anyone I know who is a big fan of Obamacare or who supports abortion, “choice,” or whatever you want to call it. I am grateful for the non-white people in my life and my children’s lives, but it’s a shamefully small number. And while I do have a handful of good friends who are Democrats, I can’t think of anyone I regularly interact with whom I would call “liberal.”

I’m not bragging about my world, for sure. The Great Commission tells us to go into the world and make disciples, not to stay in our own neighborhoods and make friends only with people who are just like us. I need to get out more. I need more experiences like I had at jury duty that open my eyes to how different my world is from everyone else’s. I’m also more aware that Kevin and I need to raise our kids to understand that they are minorities. They would not pick that up just by looking around, but they need to know it. We need to prepare them to live in a country in which they are unusual, weird— even freaks—because they believe the Bible is the inspired word of God and that there is a definite right and a definite wrong. My grandmother could not have imagined opposition to this belief, not in America. My grandchildren, I suppose, will experience nothing but opposition.

Thankfully, while the nation is changing, God is not. I also get to teach my children that though we may have to share our roads and highways with pot smokers, the world is not spinning out of control. God is still on the throne, and nothing takes Him by surprise. 

The Problem of Pain

If you’ve walked with God for any length of time, you’ve most likely reached the same conclusion I have about why He allows us to hurt. Surely pain must lead us to God. 

One of my goals for this school year is to read as much C.S. Lewis as I can, so I dove into The Problem of Pain. He took me on quite the meandering journey, but he led me at last to these words.  

The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world: but joy, pleasure, and merriment, He has scattered broadcast. We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why. The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God: a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony, a merry meeting with our friends, a bathe, or a football match, have no such tendency. Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home. 

No kids, the Hokey Pokey is not what it’s all about it, but this just might be.

Thank you, thank you, God, for the inns, but please don't ever let me get so comfortable in them that I mistake them for Home.  

44 Again

At 44 years of age, my dad’s life came to an end. He was diagnosed with cancer at 42—the age I just turned—and it ended his life at 44, the age my husband turns today. I was 17 when my dad died; my brother was three weeks from his 22^nd birthday. While losing a parent is heartwrenching at any age, I’ve always seen God’s hand of grace in the ages we kids were when He took my dad home. At 44, my husband’s children are 13, 11, 8, and 5. He has so much work to do! But my parents, though not by intention, had children at a much younger age. My mom, just 40 when my dad died, was left not with babies or young children, but with near-adults who had learned what we needed to learn from our dad. I see God’s sovereignty and mercy all over that.

I also laugh when I think how much my perspective has changed. When people spoke at the funeral of how short my dad’s life was, how it was such a tragedy to die so young, I remember thinking, “Well, heck, he was 44. He lived a good, long life!” And now that I’m just around the bend from that “good, long life,” it’s suddenly not quite as lengthy.

When my brother turned 44 a couple years ago, I remember sort of holding my breath for the year. This was it: the dreaded age. Though unspoken, I think we’d both been mindful of its inevitability and unwelcoming of its arrival. But he breezed through it without incident, and I was able to breathe comfortably once more. Except today Kevin turns 44. It’s back again.

How thankful I am for your good health, my wonderful husband, and for the way you make the most of each minute you spend with our children. But I will hold you a bit closer this year, so prepare yourself. Happy Birthday, you youngster!  

A Skeptical Voter Wakes Up

It was November 1988, and I had just turned 18. I was one of the few in my senior class who had reached that milestone and was now eligible to vote in the presidential election. It was a big deal. Making it even bigger was the fact that I entered and won an essay contest, sponsored by my hometown newspaper, related to the election. I won something like $200, but more importantly, the win launched my journalism career. I would spend the next three summers working at the newspaper and finding my life’s calling.

I remember feeling so grown up because I could vote, like I was finally a legitimate member of the adult world. Someone somewhere counted my vote, and it mattered. I mattered. I had a voice. At last. How must I have looked to the election officials? I imagine my eyes were literally wide with wonder and excitement. “Ah,” they must have thought, “so young and naïve.”

Now I’m preparing to vote in my seventh presidential election. The wonder and excitement are long gone. Now I must choose between two candidates who don’t come close to representing me, let alone inspiring me. I can’t, in good faith, cast my vote for either, and I seriously considered not voting at all. I researched, read, and prayed and was eventually persuaded that not voting at all is a bigger threat to the conscience than voting for someone in whom I have no confidence. So, OK, I’ll vote, but it will be a jaded, skeptical vote, not a wide-eyed hopeful vote.

In some of the reading I did, I found an interesting point. Most of us agree that voting is our civic duty, but one writer argued that voting is actually the most minimal part of our duty. We should also be involved in raising up the kind of people we could get excited about and training and encouraging them to lead. That we need to play a role in local politics and getting people on the ballots who we can believe in. The bottom line was this: If we choose to opt out of the preparation process, we don’t get to complain when we’re faced with two bad choices during the election process.

I’ll admit that I’ve been the complainer in the past several presidential contests. Other than showing up to vote for major elections, my strategy for engaging with the political process has been to stay as far away from it as possible. I’ve never dialogued with someone considering a run for office, never been to a local caucus. I’ve never actively campaigned for any candidate—assuming my son’s recent run for student council doesn’t count.

I don’t know that I’m going to make a radical change in my life based on this information, but I do have a new awareness of my own culpability in the political process. The satisfaction I experienced during that ’88 presidential election may not be realized again, but I pray that some time before my voting days are through, I will find some candidate at some level that I can believe in and crusade for. 

Hate Blogging and the Psalms

I’ve been reading the Psalms for several weeks, and I always find it hard to relate to a lot of what I find there. I’ve not experienced much agony or despair. I’m not generally a victim of great injustice. I’ve never been on the run from my enemies, nor have I ever really had an enemy with the possible exception of a few bad days in high school.

At least that’s what I thought.

Just last week I became aware of some ugly comments—OK, brutal comments—made about me on the internet. I can almost hear the teenage girls of the world sighing, “Welcome to my world.” But this is not my world. In my world, you actually meet a person and get to know them before making character judgments. And then, if those judgments are negative, you keep them to yourself. “Hate bloggers” don’t play by those rules. Apparently they have all sorts of time to think up creative insults for random people they’ve only encountered electronically. One referred to me as a narcissistic drama queen who deserves every bad thing that’s ever happened to me. One wondered how I can sleep at night because of all the morally incomprehensible things I’ve done and warned people to stay away from me. And suddenly, those Psalms didn’t seem so remote. By George, I think I’ve found an enemy.

Or rather an Enemy. How foolish I’ve been to not recognize that truth always has an enemy. I purposefully choose every day to align my life with the truth of God, and of course the Enemy is going to rise up against that. It may not always be so blatant as hate blogging, but it’s always there.

The comments were so outlandish that I had to laugh. But I have to admit that they also made me pause for a good long while, wondering if any of it could be true. That pause ended with greater clarity and much gratitude for several things:

for the Holy Spirit who grounds me in truth and whose conviction is the only one I must heed;

for a clear conscience—though I’m a sinner, I can and do sleep very well at night because I know I’m forgiven;

for people who love me enough to tell me the truth and wouldn’t allow me to be a narcissistic drama queen even if I wanted to be;

for new awareness that the Enemy is alive and well in my own life;

and for my merciful God, who knows the truth about me and whose judgment of me is the only one that matters.

Psalm 61: 1–3 “Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer. From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe.”

So maybe my heart has not grown faint, maybe I’m not to the point of calling from the ends of the earth, but this great psalm has new significance to me. I do have a foe, but I also have a very strong tower. 

Teaching Respect in a Bumper-Sticker World

At breakfast one day last week my 5^th grade daughter was talking about a bumper sticker her friend had seen. “There was a picture of Obama on it and it said, ‘Does this donkey make my car look big,’ only it didn’t say ‘donkey,’ it said that other bad word.”

My first observation: My daughter refers to her president as “Obama.” Not “Mr. Obama” or “President Obama,” or even “Barak Obama,” but the casual name she hears so many adults use.

My second observation: She doesn’t know what to think about this bumper sticker. Should she snicker with her friends? Or is there something wrong here, even though she’s not sure what it is?

And finally: It sure is hard to teach respect in a bumper-sticker world.

A few nights earlier I had talked with some friends about the lack of respect so evident in our country, how we’ve blurred the lines between a political figure’s character and the politics he represents. I told my questioning kids that while I don’t agree with President Obama’s politics and I hate some of his policies, he still has my respect. I actually find him pretty easy to respect. He’s obviously very smart. He carries himself well and always looks professional. He’s done nothing shameful to embarrass himself or our country. He seems to be an honorable husband and father, and I’d be surprised to see scandal erupt in his life. And besides all that, I believe that the President of the United States—no matter who it is—is simply a position that deserves respect. That’s why I take it personally when I see the insolent bumper stickers. That’s my president they’re ridiculing. I didn’t vote for him but he represents my country, and I don’t want anyone smacking him to the ground with their insults.

Does the Golden Rule not apply to presidents? Is that what we want our kids to learn? “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Except when it comes to the president. Then you can draw cartoons of little boys peeing on his head and plaster it to the back of your car.”

Our children need to understand that freedom of speech is a gift. Combined with respect, it’s the recipe for a great nation. Without respect—in our words, our actions, and our bumper stickers—not so much.

Educating Girls

I’m having radical thoughts on education. So radical they might make me sexist. Or at least seriously old-fashioned.

I have three daughters and one son. At least one of these daughters shows strong signs of wanting to be a wife and mother. (Especially if babies just fell from the sky with nothing “gross” or painful involved.) It’s not hard for her to find role models. The great majority of women we know are, or were, wives and moms. And yet I can only think of a couple of these women who are working full time outside the home; even in those cases, it’s not often by choice. One of my good friends has a medical degree, which she uses frequently at home and not-so-frequently in the world beyond. She spent years—not to mention lots and lots of dollars—pursuing her education while knowing that she really wanted to be a wife and mother, too.

My friend and I, and most of the women I know, are products of the Great Lie of the 70’s and 80’s: “You can have it all!” We believed it and gave it our best shot, only to realize that while you might be able to have it all, you won’t do it all well. And you’ll be so tired that you can’t even think straight. Something had to give. Some women gave up the job and began the hard work of making ends meet with just one paycheck. Some tied a key around their children’s necks and convinced themselves that the kids were better off with a satisfied Landrover-driving mom than a stifled stay-at-home mom. Some stayed on the job out of desperation and cried themselves to sleep thinking of some other woman holding their baby all day long. Some dads moved home or found creative solutions to fill in the gaps. And some of us were lucky enough to do our work from home.

So what if the next step in the education of girls—and boys, too, for that matter—is helping them find a trade they can do at home? I’m not talking about girls who know they want to be doctors and lawyers and rocket scientists and have the drive and patience to make it happen. I’m talking about girls who believe early on that their first calling is to be a wife and mother. Is it wise to send these girls off to pursue a four-year (or more) degree that can only be used in the outside professional world? Would it be more helpful and practical to encourage them toward something they can do at home? Traditional things like sewing and giving music lessons, but also things like accounting, graphic design, computer programming, book editing. Some of these require a college degree, but not one that costs $200,000.

And going a step further, as we’re divvying up whatever money we have to educate our children, is it inherently wrong to put more money in our son’s pile? Does it make us sexist to believe, even in the 21^st century, that he’ll most likely be the primary breadwinner in his family and that our daughters will not? Is this archaic thinking, or just a practical function of how many evangelicals think and raise their children? And if it’s the latter, why don’t we talk more about it?

If any of my kids is chomping at the bit for a certain kind of education, I hope we’ll be able to help them get it. But getting a degree just for the sake of getting a degree? Because it’s what everyone does in our circles? Because we want them to be well-rounded individuals? I’m not sure that’s the answer. There are a lot of ways to become well-rounded. A wiser choice to me seems to be helping them discover early on what they’re good at, what they love, and how they can earn money from it in ways that may be unconventional. It seems helpful to find people who are already doing those things and shadow them. I’ve always argued that none of the skills I use to do my job were learned in a classroom; they came from real-life experiences and sitting at the feet of good mentors. They were also free and didn’t consume years of my life.

I'm glad I have years ahead before these questions need to be answered, but for now, I think they at least need to be asked.  

13 Down, 13 To Go

It’s hard to say what I love most about my kids’ school, but probably it’s that kids get to be kids as long as they should be. Homework is never emphasized over family time, sixth graders aren’t obsessed with cell phones and boyfriends, and kindergartners go to school four mornings a week. Some parents struggle with that last one, and I’ll admit there have been times when I was ready to launch my five-year old much more quickly into the world of full-time school. But not this time. This time I’m so thankful I have one more year before Life As I Know It changes. One more year to transition out of the Little Kid Years and enter a new stage. One more year before I become that woman standing in her kitchen at 8:30 in the morning saying, “What do I do now?”

Empty-nester moms get all the press, but kids-in-school moms, at least those who don’t work outside the home, face a similar question of identity and purpose. When Camryn starts first grade next year, I will have spent 14 years wiping bottoms, pouring juice, reading books, singing songs, and teaching my little kids how to be big kids. I’ll have another 12 ahead of working with my big kids on how to be adults—and I’ll also have a whole lot more free time. This thrills my soul, but I want to be intentional about how I use it.

I could easily fill that time with exercise, Bible study, and meeting with friends, all things I love. I could increase my freelance business, which I love, or find a part-time job. I could throw myself into service and volunteer my hours away, which I would love. I could redirect my nurturing and get a puppy—love puppies!—and plant a garden. And let me say right here that I am aware of the huge luxury it is to even be able to ponder how I’ll spend my time. The vast majority of the world doesn’t have that option. To me, that’s all the more reason to be intentional and not careless with it.

What I can’t do is do it all. And so I feel like this year is a gift to me. Not only do I get these sweet days with Camryn, but I have the luxury of getting to pray and plan for the next 12 years of my life. This will be the year I say “no” so that next year I can begin saying “yes” to the right things. 

Are you saying "yes" to the right things? Are you investing your time intentionally or spending it carelessly? Something to think about as we all tear through our days. 

Reflections from Juror Number 14

In the midst of three major life transitions—moving, sending one kid to a new school and your baby to kindergarten—what’s the one thing you want to do most? Jury duty? Why, yes, of course. Who wants to shuttle children around and unearth the shower curtain when you could be sitting for hours in a courtroom?

This was me earlier this week. My summons was actually for the middle of July, but since we were on vacation that week, I handpicked this make-up date for myself. I’ve been on a jury before, so I’m no stranger to how it all works. I always bring my stack of reading material and assume I’ll be in and out in a couple hours, but it never quite works out that way.

About 350 of us gathered Monday morning at the county courthouse. By 11:00, 300 were dismissed. The remaining 50 of us were given a supplemental questionnaire and told to return at 2:00. I knew by the look of the questionnaire that I did not want to return. The words “sexual assault against a child” jumped off the page and made me slightly queasy. Still, the thought of a warrant for my arrest seemed even worse, so I obediently returned to the courthouse at 2. On my way there, I reminded myself that I am the Lord’s servant, and anyplace He puts me is where I want to be. Even on this jury.

The questioning, which lasted four hours and continued into Tuesday, was absolutely fascinating. I’m a studier of people, and the jury box provides better material than any airport terminal. The first two hours were light and conversational. We were asked about our jobs, hobbies, reading, music, and TV preferences. How can it be that in this city, I was the only one who reads Christian books and listens to Christian music—or at least who admits it? Country music, romance novels, and moms who love vampires are a lot more common than I knew.

Then we got into the nitty-gritty questioning. We were told there were five accusers in this case, all children, who would take the stand and testify. We talked about whether children were reliable witnesses and whether it’s even morally sound to put them in that position. We talked about the presumption of innocence, to which a few potential jurors responded, “He’s guilty in my book until someone proves him innocent.” (They were promptly excused at the first opportunity.) We learned more about the legal requirements of the case and how each count was separate and distinct from the others. In other words, we would have to consider each child’s testimony independently from the others, with no testimony bleeding over in our minds.

This is where things took an interesting turn. Person after person nodded affirmatively that they could do this. All the while I’m thinking that while that may be the law, it’s a ridiculous expectation. I had decided I wouldn’t say anything to intentionally get off the jury (like responding “purple bunny” to every question), but I would give my honest answers and let the chips fall as they may. I had the benefit of time and was able to think deeply about my answer. “I discern someone’s character based on their patterns,” I said. “Lie to me once, and I’ll give you grace. Lie to me repeatedly, and I’ll know better than to trust you.” Then I stated the seemingly simple concept that if I deemed the defendant the kind of man who would hurt one child, it would be hard for me to believe he would not hurt another. As much as I would want to follow the judge’s instructions to keep the charges separate, I wasn’t sure on a practical level how I would do that.

It wasn’t a popular statement. The defense lawyer started scribbling notes and asked who agreed with Ms. Jones. A few people raised their hands. But the prevailing thought in the room was that compartmentalizing these charges was as easy as it was essential. This leads me to wonder if I’m more honest than the average Joe, more aware of my own limitations, or just more crusty and disagreeable. Regardless, I was on the jury for only three minutes before the defense “thanked and excused Ms. Jones.”

Not the way I planned to start my week, but a great opportunity to surrender afresh to God’s plan for my time and realize that there are a lot of people even in this city who are a whole lot different from me. 

The Bigger Story

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

—1 Corinthians 13:12

I love being able to see the big picture. I love knowing how all the parts and pieces fit together. During our months of praying for a house, I hoped that some day I might know how God was answering those prayers. Not just how it ended, but what was happening all along the way. He gave me a glimpse of the bigger picture when I met a new neighbor who told me about the people who built our house.

In the summer of 2010, when our family was moving into the Shome, another family was preparing their house to sell, too. Mr. and Mrs. Throne, in their 70s, had built their house in 1977 in what must have been the country back then. They were close to our age at that time, and I imagine this was their dream house. They used fine wood and excellent construction. (Their choices in wallpaper were questionable, but as it was 1977, we’ll cut them some slack.) Mr. Throne walked the neighborhood each morning and helped the neighbors stay connected. Mrs. Throne worked in her garden and took care of Mr. Throne, even labeling a shelf in the pantry “Lunch Food” so he would know where to look when he got hungry. But in 2010, Mr. Throne received a cancer diagnosis with a grim outlook; he had about a year to live.

He spent the last year of his life preparing their house so that his wife could easily sell it when he was gone. He updated the kitchen and master bathroom, put in new carpet and air conditioning, and replaced the roof. He brought his house out of the ’70s so that a 21^st century family would love it as much as he had. He probably would have done more if the cancer hadn’t taken his life, but his dying wish was fulfilled. His wife easily sold their home within days in August 2011.

She sold it to a single man. I wonder if she thought, “This is a lot of house for just one person.” Had she imagined a family here? I think she had. But the family she was imagining—mine—wasn’t ready yet. We were only halfway through our time at the Shome, and we didn’t even know this house was here last summer. Good thing, or I would have clamored for it. But instead, the single man bought it. He lived here for 10 months. How surprised he must have been when his job took him overseas for an indefinite period of time. The house he surely thought he would settle in had to be sold. In July 2012. Just in time for us.

There’s a lot I don’t know about the Thrones and the man who sold the house to us. But I know that those sweet older people prepared this house for my family. I believe they had us in mind as they worked. And I know God used that man to hold this house for us until it was our time. God Almighty was working on our behalf every step of the way, knitting the pieces together as only He can. There I was, sitting in the parking lot of my children’s school a half mile away last year, praying that God would give us a house, and it was being prepared for us just down the street.

But there’s an even bigger story going on. God’s not just preparing houses for us here on earth; He’s preparing our home for us. Our eternal home. He’s doing it right now. While we fret about our bills and our government and our children’s future, He’s working on a much bigger story for all who follow Him. Some day He’ll move us into that home, and we’ll see how all the pieces fit together, even the hard ones that make no sense to us here. Then we shall know, just as we are fully known.

In my Father’s house there are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me so that you will also be where I am.

 —John 14:2–3

784 Days

Our days at the Shome are coming to an end. We’ll be moving next week, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. To the casual reader, it may seem like we just moved in. But to me, the past 784 days (give or take) have felt exactly like 784 days. My baby was newly three when we moved in; now she’s starting kindergarten in a week and a half. A lot of living has happened at the Shome. So what will I remember? What will the kids remember? The lack of space? The long commutes everywhere? The line of five whiny people at the bathroom door? Probably, but I hope we’ll focus on these memories instead:

• The girls becoming master rollerbladers in our family room.
• Eating donuts and watching the hot-air balloon launch on Labor Day weekend from our rooftop.
• Walking to the Family Dollar store across the street. How many people can do that?
• The kids using our bed as their “outdoor play area,” and us being laid back enough to go with it.
• Sword fights with dipsticks on top of the building next door.
• Daily visits from Grandpa, who works downstairs. Every kid should get to see their grandpa each day!
• Camryn opening her eyes in the morning and seeing her dad sitting at his desk right across the hallway.
• Christmas caroling in the ’hood with 80 of our suburban friends.
• Getting creative in the minivan. We used it for doing homework, eating, napping, reading, playing games, changing clothes, and having some really great conversations. 

And what about what we’ve learned during these 784 days? I’m still processing, and probably will be for a very long time, but here are a few things I know today:

• The poor are not just who you think they are. In our neighborhood at least, they are old ladies who live in small houses with lots of pets. How can we all do a better job of taking care of these forgotten women?
• Our city is much more diverse than we think it is. In any of the stores near our house we see people with turbans, women covered in robes, people with no limbs, and every race imaginable. Some day soon the kids won’t know this is normal. We’ll go days and weeks and possibly months without seeing someone in a wheelchair unless we’re intentional about where we walk and shop and hang out.
• Kids are so much less fragile than we think they are. Why is it that when a scary-looking person walks down the street, I step aside but kids look up and smile? Or that a 7-year-old can talk so intelligently and compassionately about homelessness? How can they all endure a middle-of-the-night break-in and be completely unfazed the next day? Nope, not as fragile as I thought.
• And here’s the big lesson for me: If you’re going to radically change your life, you’ve got to jump in with both feet. You can take baby steps—maybe even teenager steps—in living outside your comfort zone without completely detaching from the world as you once knew it. That is what we have done, and I’m so glad we did. We are better because of it, even if the ways are small. But we didn’t fully commit. For several reasons, we kept our kids in their overachieving school in the “nice” part of town, which meant their playdates, sports teams, and really their hearts, stayed there as well. This also left me in the car three hours a day, and it’s hard to invest in your community when your most meaningful fellowship is with a steering wheel. Baby steps are good and important, and I’ve done things here that I never imagined I could do. But to anyone considering uprooting to a different kind of lifestyle, I would say you’ve got to pull those roots all the way up. 

A New Era

Today I am the mother of a teenager. My son Braden, an unwilling participant in his own birth, was yanked from the womb 13 years ago today. I've said for a few years now that we're in parenting utopia—no babies, no teenagers. It all ends today.

Or does it? 

Can we make it through the next seven years with no door slams, no holes punched in the wall, no angry “YOU-JUST-DON’T-UNDERSTAND!” moments? I’m not so sure. Most of the grown men I’ve asked have admitted to a wall punch or two during their teenage years, and my husband bears scars on his own forearm from an angry adolescent outburst.

Will my son make it through junior high and high school with no regrets? Not a chance. I see many of my own worst qualities spewing out of my firstborn—impatience, a tongue quick to criticize, brutal honesty that’s not always packaged in love. He’ll say something he regrets, probably every day, until maturity and natural consequences and the book of James finally do their work in him and tame his tongue. Then it’ll only happen once a week.

Will he experience devastating disappointment? Will he be stressed and overwhelmed? Will he feel like no one understands him? Will he wonder why God made him the way He did and wish he could be someone else? Yes on all counts. And he’ll be stronger, wiser, gentler because of it. I wouldn’t shield him from these traumas for anything. 

But I will not surrender him to teenage culture. I will not accept the popular idea that this is where I lose him. I will not believe the bad press that teenagers get. I will not believe the lies that teenagers don’t want anything to do with their parents or that they have to shut us out to discover their own independence. I will not assume that he doesn’t want to hear from me on the big issues of life and keep my fingers crossed that he’s getting good enough messages from his church leaders, teachers, coaches, and friends. I will not trade in my role as his parent in hopes of being his friend. I will not assume that healthy independence means hours spent in a room filled with technology but no people or that my son has better things to do than spend time with his parents and little sisters. I will not stop wrestling with him, tickling him, or hugging him just because he’s eight inches taller than me (and, oh, how I hope he’ll be eight inches taller than me!).

In the blink of an eye, these little children I’ve been raising will all be teenagers, and it starts today. I say bring it on. I can’t wait! 

Asking for Elephants

Some thought-provoking questions have arisen from my last post, primarily, when is it appropriate to ask God to meet a deadline? The easy answer seems to me that it’s always appropriate to ask. There are certain circumstances that lend themselves more to deadlines—in our case, moving before school starts—but as long as we’re seeking God’s will, I don’t know that He ever is displeased by our ask.

The bigger point I am learning is that He is pleased when we ask big. I’ve realized how I have shied away from asking Him to do great and mighty things in and for me because I want to protect myself from disappointment. If I’m being honest, I also feel the need to protect Him and His reputation if He doesn’t deliver. I don’t have to work through hard faith issues if I don’t ever ask, right? Of course I’ll never grow in faith either.

Beth Moore tells a story in one of her Believing God DVD sessions that will stick with me the rest of my life. As she was starting school as a little girl, her aunt called and asked what she could get Beth for her first day of school. The aunt was probably thinking of a sweater, but little Beth was thinking big. She asked for an elephant. A bejeweled elephant with a fancy throne on which Beth could sit as she rode into school on the first day. (I picture Aladdin riding into the palace as a newly-minted prince in the Disney movie.) All these years later, Beth’s aunt still laughs about the elephant. “Honey, I couldn’t get you an elephant, but how I loved that you asked!”

If I ask God for an elephant and it’s in my best interest to have one, He’ll give me an elephant. He can do anything. He can give any gift at any time, perform any miracle in any way, answer any prayer exactly as we hope He will. Or He can say no. But next time I hear “no” from Him, I’m also going to envision Him saying, “Honey, I could get you the elephant if I knew it was best for you, but it’s not. So the answer is no, but how I love that you asked!”

He delights in our big asks! If they come from a God-seeking, submitted heart—and He knows when they do—they bring Him great joy. So no more asking for sweaters when it’s an elephant I really want to ask Him for. No more trying to protect myself or God’s reputation. And if there’s an elephant you’re praying for, I’d love to hear about it and pray with you.

Confidence in What We Hope for; Assurance When We Do Not See

Living in the Shome has been a faith adventure, no doubt. The conclusion to our time here has been no different; in fact, God has ramped up the faith story He’s been writing for our family. I have been praying daily to see His supernatural intervention in our circumstances—a miracle. I’ll tell you our story and let you see for yourself if He answered.

January 2012: We start looking at houses online. One, in particular, grabs our attention. But as we prepare to make an offer a month later, the owner suddenly takes it off the market after 10 months. Weird. We thought this was going to be so quick and easy.

February/March/April: We keep looking. Nothing. We realize the market has turned and inventory (houses for sale) has plummeted. I start praying for a miracle.

Late March: My friend Felicia and I start doing Beth Moore’s Believing God Bible study together. Neither of us knows anything about it. Both of us are searching for homes.

April: I tell Kevin that I’d like to find a house by July 1 so that we can get into it before school starts. Our family starts praying for that together. We have no prospects, but we’ve got a lot of time. House sales pick up in the summer, right? God speaks to me from Hebrews 11:6: “Without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.” I’m seeking like never before.

May: We’re now checking the MLS every day. Absolutely nothing appeals to us.

Late May: Felicia and I, who have been plowing through this Bible study, realize we’re going to have to slow down with the kids out of school. We had hoped to finish it before school ended, but maybe there’s a reason we need to stick with it through the summer. Every lesson speaks to me on waiting, seeking God, trusting in His faithfulness. Hebrews 11:1: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

May 31: Felicia finds a house. My hope is renewed.

June 1: A third summer in the Shome. I did not sign up for this, and I’m growing restless. Psalm 40:17: “I am poor and needy, but, Lord God, you care about me, and you come to my rescue. Please hurry up and help.” (If David can ask God to hurry, so can I.)

June 9: Maybe God doesn’t appreciate my July 1 deadline. I meet with a former author of mine, someone I greatly respect, and ask him what he thinks God thinks when we pray with a deadline. “I think He’s delighted,” my friend replies. He then prays with me not only for a house by July 1, but a house with all the things we’re looking for. “How many square feet?” he wants to know. I hadn’t thought of asking God that!

June 10: We’ve decided to increase our price range. Maybe we can help God along by creating a bigger window for Him to work with? (Because obviously He needs our help?) I am now looking on the MLS day and night, and Matthew 6:33 comes to mind—the only verse I have memorized in the King James: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all of these things shall be added unto you.” I resolve to have my quiet time before looking at the MLS!

June 11: “Oh, God, what if we’ve prayed for July 1 with the kids and you don’t answer? What will that do to their faith? What will it do to mine?” Mark 9:24: “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

June 12: My reading from the Believing God study: “And so we celebrated because the Lord had indeed worked miracles for us” (Psalm 126:3). A few days later, this same verse will appear on the screen at our church. A sacred echo! Got it. Memorized it.

June 19: The anniversary of our move to the Shome. We made it two years!

June 23: We pack up our friend Peggy, who is moving to Arizona. She seems to be the primary person God wanted us to meet down here, and we have spent hours and hours with her. Because she keeps falling and can no longer live alone, she has decided to move to Arizona with her family. While I am sad to see her go, I also feel like God is releasing our family from our assignment down here.

June 26: The most destructive fire to ever hit Colorado levels 347 houses in our city in one evening. Our focus and prayers shift away from our house and onto theirs. The whole city is sad and smoky.

June 29: I whine to Kevin that I’m sick of summer, sick of the heat, sick of the fire, sick of the Shome, sick of waiting on God. I start composing a blog post in my head about how much easier it is to focus on your frustrations than on your faith. I review my journal and find a passage I got from a book I worked on last summer: “The Lord was testing you to make sure you trust Him, so that He could be good to you later on.” I’m sick of the testing, but I can’t even complain about it because we’re in a disaster zone, and at least I have a place to live. There’s nothing I hate more in myself than ungratefulness.  

June 30: It’s 95 degrees, and we have a t-ball double header. In the smoke. I check my e-mail at the game. There’s a new MLS listing. My friend Rebecca looks up the address on her phone. It’s a house on 3.6 acres a half-mile from our school. In our original price range. We drive there straight from the t-ball field.

July 1: Although there aren’t supposed to be any showings until Monday, our realtor gets us in on Sunday night. We walk through the house. It needs a lot of work, but we know it’s the one.

July 5: We’re under contract. We aim to close on August 3. School starts August 20.

And so we celebrated

Because the Lord indeed

Has worked miracles for us. 

Fire Fighting

I moved to Colorado Springs in 1993, a 22-year-old with a brand new college degree and little else. I didn’t know a soul here. I rented an apartment a few miles from The Navigators, where I had found a part-time job as a writer. Unable to live on the $11,000 it paid, I eagerly took another part-time job as a secretary in my department so that I could eek out a very modest living.

I felt like a grown-up when I arrived, but I wasn’t. Glen Eyrie, the headquarters of The Navigators, is where I grew up. It’s where I understood the kind of relationship God wanted with me. It’s where I learned to memorize His Word and apply it to my life. It’s where I learned words like “disciple” and “Great Commission.” It’s where I made my biggest blunders and celebrated my greatest achievements. It’s where I learned to do the work I do today. It’s where I met the people who changed the course of my life. It’s where I met my husband (at the mailboxes) and said my wedding vows (in the Castle). It’s where I nearly gave birth—Brooklyn was born 12 hours after I left work one day in April 2004. It’s where I sat on the floor in the hallway with my friends and bawled like a baby the day my job came to an end. It’s where I can barely, just barely, muster up the strength to drive by today, more than five years after my sad departure. Like so many other Navigators around the world, I think of Glen Eyrie as my spiritual home.

The Waldo Canyon fire raging in our mountains leapt down the ridge Tuesday evening and charged toward Glen Eyrie. It’s not the first time the Glen has been in the path of natural disaster, but this is about as close as it gets. I heard today that infrared pictures show the fire line coming right up to the edge of the property—where it abruptly ends. Certainly the teams of firefighters on the property are doing an amazing job defending it. The castle, especially, as the original home of Colorado Springs’ founder, is so prominent in the city that they will not let it go down without a major fight. But I also know there’s another kind of protection that doesn’t need any hoses or shovels. I can’t begin to imagine how many of us are praying for the Glen. How we love to see Him answer in such dramatic ways.

Please keep praying for our city—for the 32,000 displaced residents, for the firefighters, for Glen Eyrie.  This will be a long haul. 

What I've Learned from the French Horn

Until recently, I’ve never thought about what a person’s musical instrument says about him or her. But now that I am the mother of an aspiring French-horn player, I’ve had opportunity to think about it in great depth. For hours. While she’s playing, playing, playing the French horn.

This is my 10-year-old, Addison. She has played the piano for four years and has entertained us with her own original works, such as “Mommy’s In the Shower Cleaning Stinky Body” and “Nobody Cares for Addison.” (The latter is truly amazing, lyrics not withstanding, and I think she should play it for her next recital.) About a year ago, she decided she wanted to follow in the footsteps of her piano teacher/cousin and play the French horn. At that time, I didn’t know a French horn from a car horn, so I set out to learn more.

The French horn is hard to play. For this reason, few people choose to play it. It requires massive wind and a keen ear, neither of which I knew if my daughter had. What I did know was that I would never choose the French horn. I never played any musical instrument at all, and if I had, my two requirements would have been these:

1)    Are my friends playing it?

2)    Is it easy?

And yet I have somehow managed to play a key role in the creation of a child who not only wants to play as many musical instruments as possible, but who wants to play whatever is unique and whatever is too hard for most people. Not only that, but she’s fiercely determined. We went to the music store to try all sorts of different instruments, and she willingly agreed. But it was the French horn we left with. Because it’s hard.

So status-quo-loving me finds herself with a fearless child who plans to spend her life in Indonesia and a determined child who will not be persuaded to take the easy way out. Clearly, God enjoys irony. 

It's the Little Things

It never ceases to amaze me that you can spend a hundred bucks trying to create a magical day for your kids, only to have them pout, whine, cry, and bicker through every part of it. And then there are those days in which you have not a single expectation, and the magic just sneaks up on you.

Last week we were planning to meet my in-laws for lunch, but they got held up, and lunch was delayed. I was already in route when I found out, my van filled with four restless kids anxious to eat and play with their cousins. And now we had an hour or more to kill. I took the first highway exit I saw, and we landed at the furniture store.

As much as I don’t enjoy decorating or shopping, even I think the furniture store is kind of cool. If nothing else, it’s roomy and air-conditioned. The older kids remember the furniture store and were skeptical about its entertainment potential. (And, really, what is life for a 12-year-old except an opportunity to be constantly entertained?) Still, I pressed on with my “Oh, won’t this be fun?” propaganda, and in we went. I always feel a bit like a circus performer when I walk into a quiet place with my kids trailing behind me; there are only five of us, but we’re somehow still a spectacle. We were accosted by no less than four salesmen before we even made it to the first display, but after saying with increasing intensity, “We’re just looking,” they seemed to get the idea and leave us alone.

We made no plans, we paid no money, we ate no junk food, yet the next hour was blissful. We tested the sofas. We rocked in the rocking chairs. We flopped on the mattresses, plopped into the bean-bag chairs, and spun in the spinny chairs. We pulled out the dresser drawers and planned where we would put our treasures and our socks. We pretended to eat the fake waffles on the table and drink the fake Coke on the coffee table. (Where do those come from, anyway?) All of these things would annoy me to death if we were there to actually buy furniture, but instead, I could actually take part in the silliness. I got to spend an hour dreaming with my kids, and not once did I have to say, “No. Put that back. We’re not getting it.” Obviously we weren’t there to haul out a three-piece living room set, so no one even asked for anything. We laughed and pretended and enjoyed each other’s company. Yep, sheer bliss. And you can bet that if I had planned something “fun” that day, it would not have turned out well enough to blog about. Well, not unless it was for entirely different reasons.

I’m not going to make a scrap-book page about our hour at the furniture store, and it’s not likely what our kids will mention when asked what they did this summer. But it’s a memory we won’t soon forget, and I’m thankful for the reminder that it’s the little things that usually end up making the biggest impression.  

The Promise of an Ending

I’m at the gym doing push-ups. Lots of them. Side by side with a class full of other sweaty women. I feel done. Like I can’t do this for another second. Does the instructor even remember we’re here? I know she can do push-ups all day, but doesn’t she care about the rest of us? We’re not like her.

Then she breaks the silence. “Eight more, ladies!”

A second ago, I was done. I couldn’t do even one more. But suddenly, I have new strength. I can do eight more. I just needed the promise of an ending.

How many times have I said, “I’m done,” only to jump back on the horse and ride it home as soon as I see the first glimpse of an ending in sight? I was the restless high school senior who gutted out every day because graduation was coming. I’ve always been a runner who needs to know I’ve only got a half-mile or five minutes left to run. I’m a school mom who needs to know that the craziness of May will give way to the serenity of June. I’m the book editor who knows I can keep getting up at 4:30 a.m. to work because the deadline is just four weeks away.

But today, I’m the woman who lives in the Shome, and there’s no foreseeable end in sight. It’s not that it’s a terrible place—it’s not at all—but, oh, how I yearn for a real house again. A house that feels like home. It seems to me that every good life lesson that could be soaked up from this living experience has been soaked. I feel more grateful, more aware of how other people live, more humble, less demanding, less dependent on stuff. And yes, I feel done. It feels a little like doing endless push-ups. And maybe my Almighty Instructor can do this with me forever, but I’m tired and sweaty and running out of steam.

I’m listening, waiting expectantly, to hear Him break the silence. “It’s time,” He’ll say one day soon. “Just ___ days left.” In the meantime, darn it, I don’t want to be a wimp. I want to finish well. I want to finish joyfully and thankfully. I want my Instructor to be pleased. So I hang on. Up. Down. Up. Down. Waiting for the promise of an ending. 

Random Thoughts from the Month of May

• Many of you know this already, but I’ll say it anyway: May is to a mom of school kids what April is to accountants and December is to retailers.
• And how many of you knew there’s a whole world out there that buys big bouquets of flowers for their preschoolers’ dance recitals? We didn’t get the memo, and I would have been too practical to accept the idea even if we had. The first thing Camryn said when I went to pick her up was, “I bet you didn’t get me a flower, did you?” (At the young age of 5, how well she knows her mother.) But when we made our way through the crowds and caught up with the men in our family, Braden handed her a pink, slightly worn carnation that had fallen from someone else’s bouquet. She lit up like a neon sign and carried it with her all day long.
• Is there any more awesome way to finish up a school year than to watch the Air Force Thunderbirds streak across the sky each year? Our school is across the street, basically, from the U.S. Air Force Academy, and we appreciate that they schedule their graduation the same day our classes end. Feels like the Thunderbirds are there just for us. As an added bonus, we got to see the presidential helicopter this year, too.
• There are few things more awkward to watch than sixth-grade suburban boys attempting the Electric Slide at their year-end party.
• Believe it or not, there are children who are heartbroken at the thought of school being over for three months. I was one, and I have one (Brooka).
• Satan has a field day with moms who have no real summer plans (unless surviving another summer in the Shome is considered a “plan”) yet are surrounded by those who have very exciting plans. Today I declare war on comparing myself to others and being whiny instead of grateful.
• You know you’re getting older—or at least your kids are—when you wake up to find a toilet full of hours-old vomit. Old enough to vomit independently but not quite old enough to clean it up. Still, I’ll take it! 

Buying, Selling, and Believing

If you are not buying or selling a house right now, I’ll fill you in on what you’ve been missing. The market recently turned on a dime. Overnight, it went from a buyer’s market to a seller’s. Despite all the recent proclamations to the contrary, now is actually a wonderful time to sell a house. The inventory is as low as it’s been in years, and houses are now flying off the market. Woo-hoo for all you sellers out there!

Of course that’s not us, and it’s easy to wallow in gloomy self-pity over this turn of events. There’s a voice inside of me that says, “Well, of course it’s become a seller’s market—because we’re in it! Every time we’ve ever bought a house it’s been a seller’s market. Last time we had to race to get our full-price offers in, and looks like this time won’t be any different. Isn’t that just our luck?”

But the faith-filled voice inside me is having no part of this Murphy’s Law stuff. I’ve been praying a specific prayer for our family: that we would see God’s supernatural hand of intervention in our search for a house. I started off praying for a certain house, but that didn’t feel right, because what if that’s not where God wants us? When I asked Him about this, I got a pretty clear response in my head: “You don’t need to worry about choosing the house, Leura. You choose the faith to believe me, and I’ll choose the house.”

Even more than I want a backyard for the kids and a place where we can invite people over, even more than I want an oversized bathtub and a breakfast bar and carpet that I can sink my feet into, I want to see the indisputable hand of God work on our behalf. I want to see God’s glory even more than I want to live five minutes from school—and that is really saying something. A house is a house, but seeing God provide that house for us in a way we never expected—that’s where I want to live. And what kind of faith would be required if there were dozens of perfect houses for us to choose from?

Arrogant as it may seem, I take full credit for the turn in the market. And if my prayers for a miracle help out all you sellers, well, cool. Glad to help. 

Clean Slates

I’m that odd bird who loved junior high—at least seventh grade, anyway. I’ve always considered that year as the best of my childhood. It was the year when everything went right. Relationships clicked. The homework was easy and the grades were perfect. All the applause seemed to be for me. I looked cute in my cheerleading skirt. Those are the kinds of things that make a 13-year-old happy. I’m sure it wasn’t as blissful as I remember, but I had my own phone—the kind with a cord that would only stretch the length of my bed—and life was good.

Now I am preparing to send my own child to seventh grade. Last week Braden and I attended seventh-grade orientation at what will be his junior high. (Yes, we actually have an old-fashioned junior high with just seventh and eighth graders.) Of course I wonder how I got to this place in life and where the time went, but more than anything, I’m just crawling out of my skin with excitement for him. And it’s not because I happened to love seventh grade.

There is something so appealing about a clean slate, and this is not lost on Braden. Two other elementary schools feed into our junior high, so two-thirds of his classmates will be new to him. The principal also flashed a list of clubs and activities on the screen for us, and I could see Braden’s eyes light up. He has so many interests and desires, and now he has new ways of pursing them.

We talked on the way home about the few chances we get in life at a fresh start. About what a gift this time is and how he can use it to choose who he wants to be and what he wants to be known for. We talked about using this time to offload some of the bad habits and childish ways that are holding him back. At least on some small level, he seems to see that right here in seventh grade, he can start becoming the young man he wants to be. It won’t be smooth or easy, and none of us expects overnight maturity, but I’ve got to think he’s ahead of the game just by understanding the uniqueness of this opportunity.

I think we all long for a fresh start. I know I do. But how do I find that at 41? What do I do with my desires to offload the junk in me, to become the person I dream of being? Since ditching my family and running away to Paris is not a viable option, I’ll take God up on His new-every-morning promise:

“Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22–23).

I’m not consumed by yesterday. Today is my clean slate—and if I mess it up, I get a new one tomorrow. Thank you, God. 

What Dwells in Me

Have you ever had one of those days where you just feel defeated? I had one recently, a day in which I couldn’t shake the frustration of everything I just cleaned getting messy again, everything I just fixed breaking again, every lesson taught unlearned again. It was last Saturday that I had this defeated feeling. Interesting that it was the day between Good Friday and Easter, the day when we think of Jesus in the grave and His followers held captive by what must have been the most defeated feeling of all time. I could sort of relate to them. Of course the big difference is that I knew Sunday was coming.

One of the first songs I ever learned in church said something like, “That same spirit that raised Christ from the dead dwells in you.” I was too little to understand or care what that meant, but now it rocks my world to the core. It means that I may feel defeated, but I don’t have to live defeated. The power that raised Christ from the dead lives in me! It would be the understatement of the century to say that that’s a lot of power. But it is! And it’s there just waiting for me to tap into it. It’s not going to mop my floors or make my kids stop fighting, but it’s going to change the way I think about those things.

Life is defeating. It just is. As my husband reminds me, everything is in the process of dying, including us. Could there be anything more defeating than that? But that’s not the end of the story. Saturday is not the end of the story. Sunday and all the victory it brought with it—that’s the true story. Resurrection power living in me—and you—is the true story. And it’s my truth even when I’m up to my eyeballs in broken crayons and dirty towels and unmet expectations.

"I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is the same as the mighty strength he exerted when he raised Christ from the dead." —Ephesians 1:18-20a