Lifecycle of a Waterpark Girl

Little girl: Slathered in sunscreen by mom. Cute as she can be in her little tutu swimming suit. Plays with abandon. Aware of nothing. Will never be this unaffected again but doesn’t know enough to enjoy it.

Teenage girl: Wears just enough sunscreen to appease mom. Wears just enough clothing to appease the law. Plays some, risking wardrobe malfunction, and above all else tries to look cool. Keenly aware of her body, her friends’ bodies, the bodies of any young men who pass by, and the bodies of older women whom she swears she will never become.

Girl in her (late) 20s: Slathers sunscreen on her big pregnant belly. Wears any clothes she can find which currently fit, and that’s not many. Has no energy to play so lays in a shallow pool of water in an attempt to cool off, knowing full well that the term “beached whale” comes to the minds of all who pass by. Keenly aware of the bodies of younger girls, who she used to be until this happened.

Girl in her 30s: Way too busy chasing small children to slather sunscreen on anyone but them. Wears whatever will hide the stretch marks without looking too uncool. Plays with children in kiddie pools while longing to get one’s money’s worth by going on the real rides. Pushes strollers through crowds, changes diapers on slippery surfaces, and is hoarse by the end of the day. Keenly aware of predators, pedophiles, and lifeguards who don’t appear to be paying attention.

Girl in her 40s: Obsessed with sunscreen and preventing age spots. Wears clothes that are either inappropriate or hideous and uncomfortable either way. Chases older children who want to ride every ride nine times and frets over letting them break off into smaller groups. Keenly aware of teenage clothing (or lack thereof) and PDAs, fearing what lies ahead. Attempts to be the “fun mom,” but really just longs for a shade tree and a good book.

Girl in her 50s and beyond: For the love of all that’s good and decent in the world, please just cover yourself up.

Lifecycle of a waterpark boy: Play hard. Be comfortable. Don’t drown. 

A Week of Things Learned

Things Learned from the Fire

Because of the multiple fires burning in our state, it’s smokier now than when the fire was a mile away. I’ll never complain about smoke again. I have a house. Five hundred of my neighbors don’t. Smoke is a good reminder to pray for them and the firefighters who are still at war with blazes all over the state. Bless you, firefighters.

Things Learned from the Fire about the Kind of Mom I Want to Be

A friend of mine left her house to take her son to a music lesson, leaving her three daughters at home. The Black Forest fire broke out while she was away. Because it ignited in the middle of the day, this was the case for a lot of families with teenage children. My friend’s girls were fine—they were amazing under pressure, actually—but I resolved not to leave my kids at home alone at all while the fire was burning. And guess what? I actually enjoyed hauling them to Walmart and the bank and on all my other errands. It’s a long stretch from infants to teenagers, and like everyone else, I’m loving the new freedom I have to leave my kids at home without me sometimes. But I also don’t want to get into the easy habit of leaving them at home in their own world while I go off into mine all the time. I want them to be part of my world. It’s good for them to learn how to compare prices and make returns at Walmart. And with their help, I was able to complete my shopping in about half the time. When my nest is empty, I’ll have plenty of time to zip around in my cute little car running errands by myself. For now, I want to be with these awesome kids. Usually.

Things Learned from Sending My Daughter to Camp

Five years ago I agonized over sending my little boy to camp. I had visions of him sunburned, stinky, filled with head lice, and eating nothing but hot dogs and sugar for five days. Totally different sending my daughter off for five days. I know I can trust her to operate a tube of sunscreen and brush her teeth every day, but oh how I worried about her heart. Would she feel included? Would other girls be kind to her sensitive little heart? Would her counselor love on her? Would she speak up if she were sad, or would she just pull way and isolate herself? These concerns kept me praying a lot more this week than when I was just hoping my boy child would change his socks. Addison came home yesterday, happy, healthy, and with some newly acquired emotional strength that made it worth every penny we spent on camp.

And Finally, Things Learned from the Internet This Week

My struggle to balance God’s commands to help the poor with my nice, cozy life rages unceasingly in my mind. I read far too many books and articles that leave me feeling guilty while doing nothing to equip me with a practical response. This article on Compassion was a balm for my anxious soul. This I can do. And I can change several lives in the process.

Déjà vu

“Unbelievable.”

Kevin walked into the house Tuesday afternoon and asked if I’d seen the smoke. The very word “smoke” conjured up images that my mind wasn’t ready for. I stood in the driveway and could scarcely take it in. An enormous, monstrous cylinder of dark smoke rose up out of Black Forest, little more than five miles from our house. I immediately felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. What couldn’t be really was. Our city was on fire again, just 50 weeks after the most devastating wildfire in Colorado history. Unbelievable.

There’s good déjà vu and then there’s this kind. This is the nightmare variety. It consists of smoke so thick you don’t dare open the windows or go for a walk. Mandatory evacuations and temporary shelters. Military helicopters and jets flying overhead. Now-familiar terms like “slurry” and “duff” and “red-flag warnings.” Local news stations broadcasting 24/7, and households that come to a screeching halt at 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. to watch the latest update: How many houses were lost in the night? What will the wind do today? What’s the level of containment? (We’ve learned to rejoice over 50 percent but expect 0 percent.) Then finally the Type 1 Incident Command—the feds who only give attention to the nation’s most terrorizing fires—moves in to take over. By now they feel like trusted old friends.

There are the same nagging logistical questions we had last June: Do we push ahead with the birthday party? Do we still go to the orthodontist? Is it life as usual even when it feels like a war zone? And is that disrespectful to our neighbors who have lost everything?

The same sticky theological questions arise, as well: Have we stirred up your wrath, Lord? Or is this simply life in a fallen world?

But this fire is markedly different for my family. Last year, we lived in the Shome, a world away from the terror that played out on the west side of the city. This time, the fire is in our back yard. The planes are flying right over our heads—it would be spectacular if it weren’t so scary. We lost power and water for a day and a half, and I learned to operate a generator. The evacuation zone, still voluntary at this point, is an easy bike ride away for even my child with training wheels.

So I find myself in the surreal position of walking through the house, tossing the kids’ medals and artwork and home movies into boxes, trying to hunt down the wedding video and the title to our house, all while questioning the sanity of what I’m doing. Really? Is it going to get this far? In my neighborhood? That’s crazy. All I’m doing is creating a lot of work for myself.

But that’s the old way of thinking, the June 22, 2012, way of thinking. We’re people who live in a post-Waldo Canyon world. We’re people who have seen the impossible happen.

During this morning’s press briefing, a reporter asked our sheriff if he thought the interstate was in danger of being shut down. He paused, gave a sad, war-weary laugh, and said something like this: “A year ago I said there was no way it would get that bad, that the highway would certainly not be shut down, but it did and it was. I’ll never say never again.”

So I keep packing. Unbelievable.

Taking the Grade

“Grace” is a word I use almost every day. I preach it to myself and teach it to my kids. I memorize Bible verses about it and tape them to my walls. I read books about it and sing songs about it. But I still think it’s a hard concept to explain. It’s best described by metaphors and word pictures and stories. I was especially affected by the one I heard during this week’s church sermon.

A student was signed up for a class that she knew she would fail. Distraught over the thought of certain failure, she asked her dad to accompany her to the teacher’s office to see if she could drop the class. Together they pleaded their case to the teacher. He stopped them midway through and said, “What if I guarantee you, right now, that you will get an A in the class? No matter what you do, the A is yours.” Of course that changed everything for the girl. With the teacher’s guarantee, she not only survived the class, but she was hugely successful in it. His promise brought out the very best in her.

In the classroom of life, God guarantees an A to all who call upon the name of Jesus (Romans 10:13). You can’t earn your way into heaven, buy your way into heaven, or hope your way into heaven. The grace of God—giving us not what we deserve but what we need—is the only ticket we have. And it’s guaranteed.

Just like the girl in the story, knowing we’ve got the A already, that there’s nothing we can do to make the grade any better or any worse, frees us up to be the best we can be—the people we were made to be. For me, the key word in that sentence is “be.” No matter how deeply I think I’ve grasped the concept of grace, I still feel like there’s more I should be doing. God is not so concerned with my doing. It’s my being that He’s interested in. He’s not looking for my great acts of service, ready to up my grade when I complete them or flunk me when I fail or just stall out. I can’t impress God with what I do. I can only take Him up on His gift of grace and cultivate a “being” heart, one that is loving, humble, faithful, obedient.

The A is mine. Will I live like it? Will you?