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

Four: My Last Goodbye

Tonight I’m that strange, indecisive mix of both very happy and very sad. I just said goodbye to my four-year-old. Cuddled her. Kissed her. Snuggled her. Then shut the door on my very favorite kid age.

It’s not the first time. The first time was in July 2004. I knew there was pure magic wrapped up in that four-year-old little boy, but I was nursing a newborn and potty-training a two-year-old, and really, more than anything, I just wanted someone in that house to be a little bit more grown up and self-sufficient. And to go to kindergarten for half a day, please.

The second time was in September 2006. By this time I was fully aware that four was my favorite age, and I made a big deal of saying goodbye to it. Made signs, took pictures, asked the child if she was sure she really wanted to do this, and eventually drove her to raging tears over turning five. She was up half the night trying to resist the aging process. Note to self: Don’t make a big deal of life transitions with the sensitive child.

Then came April 2009. Brooka as a four-year-old sucked up more from life than most of the adults I knew. When she turned five, it seemed like she should be at least eight. I always say Brooka was little for about ten minutes, and I must have been in the bathroom and missed it. Besides, she was not my baby, and my baby still had years to go before she’d be five.

Well, the years went, and now we’re there. The baby’s four for another ten hours, and tomorrow she’ll be five. The age when kids start to change. The age when they begin to get the hint that their mother is not the all-wise, all-beautiful, all-capable center of the universe. That could drive me into a full-fledged sobfest, but instead, I’ll try to remember all that is good about five. She’ll get to go to kindergarten, and Camryn will love kindergarten. She’ll learn to read, and she’ll love to read. She’ll learn to play soccer and rollerskate and swim in the deep end of the pool, and she’ll love being able to do those things with the big kids. She’ll try new foods and visit new places and make more new friends than we can count. She’ll also start to realize that I’m not perfect, and that’s not only OK, it’s crucial. I bet she’ll still say, “Mommy, let’s hold hands” when we walk out of the grocery store.

Yeah, maybe five is my new favorite age.

These Games Aren't For Everyone

I’m resisting the urge to write about one hot blog topic—the Manning-Tebow drama that played out in Denver this week (suffice it to say that I’m heartsick)—in favor of another: the movie release of The Hunger Games.

I have not seen the movie, but earlier this year I decided to treat myself to some fiction reading. I ended up knocking out the whole Hunger Games series in a few weeks and though it lived up to the hype. But it is absolutely not for everyone.

Time magazine called it a “chilling, bloody and thoroughly horrifying book.” That’s exactly what it is, yet it’s also compelling, fascinating, and a wonderful study in character development, so much so that I couldn’t stop reading, despite my policy of avoiding disturbing sensory input. Yes, I was disturbed. I would question the moral fiber of anyone who could walk away from such a story undisturbed.

So can someone tell me why 12-year-olds are reading this? It’s the talk of my son’s sixth-grade classroom this week, with the books flying from one set of hands to another, apparently with the endorsement of the teacher, and “Team Gale” and “Team Peeta” dividing the ranks of the girls in the class. (A “Team Awesome” also sprung up in opposition to the whole Hunger Games craze.) I even heard rumors that kids in my daughter’s fourth-grade class were reading the book—those are 9- and 10-year olds. This is more disturbing to me than the book itself.

I won’t be so simplistic as to rail against the violence. My 7-year-old has seen all of the Star Wars movies and a good amount of Indiana Jones, so I don’t want to be hypocritical. My concern goes much deeper than kids and violence. I’m wondering how we turned into a society that forces our kids out of childhood so quickly. I realize that many kids have childhood stolen away by unavoidable life events and circumstances. That seems all the more reason to vigilantly protect their childhood from something as controllable as media. Why do we think it’s cute when 9-year-old girls scream over Justin Bieber? Why is there even a market for slutty-looking dolls marketed to 7-year-olds? Why do 11-year-olds look for identity in a cell phone? And why do 12-year-olds read books about teenagers forced to fight to their bloody deaths by a tyrannical government? How did we get here? And what are we going to do about it?

Not exposing our kids to the Hunger Games is a good start. I found this quote on an MSN entertainment site, and I think it gets to the heart of the issue:

“Really, though, the question should not be ‘Will my child be traumatized by watching this?’ Because if that is even a question, then they should watch something else. The better question is: Will my child understand what this movie is really about?”

If there are 12-year-olds out there who truly understand starvation, desperation, abandonment, hopelessness, psychological manipulation, governmental corruption, and megalomaniacs, then I pray they’ll end up in the office of a loving counselor instead of the seat of a movie theater. As much as it’s in our control, until our children have aged gently into the mental and emotional capacity to deal with the harsh realities of the world, can we just let them be kids?

Foot Traffic

People in my old neighborhood walk for exercise, either for themselves or for their dogs. People in my current neighborhood—I still have not found an accurate term for where we live: “downtown,” “the inner-city,” “the ’hood”—walk as a means of transportation. We live on a busy street with a bus stop a couple doors down and a Family Dollar store across the street. This creates a great deal of foot traffic in front of our building and plenty of opportunities for people watching.

Too bad Jesus isn’t satisfied with my mere watching of people. No, He wants me to engage with them. Sometimes I stay put and feel guilty about this, and sometimes I actually do something about it.

A couple Sundays ago, I was out for my morning run before church. I took longer than I expected and found myself crunched for time as I rounded the corner for the last six blocks. Two blocks later, I saw a woman walking with a cane up ahead of me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen her. As I’ve passed her a few times on my way to take the kids to school, I’ve whispered, “God bless you, sister” as I watch her labored gait move slowly, oh so slowly, down the street.

Now she was in front of me, sliding one foot in front of the other with the effort of a frozen mountaineer scaling Everest. I was running at a near sprint, making good time. Checking the clock on my iPod, I knew it was risky to start a conversation with her. Would there be enough time to find clothes for all the kids, hose down their heads, buckles shoes, round up coats, and maybe still get a shower for myself? I hate being late for church. You miss all the good songs.

But what about being the church? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, about the importance of teaching the kids not just to do church—ritualistically, once a week—but to actually be the church to the hurting world. Would the church run by this woman without a glance? Would Jesus?

I stopped and assumed her snail’s pace. I said something about seeing her walk along this street before and admiring her tenacity. I told her I hoped I would be like her some day. All true. And then I got an education.

Her name is Renee. She’s 64. She’s had the same group of girlfriends her whole life, and they’re planning a big bash for their 65^th birthdays this year. She’d like to go in a hot-air balloon. She has two daughters who live far away. She worked in insurance for 29 years while raising her daughters, then went to college and then grad school to become a librarian. This woman with a couple of prominent teeth missing has more education than I do. Her husband died a while back, and she moved to Colorado Springs for a fresh start. She has a roommate she enjoys. She goes to church about a mile and a half away and usually has someone who picks her up because she doesn’t drive anymore. But on that day, the youth group was having a special breakfast for seniors, and she didn’t want to miss it, so she decided to walk. A mile and a half. She’d never made it further than our shop, which was about halfway. But she knew if she could make it to the bus stop, she could rest for a while before continuing. Along the way, she picked up cans and placed them into one of the several bags she was carrying. (Yes, “bag lady” came to mind before I took the time to know her.) She collects the tabs off the cans because somehow they are converted to money for the Ronald McDonald house in our neighborhood. She also volunteers on Fridays at the neighborhood school—the one where 90 percent of the kids are on the free-lunch program—to read to the kindergartners, and they bring in cans for her so they can support the Ronald McDonald house, too.

And here I thought I was the one being the church to Renee. God never tires of finding new ways to humble me.

I was hanging on her every word and barely noticed we had made it to the bus stop where she planned to rest. She was sweating pretty hard by now, and I begged her, pleaded, to let me drive her the rest of the way to church. After about four gentle rebuffs, she looked me straight in the eye and said firmly, “I need to do this.”

Again, I begged her to knock on our door if she changed her mind. I took her hand and told her I’d see her around. I went upstairs and looked out my window, watching to see if she would change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she shuffled off, grabbing a can or two along the way, until I couldn’t see her anymore.

We were about five minutes late for church, and I didn’t mind one bit this time.

The Book that Found Me

Our message at church this weekend was on the authority and reliability of the Bible. Is it a reliable means of knowing truth? I need no convincing of this. I’ve chosen to live my entire life based on the truth of the Bible, and believe me, if I hadn’t, it would look a lot different.

Our pastor quoted a centuries-old French philosopher (Wouldn’t it be cool if I had taken down his name?) who put together his own book of pithy quotes and “life verses” in hope of finding some meaning for his existence. After what must have been a whole lot of work, he was disappointed when it amounted to nothing substantial on which he could base his life. Then he realized his wife had smuggled a Bible into their non-religious home, and upon reading it, he said something like, “Finally, a book that has found me.”

Yes, nameless French dude! I am one who has been found by it, too. What other book could paint such a broad but consistent message using such a variety of palettes? If I don’t care for history, I’ve got poetry. If long genealogical lists aren’t my thing, I’ve got some of the greatest biographies ever written.

Just recently I’ve been agonizing over Joash, one in a long line of Judean kings who chose to follow his own ways instead of God’s. Raised in the temple by the priest Jehoiada after his grandmother murdered all the other members of his family, Joash became king at 7 and managed to get a lot right while Jehoiada was alive. But he fell apart after his mentor died, following the lead of his wicked advisors and eventually being killed for it. Who am I when the important people in my life aren’t looking on? Oh, the things I can learn from Joash.

From young David I learn about ferocious faith and facing my own giants. From older David I learn how to lament, how to confess, and how to praise with abandon, not caring what anyone thinks.

From Solomon I am reminded of good common sense: accepting correction, holding my tongue, pursuing wisdom, choosing generosity over greed, being honest, not being lazy, trusting God instead of my own understanding.

From the book of Philippians (2:14–16a) we plucked the words for our family verse. Could there be anything more relevant to the six of us than “do everything without complaining or arguing”? Could Paul’s words written 2,000 years ago—“a warped and crooked generation”—be any more apt for the world we live in today?

And what about James? It’s as if he crawled into my brain and picked out every issue I’ve ever struggled with. How is it possible I’ve never met this man? How does he know exactly what I need to hear?

No one can convince me that the Bible is irrelevant for us today. It’s alive and active. It knows me. It found me. It penetrates my heart each and every day.

Trying on Houses

It seems like a hundred years ago, but it was actually more like 15. A young couple with 90s hair and not a care in the world was looking for a house. They checked out three or four, stumbled on the ideal location, decided they could live with the house, and made an offer.

That was us, back in 1997. (Why is it that any date beginning with “19” truly does feel like a millennium ago?) Shopping for a house was like shopping for a new sweater. If it looked like it fit, you quickly tried it on, liked it, and moved toward the cash register.

It was a bit more complicated the second time. Not only were we joined by a snoopy two-year-old, who didn’t necessarily understand that he couldn’t help himself to whatever he found in the pantry of the house we were viewing, but I was hauling around the twenty-pound bowling ball that was Addison in my belly. My sense of urgency grew along with my tummy, until we again found a great location and a house we could live with and headed again to the cash register. Would have been nice to know the house had once been condemned due to a questionable foundation, but who has time for such details when a baby’s on the way? We moved in September 5, 2001, watched the horrors of 9/11 unfold on boxes from our otherwise desolate living room floor, and brought our new baby home a few weeks later.

Now we’re beginning our search for our third house, and everything’s changed. Again, the sweater analogy is helpful. Picture a harried mother and her four children packed into the Kohl’s dressing room. A couple kids are griping about how bored they are, a couple others are punching each other, mom is sweating, sweaters are flying across the room, buttons popping off. The store should just be thankful if they make it out without leaving a trail of blood behind, nevermind the mess.

And so it was, after we visited the first house this time around, four kids in tow, our realtor ended up getting an angry call about the beds being messed up with a couple of little-girl coats left behind. But the pets were all alive, right? C’mon, people. Cut us some slack.

The bigger deal is helping the kids not become too emotionally attached to the houses. No wait, the bigger deal is ME not getting too emotionally attached. And at this point, 20 months into living with no bathtub, I can even get attached to the 1960s house with the pink tub and the orange shag carpet. The kids actually got into a fight at that house over who got which room, that’s how easily we can see ourselves somewhere else.

Patience, patience. Not my strong suit when trying on sweaters or houses. But as this might be the house out of which they haul my dead body in 45 years, it’s a quality I’ll need in great measure during this pursuit.