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.