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.