Road Trip

Remember road trips in the ’70s and ’80s, before seatbelts and portable DVD players? My earliest memories are of sprawling out on a quilt in the back of my parents’ station wagon, eating snacks, wrestling with my brother, and flopping over the seat to talk to mom and dad. We listened to Johnny Cash on eight-tracks, slept hours more than we usually did, and stared out the windows for entertainment.

In the ’90s, my friend Eric had a truck with a topper on the back, and he’d haul college kids up and down Highway 101 on road trips. One time we learned from a California Highway Patrol officer that it’s not OK to interrupt your road trip with a back-of-the-truck siesta by the side of the road.

Kevin and I made great memories driving across nine New England states in eight days. We drove unencumbered and with only a rough agenda, and when we were tired, we landed at any hotel we could find. That’s as close as I ever came to Bohemianism.

That trip through New England was my last road trip. I think it was 1997. When I got pregnant for the first time in 1998, the road trips came to a screeching halt. See, we are those rare people who don’t have to take road trips. Unlike nearly all of our friends, we are natives in this state full of transplants. (Have I mentioned I’m a fifth-generation Coloradan? Yeah, probably so.) Our children are the lucky ones who wake up every Christmas morning in their own beds, who have grandparents at every Grandparents Day, and who need only make a 15-minute trek across town to spend the night with grandma and grandpa. The other grandma lives a mere two hours away and almost always comes to us. As a result, our road trip muscles are weak. Maybe more like non-existent. We have children who fight and whine and cry, “Are we there yet?” on the hour-long trip to WaterWorld.

But this week, that all changes. We’re going to work those road trip muscles and prove to ourselves that we’re just as hearty as the rest of you. (Yes, even you Jamie, my Road Trip Superhero, who drives to Pennsylvania with your nursing babies, toddlers, potty-trainers, and preschoolers.) Our kids are 7, 10, 12, and 14. We have a Suburban, three Kindles, and a portable gaming system. How hard can it be?

But I have to admit, as I stare down this 40-hour round-trip drive to Toledo, Ohio, with a bulky family of six, I’m intimidated. A little excited, yes, but also a little anxious. Are road trips an acquired skill? Do we have what it takes? Will I be able to fulfill my commitment to be my best self on this trip—filled with grace and patience toward my husband and kids—or will I be ready to get out and walk by the time we hit Kansas?

Only time will tell. Lots and lots and lots of time.

A Well-Timed Day for Mothers

On May 9, 1914, Woodrow Wilson issued a proclamation declaring the first national Mother’s Day. Thank you, Woodrow. I’m guessing this act just happened to land on your desk in May, but what foresight you had to act on it so soon. A June Mother’s Day would be lovely, I’m sure, but by June, we mothers have almost recovered from the horrors of May. We’re starting to feel like ourselves again and recapture some of that vision and passion that made us want to be moms in the first place.

But in May? The vision and passion have been squeezed out of us. We are empty. We are tired—beyond tired—more like catatonic. We are at the end of our ropes. We need a day where we can sleep a little longer, eat a good meal we didn’t prepare ourselves, consume a few extra calories, and sit on the couch with our feet propped up while we open our sweet homemade cards. Yes, bless you, Woodrow Wilson.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I am posting a link to my favorite tirade of all time. Jen Hatmaker’s treatise on the end of school shot around the online world last year like a bullet, but it’s every bit as funny this year. Read it again. (I think she secretly lives in my house, or maybe even in my brain. Her world is my world, except with one more kid and maybe not so much soccer.)

Bless you Woodrow Wilson, Jen Hatmaker, and all you sweet, tired moms everywhere.

http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/05/30/worst-end-of-school-year-mom-ever

And I Thought Teaching Them to Tie Was Tricky

In the world but not of the world. It’s the classic line for how Christians are to reconcile living out their faith with living in a fallen world. It was the theme of our teaching at church this weekend with Daniel, a young Jewish man taken political prisoner in Babylon, as our example. The teacher pointed out Daniel’s purity—his faithfulness to the things of God—as well as his proximity. Daniel didn’t try to escape the Babylonian culture. He didn’t complain about it or rage against it. He lived right in the midst of it, took a stand when he needed to, and became a great leader with a faithful testimony.

As I raise my own young “Daniels,” I see lots of success in the purity part—probably because that’s where 99 percent of my effort goes. My children know the Bible better than any other book. They roam through the house singing praise songs and turn up their noses at Katy Perry. They dress conservatively and have no interest in the latest fads. They stay true to themselves and are not the least bit swayed by the winds of their culture. These are good things. Things I love. But what about proximity?

Am I teaching them to live in the world, or just to resist it? Am I instilling vision in them to lead well in the world, or just to fight against all that’s bad with it? Part of leading well is fighting and calling out what’s wrong. It is daring to take a stand, even when it’s an unpopular stand. But we can plant ourselves so firmly in what we believe is right that we will not move toward others who are different. This seems to be the bigger issue with my kids. They know well how to be “not of the world.” It’s the being in it part—being in it well—that needs some work.

We laid some groundwork by living at the shop and experiencing the culture of the poor and the hurting and the addicted. Our commitment to being involved with the poor will keep the kids around that part of “the world,” but what about the suburbanites who wear bikinis and listen to rap and party on the weekends? Will my children love them, too, or just avoid them like the plague? Worse yet, will they feel compelled to judge them? In the midst of all the other instruction, have I remembered to teach my kids that self-righteousness is one of the ugliest sins going? And am I doing more than teaching? Am I modeling for them how to love people who dress, pierce, worship, parent, and vote differently than I do? 

As an adult Christian, I feel the constant tension between knowing when to stand up and fight and when to shut up and love, when to resist the culture and when to engage with it. I have no regrets about focusing first with my kids on how to be different, set apart, from the ways of the world and how to cling always to the things of God. But before they leave this nest, I want to be sure they also have the skills to discern which battles are worth fighting and that they know those battles can often be won with humility, kindness, and gentleness. 

Help me, Lord, to teach my kids something that I'm so far from mastering myself. 

Passion Week

“I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it would be.”

Those words have probably never been spoken more than during the first Passion Week. Have you ever had your dreams soar to their greatest height, only to come crashing down, dead and buried, five days later?

As Jesus rode into Jerusalem on what we now call Palm Sunday, the Jews surely thought the end was near. This man could well be their long-awaited Messiah. Although he had come to earth the same way the rest of us do and had spent the bulk of his life as a carpenter, a lot of them were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could draw a crowd, for sure. He could also heal them, feed them, and raise the dead to life. No one else had ever done those things. He also talked in an entirely different way. He spoke of the kingdom of God like it was something urgent, something near. And wouldn’t it be just like God to unleash His glory and topple the Roman government at the time of Passover, when all His people were gathered together for their biggest celebration of the year?

Think of the excitement in the air. Their day was coming! They had suffered and waited expectantly for centuries, and it looked like this this Jesus could be the answer to all of their problems, the fulfillment of all their longings. They couldn’t help but throw their cloaks down before him, to wave palm branches at him, to give him a victor’s parade. “Hosanna!” they cried at the top of their lungs. “Save us. NOW!” It was as much a command as a plea. They were tired of living under the paradox of being God’s chosen people yet enduring harassment and oppression for generations. Tired of being merely tolerated and not respected. They were tired of being afraid. Sick and tired of losing. And this man, one of them, could be the game changer. I bet you could feel the air crackling with anticipation that week.

Except the week ended with his arrest. Unexpected, but surely this was part of the plan? He would pull out one of his miracles, overcome his captors, and break free. What sweet satisfaction to see the Roman guards humiliated by the likes of one of them. Except he didn’t escape. He actually started to look weaker by the minute. Why didn’t he resist them? Why was this man, full of words that could raise the dead, suddenly so quiet? Why would he stand there and take that beating, almost willingly? Had he given up? And if the one we thought would save us gives up, where does that leave the rest of us?

Hopeless. The despair of hopelessness must have moved in so quickly. What was worse—watching Jesus trudge up that hill, unable to even carry his own cross, or watching the faces of thousands of people realizing their dreams were dead? “I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it would be.”

Some of them gave up right there. They couldn’t bear to stick around and watch the end. Others held onto hope until the last breath, but when Jesus himself said, “It is finished,” what more was there to believe in? This Passover, full of such promise, would be like all the others—a remembrance of an ancient time when God cared enough about His people to rescue them. Except surely this one would be sadder.  

Don’t you wish we could tell them? “Hang in there! Hold onto hope! Sunday is coming! Your dreams aren’t dead—they’re just delayed! And what you’re about to see will be so much more than what you could have dreamed yourself. Jesus didn’t come to overthrow a government. No, not such a small thing as that! He came to overthrow death itself.”

This is why we hope. When children die, when jobs are lost, when bills are due and money is scarce, when terrorists threaten, when things don’t turn out the way we thought they would—we still have hope. God doesn’t do what we think He’ll do. Our dreams go unfulfilled or even sometimes die. But His dreams for us are so much bigger. They’re resurrection big.

Hang in there. Hold onto hope. Sunday is coming.

The Best Days

Today I stood in the kitchen and laughed harder than I remember laughing in a long time. My 14-year-old son is a bit pampered by his sisters, but today, no one felt like making him a smoothie, including me. He tried to convince us that he could make it himself, but he couldn’t get past the most basic step. His 12-year-old sister, with her familiar rye humor, sweetly mocked, “Smoothie Boy doesn’t even know where to find the blender.” A few minutes later he was attempting to lock the blender into place when he accidentally unscrewed the bottom and smoothie guts gushed out all over the kitchen cabinets and floor. We laughed until I’m sure we were the same color as the berries.

Though there is ample evidence to the contrary, I’m pretty sure I’m living the best years of my life. These are the days I longed for when I was up to my eyeballs in baby poop, Desitin, midnight feedings, and that blasted infant carrier. They’re what kept me going through the God-forsaken potty-training days (probably God had not really forsaken me, but with a couple of my kids, it felt like it), the toddlers who threw up in their beds and their hair, the tantrums thrown at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and the ceaseless, “are-you-doing-this-just-to-wear-me-down?” whining. I just wanted them to get older. But not too old.

Maybe you’re like me. If you have kids who can tie their own shoes but are not yet asking for the car keys, maybe these are the best days of your life, too. And maybe you wonder, like I sometimes do, what’s keeping us from enjoying them. For me, I think it’s that I spend too little time in the present or too much time in the present. I’ll try to explain. 

A lot of parents seem to be either fixated on the past or anxious about the future. I’m usually pretty forward focused, but as my youngest has approached her seventh birthday, I’ve agonized over all the things I can’t remember about her young life. Why can’t I remember what we did for her third birthday? Or which songs we used to sing before bed? Why did I not do a better job of teaching her and her siblings to rinse the toothpaste out of the sink after they brushed or make their beds? Then I flash forward: Who will marry them if they never rinse the toothpaste out of the sink or make their beds? How will we even afford three girl weddings—or four college educations? I’m not even sure how we afford all this milk we’re drinking.

I get stuck in the past, pining for days that I couldn’t wait to escape when I was actually living them, or I get overwhelmed by the future and a thousand problems I can’t possible solve today. It’s that kind of stupid stuff that keeps me from enjoying the best days of my life.

Then there’s the opposite extreme, being too focused on the present. Instead of seeing the big picture—the beautiful, blessed big picture—I get hung up on the thing right in front of me: the dead mouse in the basement, the coaster that is permanently affixed to the dining room table, the bathtub faucet that doesn’t work, the stain that won’t come out, the library books that are missing. There’s not a lot of joy in looking for missing library books. And when kids are hollering at each other in the background and you’re five minutes late for school and you have no idea how you’re going to meet that work deadline, it’s hard to believe these are the best days of your life.  

But I still think they are. It’s just a matter of where I focus my attention. Will it be on the berry juice spilling onto the floor I just cleaned? Or my panic that the young man I’ve only got four years left to train doesn’t know how to use a blender, let alone an iron? Or the ache in my heart that reminds me I’ve only got four years left with him? Or will I just seize the moment, savor it, and laugh? 

Living on the Altar

If I were to write out a list of my favorite words and concepts, you could read for days without finding the word “sacrifice.” It’s not a word I can get excited about. While I’m eager to accept the sacrifice of others—Jesus’ sacrifice for my sin comes to mind, as well as the sacrifice military men and women make so I can live in my nice, free country—I’m not so anxious to sacrifice myself. Yet that’s what Romans 12:1 instructs me to do.

In the Old Testament, a sacrifice was completely consumed by God. You didn’t put something on the altar and hope to leave with leftovers. If you placed it up there, you knew it had to be totally surrendered to Him, and that didn’t come without cost.

There are parts of me that are easy, not so costly, to give up to God. I’m happy to put my talents to work for His service. He’s even been good enough to pay me for this a lot of the time. It’s not terribly hard for me to give money, and I don’t even think of the time I set aside to spend with Him as a sacrifice, although I guess it is. I’ve noticed that a lot of women are worriers, and surrendering their worries to Him is a daily, gut-wrenching chore. But I’ve never been one to worry much. I’m also not one who doubts much. I imagine some people have to wrestle their doubts onto the altar every day, but I find it much easier to believe than to doubt.

The parts of me I struggle to sacrifice seem uglier, but maybe that’s just because they’re mine. It’s a sacrifice for me to give up my right to judge other people. What comes natural to me is noticing and forming strong opinions—usually unspoken—on everything from someone’s parenting style to their food choices to their political fervor to their strange ears, so that it’s an intentional sacrifice when I heed the Bible’s warnings to stop it already and judge not lest I be judged. It’s a sacrifice for me to live out patience and grace in a world full of people who drive me crazy for one reason or another. I have to put that one on the altar just about every time I leave the house. It’s a sacrifice for me to put others ahead of myself. It’s a sacrifice to abandon my desire to be noticed, needed, applauded, and admired and to pursue humility instead. Yeah, I could feel the burn of that one even as I typed it.

Isn’t it interesting that one person’s sacrifice is another person’s walk in the park?

But no matter what we have to sacrifice to give our whole self completely to God, it’s always worth it. It’s worth it because sacrifice brings transformation. The Old Testament worshiper left the altar with a clear conscience and a fresh start. The elite athlete gets a disciplined—and likely chiseled—body for her sacrifice of time and sweat. My children grow in maturity when they sacrifice their will for the sake of what is right. And I am more like Jesus when I put others ahead of myself, when I freely give grace and patience, when I choose to live humbly. I am transformed in the best possible way. And the more I am transformed, the less the sacrifice feels like a sacrifice. What a beautiful thing. 

A Working Mom Again

It’s 8:45 a.m., and I’m pulling out of the driveway for the fourth time this morning. I’ve guzzled a quart of water. I’ve done dozens of sit-ups, push-ups, jump squats, and burpees. I’ve strengthened my core and conditioned my hair. I’ve brushed three other heads of hair and put in ponytails. I've checked the weather forecast. I’ve changed clothes three times and shoes twice. I’ve considered ironing and come to my senses. I’ve skimmed a chapter in the Gospel of Luke, knowing I’ve got six hours of intense Bible study ahead so I’m not feeling so bad about my skimming. I have prayed every time I’ve been in the car. I’ve returned several emails, edited a half-page of copy, and sent out the notes for the 6^th grade graduation party. I’ve packed three lunches—two of which look yummy, but sadly, neither of these is mine. I’ve unloaded last night’s clean dishes from the dishwasher, loaded the new ones from this morning’s breakfast, and plopped a pork roast in the crockpot for dinner tonight. I’ve poured multiple bowls of cereal and cups of juice. I have snuggled on the couch, dried tears, and reffed an argument. I’ve put a dozen eggs from the Happy Chickens Egg Farm in the cooler on the front porch. I’ve tossed a load of towels in the laundry. I have not made my bed. I have charged my Kindle and my cell phone. I’ve packed a collection of bags and lined them up by the door. (I remember in my previous working life that I was up to ten bags, but the kids can all man their own bags now, and I’m fortunately no longer in need of a breast pump.) I’ve signed planners and permission slips and somehow remembered to email the teacher about alternate pick-up plans for tomorrow. I’ve listened to math facts, chicken facts, and facts about Shelly the Class Turtle. I’ve yawned. I’ve used the bathroom five times.

And I still feel like a slacker for not getting to work until 9.