Our family of six just returned from a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Hawaii. Eight days with no responsibilities, no projects, no deadlines or work. Hour upon hour of leisure time. Our only appointment was the nightly sunset, which we never missed. Our hardest decision: Should we spend the day snorkeling with exotic fish, swimming with giant sea turtles, or taking a nap? And the best part for a mother who's about to send her firstborn child across the country was that all six of us were together, soaking up every minute of familiness. Ah, the good life.
Then we came home. After making that brutal all-night flight where you're up for 26 straight hours, we arrived home to a plumbing crisis. The kids called the thing that happened in our basement a poo geyser. In order to maintain the dignity of this blog, I will refer to it as an eruption of raw sewage. (Really, though, their term is much more descriptive). Whatever you call it, it was nasty. And did I mention we'd been up for 26 hours and traveling for 12? The sewage was flowing; the clear thinking and effective communication were not.
Some days you get to swim with sea turtles. Some days you get to wade through raw sewage in your basement.* What a metaphor for life.
One day you're giving your kids a rich cultural experience and shaved ice, and the next your 11-year-old is going to the bathroom at 4:30 in the morning in the dog run because she's afraid to flush.
This week, I have a clear demonstration of the hills and valleys of life. Both are doing their good work in me. Trying to be thankful for both. Without the valleys, I'm not sure the hills would be so sweet.
*I personally did not have to wade through any sewage. The men in our family soldiered through it nobly, and with only minor gagging.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Monday, July 16, 2018
Loving the Weird
You wake up one day in the middle of your life, and everyone else starts to look weird. In the first place, they're all really young. Their skin is covered with what they call art but what looks to you like weird, indiscriminate lines and swirls that all look the same on everyone. Their hair is extreme, and a lot of them have purposefully put large holes in their ears and noses. Their clothes don't seem to be doing the job they were intended to do. Sometimes these people are filling their cars with inordinate amounts of smoke. Vaping? I still don't quite get it.
You see these people and you begin to wonder, What has become of us?
It's happened for generations. It's the reason why the words "generation gap" exist. It's just that now I find myself on the other side of the gap, and my natural instinct is to look down on those standing across that great chasm. The judgment comes so quickly. I barely notice it sneaking up on me. It seems to run roughshod over all the biblical truth I know at my core: Love one another. Be kind and compassionate. Do not judge lest you be judged.
Apparently this phenomenon is not reserved only for the middle-aged. My kids struggle with it too. They've grown up in quite the homogeneous world, despite our two-year cross-cultural adventure living in our car repair shop. (In that part of town you see the truly weird, like a prostitute walking down the street with a pig on a leash; but alas, the kids may have been a bit young to be shaped by it.) For the majority of their lives, they've gone to school, church, band concerts, and soccer practice with people who pretty much look just like them.
And then this summer my oldest daughter got a job. She works at a hotel/adventure park staffed primarily by older teens and 20-somethings. Some of them look like her, but some do not. And even those who look like her didn't grow up much like she did. They swear. A lot. They take smoke breaks. They struggle with big issues that she hasn't had to deal with. They're unfamiliar with stability. And, here's the thing: They're really, really nice.
This discovery, that outside of high school you can appreciate and enjoy people who are completely different from you, has changed my girl. In just a month, I've seen her open up more. She's more comfortable with herself and with other people. She can make chitchat with people she has nothing in common with. And that age-old phrase we've all said a hundred times but rarely apply--"Don't judge a book by its cover--is becoming real to her.
Do you know how contagious this is? When I see it in her, I want it in me! So I've found myself at stop lights, in Walmart, at the gym looking at the "weird" people and saying to myself, "I love them." I'm not sure at this point how much I actually mean it, but making that my go-to internal dialogue is a step in the right direction.
I do love them in theory. I love that they are human beings created in the image of God, that they each have their own story, that they're all journeying through this hard life with enough strength to get up and buy cereal, work out, or take their kids to the movies. Loving them in theory is a big first step toward where I want to be, loving them in practice.
You see these people and you begin to wonder, What has become of us?
It's happened for generations. It's the reason why the words "generation gap" exist. It's just that now I find myself on the other side of the gap, and my natural instinct is to look down on those standing across that great chasm. The judgment comes so quickly. I barely notice it sneaking up on me. It seems to run roughshod over all the biblical truth I know at my core: Love one another. Be kind and compassionate. Do not judge lest you be judged.
Apparently this phenomenon is not reserved only for the middle-aged. My kids struggle with it too. They've grown up in quite the homogeneous world, despite our two-year cross-cultural adventure living in our car repair shop. (In that part of town you see the truly weird, like a prostitute walking down the street with a pig on a leash; but alas, the kids may have been a bit young to be shaped by it.) For the majority of their lives, they've gone to school, church, band concerts, and soccer practice with people who pretty much look just like them.
And then this summer my oldest daughter got a job. She works at a hotel/adventure park staffed primarily by older teens and 20-somethings. Some of them look like her, but some do not. And even those who look like her didn't grow up much like she did. They swear. A lot. They take smoke breaks. They struggle with big issues that she hasn't had to deal with. They're unfamiliar with stability. And, here's the thing: They're really, really nice.
This discovery, that outside of high school you can appreciate and enjoy people who are completely different from you, has changed my girl. In just a month, I've seen her open up more. She's more comfortable with herself and with other people. She can make chitchat with people she has nothing in common with. And that age-old phrase we've all said a hundred times but rarely apply--"Don't judge a book by its cover--is becoming real to her.
Do you know how contagious this is? When I see it in her, I want it in me! So I've found myself at stop lights, in Walmart, at the gym looking at the "weird" people and saying to myself, "I love them." I'm not sure at this point how much I actually mean it, but making that my go-to internal dialogue is a step in the right direction.
I do love them in theory. I love that they are human beings created in the image of God, that they each have their own story, that they're all journeying through this hard life with enough strength to get up and buy cereal, work out, or take their kids to the movies. Loving them in theory is a big first step toward where I want to be, loving them in practice.
Monday, June 25, 2018
The God Who Sees
El Roi. As much as it sounds like a type of dog food, it's actually one of my favorite names for God. It means the God who sees. In the book of Genesis, we find out that God revealed this name to a scared, rejected young woman named Hagar who had no place to go and no one to turn to. God came to her in her desperation and told her, "I see you," and gave her instructions for what to do next. He saw her and made a place for her, and her life was changed.
In the 17 months I've been walking Oakley around the prayer track in my backyard, I've addressed a lot of prayers to El Roi. I've asked God to see people who felt like they've fallen off His radar. We all know that "stuck" feeling, when it's like God is moving in everyone's life but our own. I've walked alongside several people in that situation, praying that El Roi would show up for them in a clear way. And one by one, I've seen their lives change, just like Hagar's. Jobs and opportunities have opened up out of the blue. We may think that God is slow to act, but when He does act, it's quick and definitive.
My friend Tracie waited on God for years. When I met her in 2011, I was instantly drawn to her story and her heart for overseas ministry. She grew up as a missionary kid in Indonesia, which immediately made my ears perk up. My daughter has been talking about Indonesia since she was 4, and since I know next to nothing about this far-away country, I was eager to learn more from Tracie. As our conversations continued and our friendship grew, I learned that no matter how much she loved her life in Colorado, a quiet longing lay just below the surface. She packed lunches, drove carpool, and cheered her kids on at track meets just like the rest of us, but I always had the sense she and her husband were made for a different place. It would be a long journey, filled with waiting and wondering, to get them there. Seasons of unemployment and long weeks of separation while her husband worked out of state stretched their faith. She introduced me to the words "fighting for hope" not just by saying them, but by practicing them. Job interview after job interview. Hopes up, hopes dashed. "God, El Roi, where are you?" I cried. "Do you see this family? Why won't you act?" And the months went on and on.
They weren't looking for anything extraordinary. Just a job and to be together under one roof. But the extraordinary found them. The God Who Sees had been knitting together the pieces of their story for 25 years, and He unfurled it before them all at once. Quickly and decisively. An invitation came out of the blue, could Jess and Tracie come to the Philippines and serve as house parents at a boarding school for missionary kids? The same school that Tracie had attended and graduated from more than 20 years ago? Could these parents of four boys live with and love a houseful of other boys whose parents are serving Jesus all across Asia?
The pieces began falling into place. All the waiting. All the closed doors. The years of longing. The thousands of prayers offered up. This couple who had come together because of their shared love of ministry, missions, and kids had received their call. In a whirlwind span of only a few months, they applied, were approved, found a sending agency, shared their vision, completed the daunting task of raising support, rented their house, and finished well their relationships and responsibilities in Colorado. Along the way, they modeled patience, faithfulness, and courageous obedience to their children and their friends. They gave people like me, so nicely settled in middle-aged comforts, the thrill of seeing what it looks like to radically follow Jesus wherever He leads.
More than anything else, I see through their story El Roi at work, doing one of the things He loves to do best. I think He loves to say to His children, "Of course I see you! I've never taken my eyes off of you. I've been with you every step of the way, orchestrating things you couldn't begin to imagine."
This bolsters my faith. I need to be reminded that El Roi not only sees, but that He cares. And He acts. When I see how much God loves Jess and Tracie and their boys, how much they matter to Him and how He has been working for their good through every rejection and trial, I can come before the throne of God with greater confidence. I can believe that He hears my prayers, that He sees all the other people I'm still praying for. People who think they're unseen and can't quite believe their lives matter to God. People who are fighting for hope and losing.
Keep fighting. Keep believing. God sees you, and He cares.
In the 17 months I've been walking Oakley around the prayer track in my backyard, I've addressed a lot of prayers to El Roi. I've asked God to see people who felt like they've fallen off His radar. We all know that "stuck" feeling, when it's like God is moving in everyone's life but our own. I've walked alongside several people in that situation, praying that El Roi would show up for them in a clear way. And one by one, I've seen their lives change, just like Hagar's. Jobs and opportunities have opened up out of the blue. We may think that God is slow to act, but when He does act, it's quick and definitive.
My friend Tracie waited on God for years. When I met her in 2011, I was instantly drawn to her story and her heart for overseas ministry. She grew up as a missionary kid in Indonesia, which immediately made my ears perk up. My daughter has been talking about Indonesia since she was 4, and since I know next to nothing about this far-away country, I was eager to learn more from Tracie. As our conversations continued and our friendship grew, I learned that no matter how much she loved her life in Colorado, a quiet longing lay just below the surface. She packed lunches, drove carpool, and cheered her kids on at track meets just like the rest of us, but I always had the sense she and her husband were made for a different place. It would be a long journey, filled with waiting and wondering, to get them there. Seasons of unemployment and long weeks of separation while her husband worked out of state stretched their faith. She introduced me to the words "fighting for hope" not just by saying them, but by practicing them. Job interview after job interview. Hopes up, hopes dashed. "God, El Roi, where are you?" I cried. "Do you see this family? Why won't you act?" And the months went on and on.
They weren't looking for anything extraordinary. Just a job and to be together under one roof. But the extraordinary found them. The God Who Sees had been knitting together the pieces of their story for 25 years, and He unfurled it before them all at once. Quickly and decisively. An invitation came out of the blue, could Jess and Tracie come to the Philippines and serve as house parents at a boarding school for missionary kids? The same school that Tracie had attended and graduated from more than 20 years ago? Could these parents of four boys live with and love a houseful of other boys whose parents are serving Jesus all across Asia?
The pieces began falling into place. All the waiting. All the closed doors. The years of longing. The thousands of prayers offered up. This couple who had come together because of their shared love of ministry, missions, and kids had received their call. In a whirlwind span of only a few months, they applied, were approved, found a sending agency, shared their vision, completed the daunting task of raising support, rented their house, and finished well their relationships and responsibilities in Colorado. Along the way, they modeled patience, faithfulness, and courageous obedience to their children and their friends. They gave people like me, so nicely settled in middle-aged comforts, the thrill of seeing what it looks like to radically follow Jesus wherever He leads.
More than anything else, I see through their story El Roi at work, doing one of the things He loves to do best. I think He loves to say to His children, "Of course I see you! I've never taken my eyes off of you. I've been with you every step of the way, orchestrating things you couldn't begin to imagine."
This bolsters my faith. I need to be reminded that El Roi not only sees, but that He cares. And He acts. When I see how much God loves Jess and Tracie and their boys, how much they matter to Him and how He has been working for their good through every rejection and trial, I can come before the throne of God with greater confidence. I can believe that He hears my prayers, that He sees all the other people I'm still praying for. People who think they're unseen and can't quite believe their lives matter to God. People who are fighting for hope and losing.
Keep fighting. Keep believing. God sees you, and He cares.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
A Parent's Best Friend
"Maturity is your best friend." If I've said it once to a mom or dad walking this parenting road a couple paces behind me, I've said it a thousand times.
When my son was about 18 months, we were visiting my mom when he started to fuss over not getting something he wanted. I'd read Love and Logic, so I knew how to handle this. I would let him know his fussing had consequences. I told him we would have to go home if he kept it up. That only riled him up more, until he was on the verge of a full-fledged meltdown. Still, I pressed on, trying to keep my controlled Love and Logic voice despite his wails: "Braden, by screaming, you're making a choice to leave Grandma's house. Is that what you want to do?" No response, just more melting. Then my mom, apparently more aware than I was that this child was 18 months old and probably didn't understand complex decision-making processes, stepped in with something he actually could have, a simple toy he could play with. He perked up, stopped crying, and we were all able to enjoy each other again.
My son was acting like a baby. Because he was a baby. Concerned that by not dealing with this willful episode head on I would create a rebellious teenage drug-addict degenerate, I tried to parent a baby in a way that wouldn't be effective for a couple more years. Most of the Big Parenting Issues I've encountered over the years were not handled by my brilliant, well researched parenting, but by maturity. My kids' maturity has been my dearest friend.
When I see a younger mom frantic that her son will never be generous with his toys, I try to encourage her that maturity is going to do its part to rectify that. When a little girl can't be separated from her mom for more than five minutes, I remind that mom that maturity will do its work. Just this weekend, I dropped off my big girl at a band camp two hours away without another soul that she knew, and I remembered that 16 years ago she would barely let me out of her sight to use the bathroom. Oh, how maturity has done its good work in her.
As I watch one child of mine preparing for his freshman year in college and another preparing for her freshman year in high school, I see the work of maturity up close. One seems so ready to go, having outgrown what we can teach him here, while it's hard to imagine the younger one being in that spot four years from now, when today she can't even make toast. But maturity will do its work, I have no doubt.
It makes me wonder, then, why we resist getting older. Does maturity cease to be our friend after we turn 21? 30? 45? Do we really get to the point where we say, "Yes, this is it. I'm the best me I'm ever going to be, and I'd like to stop learning and growing right here"? Surely not, but that's sort of what we're doing when we grumble about aging.
It's true that age itself is not making us better. Science tells us that our bodies start declining before we're even old enough to rent a car. Age takes our muscle tone and flawless skin, our hair and our eyesight and our hearing. It takes our speed, which is going to be a hard one for me to swallow. But age doesn't just steal from us; it gives back. If we let it, it gives us maturity. And maturity gives us wisdom, understanding, depth, perspective, compassion, and contentment. It does makes us better--better husbands, wives, children, parents, and friends. Better human beings.
I may not welcome Age when it shows up at my door each October, but if it brings its friend Maturity with it, I will treat it as a welcome guest.
When my son was about 18 months, we were visiting my mom when he started to fuss over not getting something he wanted. I'd read Love and Logic, so I knew how to handle this. I would let him know his fussing had consequences. I told him we would have to go home if he kept it up. That only riled him up more, until he was on the verge of a full-fledged meltdown. Still, I pressed on, trying to keep my controlled Love and Logic voice despite his wails: "Braden, by screaming, you're making a choice to leave Grandma's house. Is that what you want to do?" No response, just more melting. Then my mom, apparently more aware than I was that this child was 18 months old and probably didn't understand complex decision-making processes, stepped in with something he actually could have, a simple toy he could play with. He perked up, stopped crying, and we were all able to enjoy each other again.
My son was acting like a baby. Because he was a baby. Concerned that by not dealing with this willful episode head on I would create a rebellious teenage drug-addict degenerate, I tried to parent a baby in a way that wouldn't be effective for a couple more years. Most of the Big Parenting Issues I've encountered over the years were not handled by my brilliant, well researched parenting, but by maturity. My kids' maturity has been my dearest friend.
When I see a younger mom frantic that her son will never be generous with his toys, I try to encourage her that maturity is going to do its part to rectify that. When a little girl can't be separated from her mom for more than five minutes, I remind that mom that maturity will do its work. Just this weekend, I dropped off my big girl at a band camp two hours away without another soul that she knew, and I remembered that 16 years ago she would barely let me out of her sight to use the bathroom. Oh, how maturity has done its good work in her.
As I watch one child of mine preparing for his freshman year in college and another preparing for her freshman year in high school, I see the work of maturity up close. One seems so ready to go, having outgrown what we can teach him here, while it's hard to imagine the younger one being in that spot four years from now, when today she can't even make toast. But maturity will do its work, I have no doubt.
It makes me wonder, then, why we resist getting older. Does maturity cease to be our friend after we turn 21? 30? 45? Do we really get to the point where we say, "Yes, this is it. I'm the best me I'm ever going to be, and I'd like to stop learning and growing right here"? Surely not, but that's sort of what we're doing when we grumble about aging.
It's true that age itself is not making us better. Science tells us that our bodies start declining before we're even old enough to rent a car. Age takes our muscle tone and flawless skin, our hair and our eyesight and our hearing. It takes our speed, which is going to be a hard one for me to swallow. But age doesn't just steal from us; it gives back. If we let it, it gives us maturity. And maturity gives us wisdom, understanding, depth, perspective, compassion, and contentment. It does makes us better--better husbands, wives, children, parents, and friends. Better human beings.
I may not welcome Age when it shows up at my door each October, but if it brings its friend Maturity with it, I will treat it as a welcome guest.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
All In, More Than Ever
It was after the fifth or sixth one hit the pile that I realized what I was doing. Cleaning off my bookshelves in anticipation of the graduation party we're hosting this weekend, I was weeding out the books I no longer want or need. And mostly, they're parenting books.
Hmm, what does this mean? We all know those families who have a wide age spread of kids, and the ones on the end are parented very differently than the ones at the beginning. Sometimes we look at them and think, "It looks like those parents are just done."
I admit that in some categories of parenting I feel done. I do not need to do any more practice spelling tests or reviewing of phonograms. Second-grade Immigration Day was a beautiful thing, but I've served my time as an Ellis Island medical inspector, and I'm done. I got off the school bus a couple days ago after accompanying the fifth graders to the botanical gardens and wondered if it was my last field trip. After the dozens that I've made, was that it? Will I ever be on a school bus again? Maybe not, and I can let that one go.
I've taught the same fourth and fifth grade Bible study curriculum to three different groups of girls. Every group was different and I've loved the variety of experiences, but I don't need to do it again. I've read the Narnia series aloud at least three times through and am on my second round of Harry Potter. I've practiced/crammed AWANA verses with kids for 13 years, and while I'm still going strong, I don't dread the day when that will end. And all that driving? With two drivers in my house and one a year away from a permit, I rejoice at my beautiful future. Those hours in the car were well spent (and helped with the AWANA verses and phonogram reviewing) but yes, I can be done. And I can be done in a cute little sedan.
But done parenting? Is anyone ever really done with that? I know it will look different across the various stages of life, but I want to be all in for the duration. Those books I tossed on raising a modern-day knight or shepherding a child's heart are rapidly being replaced by books for the next season. I've read my 500-page Letting Go book from cover to cover, and my reading pile is stacked high with books that promise to help me understand Gen Z. While there are plenty of things I'm ready to put behind me, I don't feel like I'm in a finishing season. It feels more like a beginning season.
My 1990's parenting books may have moved along to Goodwill, but I have no intention of checking out on this parenting thing. I feel excited by all I'm still learning, all the ways I hope to do things better and smarter with the younger kids. If they're raised differently, let it be because their mom got wiser, not lazier. Let it be because she was more tuned in and more faithful, not more cynical or distracted. Keep my head in the game, Lord, because this is without question the best game in town.
Hmm, what does this mean? We all know those families who have a wide age spread of kids, and the ones on the end are parented very differently than the ones at the beginning. Sometimes we look at them and think, "It looks like those parents are just done."
I admit that in some categories of parenting I feel done. I do not need to do any more practice spelling tests or reviewing of phonograms. Second-grade Immigration Day was a beautiful thing, but I've served my time as an Ellis Island medical inspector, and I'm done. I got off the school bus a couple days ago after accompanying the fifth graders to the botanical gardens and wondered if it was my last field trip. After the dozens that I've made, was that it? Will I ever be on a school bus again? Maybe not, and I can let that one go.
I've taught the same fourth and fifth grade Bible study curriculum to three different groups of girls. Every group was different and I've loved the variety of experiences, but I don't need to do it again. I've read the Narnia series aloud at least three times through and am on my second round of Harry Potter. I've practiced/crammed AWANA verses with kids for 13 years, and while I'm still going strong, I don't dread the day when that will end. And all that driving? With two drivers in my house and one a year away from a permit, I rejoice at my beautiful future. Those hours in the car were well spent (and helped with the AWANA verses and phonogram reviewing) but yes, I can be done. And I can be done in a cute little sedan.
But done parenting? Is anyone ever really done with that? I know it will look different across the various stages of life, but I want to be all in for the duration. Those books I tossed on raising a modern-day knight or shepherding a child's heart are rapidly being replaced by books for the next season. I've read my 500-page Letting Go book from cover to cover, and my reading pile is stacked high with books that promise to help me understand Gen Z. While there are plenty of things I'm ready to put behind me, I don't feel like I'm in a finishing season. It feels more like a beginning season.
My 1990's parenting books may have moved along to Goodwill, but I have no intention of checking out on this parenting thing. I feel excited by all I'm still learning, all the ways I hope to do things better and smarter with the younger kids. If they're raised differently, let it be because their mom got wiser, not lazier. Let it be because she was more tuned in and more faithful, not more cynical or distracted. Keep my head in the game, Lord, because this is without question the best game in town.
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Running My Race
Twenty-seven days away from graduating my firstborn child, I have to say that this parenting journey has looked a lot different than what I imagined. First of all, and most important, it's been a whole lot more fun than what I expected. But I'll save that topic for another day. Today my topic is this: When your kids are little, you have such strong notions of what's ahead for them, and you prepare accordingly. I studied up on raising counter-cultural kids, on teaching them to say no to drugs and alcohol and yes to modesty and purity. I imagined the boundaries we'd have to set, and the conversations we would have, about driving, dating, drinking, partying, and all the things that teenagers and their parents everywhere deal with. Armed with statistics and research, interviews with older parents, unfortunate memories of my adolescence, and my own well-thought-out philosophies and arguments, I was ready to go!
And then I got to know my kids. They were very, very different from what I was expecting.
Now, with three teenagers and a tween, I find myself cheering when they go out with their friends. Encouraging them to initiate fun and stay out as late as they'd like. Pleading with my daughters to wear a little bit of mascara on special occasions. (The answer is always no.) Combing the internet for the only swimming suits they'll wear--they're not really swimming burkas, but that's what I jokingly call them--while trying to persuade them that a cheaper and easier-to-find tankini would be just fine. Hoping, really hoping, that someone some day will choose to go to homecoming or the prom.
The funny thing is, they're not this way because of the moral arsenal I had prepared for them. I never even used it! I'm pretty sure my girls came out of the womb covering themselves up, and that was that. Before I could even have a conversation about dating, my kids seem to have decided it wasn't for them. At least not for a long, long time. And though they'll go out every once in a while, my two high schoolers just really prefer to be at home.
This is not bad news, I know. These are four really good kids--respectful, responsible, teachable, and mostly a joy to be around. I definitely celebrate who they are and thank God we've been so blessed. But I gotta be honest: I wish someone would go to prom. Or even just a date to Dairy Queen. I'm not picky.
All indications are that these kids are going to have their first date, their first kiss, their first heartbreak a thousand miles away from me. The dating conversations I was so eager and prepared to have with my high schoolers will either happen remotely or not at all. I wanted to get to walk through all that with them, but if parenting has taught me anything, it's that I get to control much less than I might like. I have to trust God with the timing of all my children's Big Life Experiences and accept that it will likely be other people walking that road with them. (And of course I still have an 11-year-old, so this is still quite speculative, but she seems a whole lot like her older brother and sisters.)
While I was looking at other people's kids' prom pictures earlier this month, God reminded me of this verse from Hebrews: "Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith" (Hebrews 12:1-2).
Envy is a sin that so easily entangles me. It takes my eyes off Jesus. I know this about myself, and I have to be diligent to guard against it and confess it when it comes. This verse also reminds me of a line one of my dear friends frequently says: "I've got to stay in my lane." God has a race marked out for each of us. My race, my lane, may look different from the people around me and different from what I was expecting. But it's the race He set out for me, and I trust that it's exactly what I need. So I will run it with perseverance, even if it means I don't buy prom clothes or have a group of lipstick-wielding girls getting ready in my bathroom. My race is good. My parenting experience has been the biggest blessing of my life. God is giving us exactly what we need while these kids are in our house, and I can trust that He'll keep giving them exactly what they need once they leave.
And in the meantime, He makes me laugh. My senior got home at 1 a.m. on prom night. He and some kids from church made their own fun. He went willingly and happily, with no pushing or prodding from me, and even bought some new clothes--with his own money in his own car on his own time--to wear that night.
Stay in my lane. Run my race. Love the journey.
And then I got to know my kids. They were very, very different from what I was expecting.
Now, with three teenagers and a tween, I find myself cheering when they go out with their friends. Encouraging them to initiate fun and stay out as late as they'd like. Pleading with my daughters to wear a little bit of mascara on special occasions. (The answer is always no.) Combing the internet for the only swimming suits they'll wear--they're not really swimming burkas, but that's what I jokingly call them--while trying to persuade them that a cheaper and easier-to-find tankini would be just fine. Hoping, really hoping, that someone some day will choose to go to homecoming or the prom.
The funny thing is, they're not this way because of the moral arsenal I had prepared for them. I never even used it! I'm pretty sure my girls came out of the womb covering themselves up, and that was that. Before I could even have a conversation about dating, my kids seem to have decided it wasn't for them. At least not for a long, long time. And though they'll go out every once in a while, my two high schoolers just really prefer to be at home.
This is not bad news, I know. These are four really good kids--respectful, responsible, teachable, and mostly a joy to be around. I definitely celebrate who they are and thank God we've been so blessed. But I gotta be honest: I wish someone would go to prom. Or even just a date to Dairy Queen. I'm not picky.
All indications are that these kids are going to have their first date, their first kiss, their first heartbreak a thousand miles away from me. The dating conversations I was so eager and prepared to have with my high schoolers will either happen remotely or not at all. I wanted to get to walk through all that with them, but if parenting has taught me anything, it's that I get to control much less than I might like. I have to trust God with the timing of all my children's Big Life Experiences and accept that it will likely be other people walking that road with them. (And of course I still have an 11-year-old, so this is still quite speculative, but she seems a whole lot like her older brother and sisters.)
While I was looking at other people's kids' prom pictures earlier this month, God reminded me of this verse from Hebrews: "Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith" (Hebrews 12:1-2).
Envy is a sin that so easily entangles me. It takes my eyes off Jesus. I know this about myself, and I have to be diligent to guard against it and confess it when it comes. This verse also reminds me of a line one of my dear friends frequently says: "I've got to stay in my lane." God has a race marked out for each of us. My race, my lane, may look different from the people around me and different from what I was expecting. But it's the race He set out for me, and I trust that it's exactly what I need. So I will run it with perseverance, even if it means I don't buy prom clothes or have a group of lipstick-wielding girls getting ready in my bathroom. My race is good. My parenting experience has been the biggest blessing of my life. God is giving us exactly what we need while these kids are in our house, and I can trust that He'll keep giving them exactly what they need once they leave.
And in the meantime, He makes me laugh. My senior got home at 1 a.m. on prom night. He and some kids from church made their own fun. He went willingly and happily, with no pushing or prodding from me, and even bought some new clothes--with his own money in his own car on his own time--to wear that night.
Stay in my lane. Run my race. Love the journey.
Friday, March 30, 2018
The Hope of Easter
One of my parenting mentors used to look forward to his kids messing up. He would wait with expectation for his little kids' moral failures, knowing those were the moments to connect the dots between their sin and Christ's death and resurrection. He said we should expect our kids to commit every "crime short of murder," and when it comes, not to respond with shock or outrage. Instead of saying, "I'm horrified and disappointed that you've soiled the Jones family name!" we should wait until their defense has tired and their regret has set in, draw them close, and say, "I'm not shocked. I don't think you're a terrible person. I knew this day would come, and I'm thankful that now you can understand why we celebrate Easter." Consequences, yes, but seasoned with the hope of Easter.
I think of that every year at this time. I actually think of it all year long, each time my own moral failures hit. After I'm done making excuses and justifications, when I'm finished berating myself and wallowing in shame, I lift my head out of the pit and think to myself, "And this is why I'm thankful for Easter."
I think of that every year at this time. I actually think of it all year long, each time my own moral failures hit. After I'm done making excuses and justifications, when I'm finished berating myself and wallowing in shame, I lift my head out of the pit and think to myself, "And this is why I'm thankful for Easter."
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