Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed (and they have a lot of fun, too)

Tomorrow night marks the end of our AWANA season. Our family’s Wednesday nights will morph from chaos—“Where’s your bag?! Do you have your Bible? Yes, you can eat that quesadilla in the car! James 2:10! Anybody know James 2:10?!”—to relative tranquility. All three of our older kids have been clubbers this year, and for the first time, I was a leader of Braden and Addison’s group.

This after swearing off any kind of children’s ministry years ago. It was a Sunday-school morning in which I was kicked, scratched, and punched, all by the same three-year-old girl, that convinced me that children who do not actually come out of my body are not my calling. (And I’ll spare you the details of having to sit in a regurgitated pool of some other woman’s breastmilk in the infant room. Yeah, not my thing.)

Persuaded by guilt and a nagging longing to spend more time with my two oldest, I caved last fall, donning my painfully cheesy red “Sparky” shirt and tithing my Wednesday nights to the K-2nd graders at our church. And wouldn’t you just know it—I’ve loved every minute of it.

Getting the best group ever didn’t hurt. Not only did no one attempt to bite me, but they were actually quite lovable for the most part. It was not a stretch at all for me to cheer with them when they nailed their Scripture verses and received a new award. I cuddled up with the girls during the speaker sessions. And I high-fived and grunted with the boys during the games.

The games were the best. By luck of the draw, we ended up with a group of boys freakishly endowed with speed, coordination, and competitive drive. We four adult leaders had to suppress a smile of pride as our team crushed the competition—which usually came in the form of a pint-sized six-year-old girl who was afraid of getting stepped on. But, no matter. We gave it our all, as if it were our Olympics. The few times I took a turn running around the game circle harkened me back to my days as a high-school sprinter. Instead of my dad yelling at (er, I mean for) me, I had George, my 6’6 behemoth co-leader in his red Sparky shirt. I wasn’t going to disappoint George or the 14 cheering kids at his side.

Our Wednesday-night group experienced the gamut of real life together. We celebrated our victories (the aforementioned game domination), cried over our disappointments (an artistic masterpiece destroyed by another’s wayward crayon), communed over shared experiences (numerous trips to the bathroom and more lost teeth than I could count), and mourned deep losses (the sudden death of two of our girls’ sister). And hopefully through this spastic microcosm of the bigger world they learned a little more about how much God loves them.

So Adin, Josiah, Rachel, Caleb, Joey, Jay, Madison, Lauren, Brianna, Drew, Michaela, and of course Braden and Addison, this blog’s for you. You snuck into my affection when I wasn’t looking.

New Memories with Old Friends

Next to giving my life to the Lord, marrying Kevin, having four kids and laser eye surgery, the smartest decision I ever made was going to college in California. I not only got a good education, a great tan, and four years of incredibly fun memories out of the deal; I got lifetime friends.

When I step off a plane in Southern California—which doesn’t happen nearly enough—I am reminded of how much richer my life is because of relationships made there almost two decades ago. I remember being in sort of a nervous state my first few months at Westmont. People had told me my whole life, “The friends you make in college will be your friends forever,” and I felt pressure to hunt down my bridesmaids long before seeking out a potential groom. Sure enough, when I found him several years later, three college friends stood by my side on my wedding day. Several others lent their support from the audience, joined by other dear friends from high school and elementary school.

Our trip to Disneyland last weekend was perfect in every way. Well, except I could have used 10 more degrees and a break in the wind so that we could have seen the fireworks. But the squeals of unequaled delight from my kids and our concentrated time together was just what I’d hoped for. And the icing on that yummy cake was reconnecting with my old friends—lifetime friends—and remembering that community isn’t confined to geography. Karin, Rhonda, and I took pictures on the beach that look exactly like those taken 18 years ago, with the addition of a few pounds and multiple children. I hadn’t seen Rhonda in 11 years, yet it felt like we just sat down to work on our tans on the steps of Clark P (our dorm). Karin and Kim I’ve seen more recently, and each time it is only a new baby or two that reminds me of how much time has passed.

We may all be getting older, but some things are getting much better. Female friendships, marinating in time and flavored by shared experiences, are one of those.

California, here we come!

At 5:30 Saturday morning, my two oldest kids and I will set out on the trip of their young lives. Yes, this could even top our trip to the Washington County (Colorado) fair last summer where we actually saw a bull break its back during a bullriding competition. Can it get more exciting than that? If it can, it must be Disneyland.

That’s where Braden, Addison, and I are going. We’re spending a day at the beach—Addison’s first time to see what to me is God’s greatest gift to the world, the ocean—with two friends from my Westmont days, followed by two days at Disneyland with my good friend from UCLA and her son. Pretty exciting stuff for a trio whose biggest weekend adventure usually consists of a trip to the Walmart bakery.

The trip has been planned for a year, and we’ve been talking about it for months. We call it “the grocery store” in front of our four-year-old who was not invited, for obvious reasons, to join us. Addison will say, “Will I need a new swimming suit to go to the grocery store?” Wink, wink. As far as we can tell, Brooklyn’s age and general self-absorption have kept her in the dark about the true identity of the grocery store. Either that or she thinks Addison’s gonna be pretty hot stuff trotting through the cereal aisle in her new sarong.

This trip is a heaping combination of things I love—old friends, ocean, rollercoasters, sunshine, California, my kids. It’s been especially wonderful to have something so fun to look forward to during the malaise of this long winter. But truly, the thing I’m most excited about is just getting to be Braden and Addison’s mom—uninterrupted. With a baby and an over-the-top preschooler around all the time, my two older kids often get my leftovers. For four days next week, they’re going to get the very best of me. Disneyland’s nice, but I’d take that kind of focused time with them at a Motel 6 in Omaha.

Rethinking Surprises

Tomorrow we're taking our four-year-old birthday girl on a surprise trip—to a sanctuary for big cats. She'll be welcomed by 160 well-caged—her mother hopes—tigers, lions, cougars, leopards, and cheetahs. If I had a child's size dose of heart medication, I'd toss it in my purse, because I think tiger-loving Brooklyn might have a massive coronary as she takes it all in.

She knows we're taking her somewhere for her birthday, but she doesn't want to know anything about it. Every time we whisper about it with our older kids, she plugs her ears and runs to a different room. She loves the idea of a surprise.

I'm reading five books concurrently, which I don't recommend. I'm getting so much out of all of them that I can't choose which one(s) to stash away. One of them is about surprises.

A few years ago, a guy named Terry Esau conducted a simple faith experiment, asking one little thing of God every day: Surprise me. Of course God delivered, mostly by making Terry more aware, and the results are chronicled in the book Surprise Me. I haven't read that one, but I'm reading his follow-up book, called Be the Surprise.

I love both of these ideas. I know how much I enjoy planning surprises for the people I love, and I think God must feel the same way. How will He open our eyes if we're on the lookout for His daily surprises? Will we embrace His surprise with the same childlike squeal we're sure to hear from Brooklyn tomorrow? Or will we grumble because it's not exactly what we wanted?

Esau's second book presents an even better question: How will He use us if we open ourselves up to being His surprise in other people's lives? That one really excites me. It also scares me a little. It's tempting to think, "But I'm a mess right now. How's God gonna use me when I can barely stand to sit in a room alone with my own thoughts these days?"

That question has an easy answer: He's going to use me because I'm a mess. When I think I've got it all together, I'm too busy holding it all together to be available to Him. When I'm a mess, I'm desperately dependent on Him. That's when He's most likely to use me.

Terry Esau posits the preposterous idea that God even prefers our failures. Not just tolerates them or works around them, but actually prefers them. Is that the best news you've heard all day or what?

What if we all asked God to surprise us this week? Even just once? (If you do this, you are SO required to tell me what happens.) And what if we asked Him to let us be the surprise? How will we see the world differently if we're open to being God's surprise to other people?

Remembering

7 a.m. April 22. It will always be hallowed ground for me. She's never far from my mind, but it's this special time when I most vividly remember the life that lived briefly inside of me before being swept up to heaven. I love to think of Catherine today. I have irrational pride that a child of mine—my own flesh and blood whose heart once raced inside my core—has taken up residence with the God of the universe. Jesus went ahead to prepare a place for us, a Home that we can only dream of, and Catherine knows all about that place. It's the only home she's ever known. She knows the answers to all the questions that swarm in my mind. She knows love like I'll never know on earth. She knows none of the hurt and sadness her brother and sisters will know all too well. How my tiny little imagination is held captive by the thought of what her life must be like now. 

Having a child who lives with God—even one I didn't know—orients my heart more toward heaven.

Thank you, Catherine. Thank you, God. 

Anyone?

Since the male response to my "Work in Progress" post has been less than overwhelming, I'm wondering if any females have a comment? An idea? A suggestion? I'm compelled to linger on this topic. 

Learning about Men: A Work in Progress

I’m reading Dr. Laura’s book, The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. On the first page, there’s a quote from a man named Dan. Dan should give seminars to women:

“I am a thirty-seven year old man who has seen quite a bit in life, and I can offer this to your search for how to treat a man. We are men, not dumb-dumbs, psychics, or one bit unromantic. We need only clear communication, appreciation, honest love, and respect. This will be repaid by laying the moon and stars at your feet for your pleasure. We live to take care of a wife, family, and home. Just remember that we are men, and know that our needs are simple but not to be ignored. A good man is hard to find, not to keep.”

Husbands have needs—and not just physical ones! Who knew? Dr. Laura boils them down to three: attention, affirmation, and affection. She also throws in good lovin’—and I think we all know what that means.

My husband is the Rock of Gibraltar—even-keeled, reliable, self-sufficient, omnicompetent, stable, strong. He’s our Superman. But I’ve recently discovered his Kryptonite, and that I alone hold it. It comes in the form of my neglect.

Dr. Laura contends that the vast majority of wives are clueless about how inattentive they are to their husbands and how selfishly and disrespectfully they often act. Interesting. Jarring. I’ve sort of always thought that women were selfless, nurturing creatures who had the market on feeling wounded and unappreciated. I think I’ve had a first-class seat among the clueless vast majority.

One more quote from a guy named Edgar:

“I laughed when I heard the title of your new book. I thought, ‘It won’t happen. What woman would buy it? Who cares about us men?’ . . . Prosperity has allowed women to be so independent, and thus so selfish. I always feel as though I come last—my feelings come last, my needs come last.”

Ladies? Friends? Are we listening to Edgar? (If you’re silly like me and having a hard time getting past Edgar’s name, substitute your husband’s own name. He probably feels the same way.) Whose needs do we put first? I know my answer: My kids. Then my own. Then whoever needs me most: friends, coworkers, extended family, strangers in crisis. But my husband? Nah, he’s Superman.

So I’m wondering if my three male readers (OK, and maybe one or two others I don’t know about) have any thoughts on this. Do you identify with Dan and Edgar? Help us out here!