A Prayer of Lament

This Christmas is a somber one for me.  But in a genuine effort to experience true Advent, I'm choosing to lay bare my soul in a prayer of lament.  These thoughts are real and raw.  I don't share this for pity or to promote curiosity in our predicament.  I share to bring glory to the Most Glorious One.  To the One who entered into our sufferings.  And if the government be upon his shoulders, I'm certain he can handle the weight of my doubts.

blessings,

BB

A Prayer of Lament

They say you were named Emmanuel because you were going to be God with us. But these days I can't seem to feel you near me at all.

They say you called yourself the Light of the world....but it's hard to see you with all the darkness around me.

Hope delayed makes the heart sick, they say.   I feel that.  I feel heart sick.

Because I thought joy comes in the morning.  But with each new morning it seems there are more funerals and less weddings.  More pain and less remedy.  More sickness and less healing. 

I know this is the curse of the broken world.  I know this is the reason you came to save us.  I know that I am in between the Already and Not Yet.  Between what has been redeemed in me already and what will be redeemed  when you come again. 

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

I guess I was just hoping for another Christmas miracle here on earth.  Another Christmas where you showed up unexpectedly and gave us a glimpse of Heaven, where all the sad things will come untrue.  

Maybe I got it wrong though.  Maybe I don't understand the abundant life you promised. I'm beginning to doubt.  Not really doubt you.  But doubt me.  Doubt my understanding of you.  Doubt what I thought you came to do.  Because I know you are all powerful and you say that you are good.  But when I can't see you moving I begin to have trust issues.  

I believe, help my unbelief.

I was just hoping for some of the broken relationships to be reconciled.  For some broken bodies to be restored.  For broken hearts to be mended.

Instead, this Christmas I find us here again in the waiting of a silent night.  No real word from you on how long we will have to endure this suffering.  No promise you will relent anytime soon. 

Our hearts are heavy.  Our physical bodies feel the weight of this cursed world.  We grieve the loss of dreams that have died. We grieve so many losses.  We grieve. 

Still I wait.  I'll wait on you.  I'll wait for the words I long to hear from you.  Words of compassion.  Promises that I will certainly see your kingdom come on earth as it is in Heaven.   

I believe I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.  

I believe, help my unbelief.  

So, Emmanuel, God With Us...
When all around my soul gives way, you then are all my hope and stay.

Going Public

The Firstborn is shopping for a truck.  He turns 16 in February and has been working hard to build a decent nest egg.  He's searched the Google exploring his options and, after hours of browsing, has narrowed it down to a black, V6, 5 speed, crew cab under 150K miles for dirt cheap.

Piece of cake.

Unfortunately (and not so surprising to those of us who reside in the real world) car lots, Craigslist, and FB Marketplace all appear to be sold out of that particular model.  So, as we have been continually hunting for this perfect ride, I have tried to *subtly* encourage him to adjust his requirements.  Possibly open himself up to the color red or, dare I say it, an automatic transmission!! Because in the end it doesn't matter.  It's a truck.  If it gets you from Point A to Point B in one piece, I would consider it a good buy.  So just pick something and drive already!

But he is determined.  It's his first truck and he wants it to be just like he's envisioning in his mind. Perfect.  The best.  

And I get it. 

As I see him wrestling through this,  I am reminded that as a mother I have had the exact same mindset when it comes to so many of the decisions I have made concerning my family:

                      Breast or bottle?
                                                                    Work or stay at home?
                                

                                                  Cloth or disposable?                                           

          Children's Church or family worship?

                                                           Organic or Cheetos?

      


Can I get a witness?  Anybody else out there lose some sleep trying to navigate these waters?  

As I mature, I have stumbled upon a philosophy of parenting in regards to decision making that fits my temperament the best and also seems to be in step with Scripture.  

Ready for it?  Here goes: 


It. Doesn't. Matter.

It doesn't matter if you breast of bottle feed....just feed them however they best receive it.

It doesn't matter if you work or stay at home....just love your kids and Proverbs 31 the heck fire out of managing your family.

It doesn't matter where you are on the organic spectrum.  Just pick a conviction within your financial means and own it. 

It just doesn't matter.

In the book of Colossians, Paul is writing to a young church.  These guys were confused.  Their church consisted of people who grew up Jewish, with all their religious traditions, as well as those brought up in the Roman culture of pagan worship and mysticism.  To say there was some theological baggage would be an understatement. 

Paul does a great job laying out for them some truth by covering the essentials of the faith.  Then he goes on to encourage these folks on what the cadence of the Christian walk should look like....the things that every Christian should possess and be known for.

My Type A self loves a good list and this one Paul writes in Colossians 3 is an epic one.  Paul systematically lays out a "to-do" list that focuses not on religious practices, but on their hearts.  He pinpoints sin that we should be passionate to purge from our heart and zeros in on exactly the type of characteristics we should be desiring.  He speaks of humility and patience, kindness and forgiveness.  

Finally, he ends the chapter with these words: 

And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.

Col 3:17

Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people,
Col 3:23

Do you see the graciousness in all of it?  His parameters for a godly life are wide open.  He doesn't mandate the stay at home mom.  He doesn't gluten-shame bread lovers.  Paul is reminding us that Jesus cares about WHO WE ARE more than what we do.  When the heart of who we are is in alignment with God's, what we do will be in alignment with His desires for us.

And that guidance is how my family has come to decide to enter into public school this next year.  

I have absolutely loved being able to home school them the past 11 years.  I have had the biggest time getting to watch these clowns grow up and develop into wise and gracious people.  I would encourage everyone who has the desire and ability to be home with their kids to try it.  I've loved it.  It's basically like the Amazing Race on Bible steroids, with no cash prizes at the end and a little more cussing. 

But this is a new year with new family dynamics.  And after a ton of prayer and family discussions, we felt the doors were opening for us to try this new adventure.  

Because, again, we feel it doesn't matter.  Public education, private, Christian, homeschool, online.....it will be ok.  Just love your kids.  Pray for them.  Find the spot that best helps them flourish and go for it.  

I am so excited for my kids.  So ready to cheer for them as they step out to try new things.  But oh so sad.  I'm going to miss these yahoos like crazy.  They have filled up my days with so much goodness.  I'll miss my kitchen table being the cafeteria and the footsteps of recess being played throughout the halls of our home.  I'll remember with great fondness and thankfulness that their letters and phonics were learned in my lap in our rocking chair.  We learned so much together about love and life.  They have taught me well.

So here goes.  A new journey for a new school year.  This is us going public.

Airing Homeschool Laundry

Do you all get sick of me airing our homeschool laundry all the time? When I do I try to be transparent, highlighting the moments of nonsense and utilitizing self-deprecating humor to poke fun at all the crazy (sometimes accurate) stereotypes of the homeschool culture (is that even a thing?). I don't ever for a minute want to give the appearance that we have it all together or that we are in any way superior because we have chosen this avenue as the means to educate our children.

This year I suffered several defeats. Some personal, some more public. Each of them leaving some battle scars. One of them was this push I was making to get a bill passed that would allow my kiddos to play for their district's sports teams. It's a whole big thing and I'm not going into the details of it now, but after months of work, when we were just at the finish line with the thing, it went south. Lawmakers chose not to vote on it.

During those months of work petitioning lawmakers and tweeting tweets and posting appeals to the common man on FB, I heard lots of things about us homeschoolers that I didn't know. I typically learned them from people who didn't homeschool. I learned we don't get up until lunch, we don't have televisions, and that the Honey and I are behind in planning the arranged marriages for our children. While I am the first to crack jokes about the idiosyncracies of homeschool, the one thing I heard about us that I can't joke about is that so many of you think we homeschool because we think we're superior to public education.

Um....false.

Let me say right here, right now, that I love public educators. I am a sister to one, a friend to many. I talk with administrators and educators every week at church and at the ball field. I hear their hearts for their students and community. I see their posts praising their students' hard work and achievements and listen as they tell stories of kids' coming to school hungry or hurting or helpless. Educators are more than teachers. They're advocates. They're cheerleaders, guidance counselors, soldiers on the front lines for our community's children. I love our public educators. We need you. We are thankful for our. This homeschool family is especially thankful for you.

People often ask why we chose to homeschool. The answer is layered. There are logistical benefits for us. The Honey travels a lot with work and homeschooling allows us to travel with him some. The Honey and I also share a philosphy that we aren't fans of seeing the kids tied to a desk for the majority of their day. We love seeing them play basketball during the middle of the day, or that we get to have them tag along if we have to work the cows in the morning. Now that the kids are older, they're even able to work some odd jobs here and there that they wouldn't get to do easily otherwise. There really is a lot of convenience to educating your kids at home.

But here is the main reason: I like it. Really. I genuinely just enjoy teaching my kids. You hear all the time from people who excel in their fields that they just found what they enjoyed doing and pursued it. That's all I'm doing. I get butterflies learning along with my kids about European geography and inertia and latin conjugations. I'm redeeming my own education, those years I spent passing notes and making those paper fortune tellers, in the process. I like figuring out their learning styles and adjusting how I teach to aid in making them more successful. I love how we get to make lunch together. I love how we get to do life together.

Of course, there are a thousand things that are difficult or aggravating about it, just like any other job. But that is a post for another day. The point is, we don't homeschool because we feel like we have all the answers or because we look down on the other options. We just do it because....that's what we do.

What about you guys? Homeschool moms....why are you doing what you're doing? Mamas of littles going to your community's school....what are you loving about your kids' teachers? Working moms...how did you get started in your line of work?

Clogged Pipes

Friday was the day, people.  The first day in months I had no responsibilities.  Nothing on the calendar.  No meals to prepare or lessons to teach or errands to run.

I would like to say that I planned on using this free time to spend memorizing the book of Ephesians or eating whole foods or doing a Crossfit workout.  But nope.  My agenda was to move as little as possible from my bed.

Then life.

I had been ignoring an apparently large problem for about a month.  My kitchen sink was progressively draining slower and slower with each use.  And we use this thing a lot, my man.  All of us home-schooling and home-businessing from this joint amounts to a lot of dishes.  Every time I went to do a load, I could see that my pipes were clogged.

But life gets busy and the water eventually goes down, so we did what all good Yahoos do.  We ignored the problem.

By Friday, though, we could see that clog had waited us out.  The water was standing in the sink and going no where.  So The Honey took the afternoon off to start messing with this thing.

Were you thinking a little Drano applied would knock it out?  You're so precious.  No, not even.  We had to call in the big boys:  that snake thingy majig tool.

Here was the progression of things:

1.  Busting through the drywall under the sink.
2.  Cutting the pipe.
3.  Applying the snakey majig
4.  Getting no where
5.  Cussing a little
6.  Rinse and repeat

So then we thought maybe the clog was bigger than we anticipated.  Maybe it was deeper down into the plumbing.  So we went to the basement and began cutting into those pipes to see if we could localize the thing.

Listen people, I cannot prepare you for the devilish mess that we discovered when we cut deep into the belly of the beast that was our backed up plumbing.

The stinch.  The filth.  That rotten filth of 11 years of grease.  Lots of and lots of grease.
Because bacon.

But you know what we found most prevalent in the line?  The thing that seemed to be the agent of most of the clogging? Cascade.  Cascade people.  Don't let that get lost on you.  The little pods of cleaner whose function is to make my dishes pristine and sparkling and clean.  Gobs of it had jacked up my line.

Even after cutting the line and flushing it out.  We still had to run the snake through it over and over and over again to clean that mess out.  The Honey went at it from the basement up and I crammed myself under the kitchen sink to try to work my plumbing magic from the top down.

As I sat there, all hunched over, gagging a lot and saying Christian cuss words, I started thinking.

This physical mess is a picture of the spiritual mess of my life.  

Ordinarily my kitchen looks okay.  Not pristine, but livable.  Dishes are usually done and bars are cleaned off.  I sometimes mop the floor.  Things have their place.  But obviously those things were just appearances.  The real inside workings of my home were in disarray.

And so it is with me.  On the outside I  might look alright to most.  I read my Bible some and give a little to church.  I teach Sunday School and try not to yell at my kids.  I do okay.  But it's all Cascade.

 My spiritual heart is just like my plumbing.  And God knows it.  He is very acquainted with the filth in my life.  The stench of sin.  Deep down, I am far worse than I would have ever imagined. Jesus spoke about it when he was talking to some 'religious' people like myself:

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.

Matthew 23:27 

As I begin to peel back my layers to investigate how deep this rotten heart goes, I come to quickly realize this job is going to take way more than elbow grease.  It needs the healing hand of a Savior. The one who crafted us with his gentle care.  The architect of our lives, who knows our inner being and still loves us anyway.  Because here is the audacious thing:  In Jesus, the God who sees all of that junk can look on us as if we are unblemished.  Because Jesus willingly went into the belly of the beast for us, to conquer sin, we can be looked on by the Father as pristine.  Spotless. Pure.

That, my friend, is irrational love.  And that message, that gospel, good-news truth of Jesus, is the snake thingy majig to our decaying hearts.  The fact that Jesus took our shame and sin and placed it on himself motivates me to clean my pipes.  From the inside out.  To stop fooling myself with outward appearances, but instead allow the Father to have his way in my heart.

The First Thirteen

I've heard all about you, 13.  I've heard the stories about your eye rolls and mood swings and strange body changes.  I know you probably love the idea that lots of adults are scared of you.

But here's the thing.  I ain't scared of you, 13.  In fact, I'm already a little in love.

Because I see what you're doing, 13.  I see how you put up this edgy exterior to guard your tender heart.  I know your biggest fear is being exposed to those around you.  That someone might find you out. That they'll see your awkwardness and insecurities.   I know you just want to feel normal.

But I'm sorry to tell you, 13, you'll never be normal to me.  Nope.  Far from it.  Because in my eyes you are a work of art.  

You have an extraordinary mind. Extraordinary gifts.  And that laugh you laugh lights up my life. No, my son, there will never be anything normal about you.

So bring it, 13.  Bring the witty banter and voice changes and middle school humor.  Bring the growing pains and your bizarre friends with their bottomless pits

I'm so ready for you.  Because the secret is, 13, I need you.  Nothing makes me a better 37 year old than you in my life. Challenging me.  Sharpening my rough edges.  Helping my accept my own awkwardness and insecurities.  

I love you, 13.  May all your days be extraordinary.  

Steve Harvey and Me

Well, despite our differences on immigration policy, the definition of marriage, and the legitimacy of Donald Trump's hair, one thing all Americans can rally around is the fact that Steve Harvey blew it. Watching him misread that card and call the wrong woman's name in front of millions in a contest only 17 people on the planet care about....painful.  How his misstep caused that poor lady to have to muster all the energy she had in her 98 pound body to keep smiling while they removed that crown and sash....pitiful.

Though I don't care one iota about the Miss Universe title, I can't help but be intrigued with those few moments that transpired on that stage.  I'm mesmerized by all their expressions.  Mr. Harvey's shame, Miss Colombia's mugging, Miss Philippines' disbelief.  It's all so tragic.  Adele most assuredly should write a song about it.

This is my best friend, Adele.  She is fabulous and wonderful.  She encourages me in my Steve Harvey moments.  

But as much as people are laughing and pointing fingers, I can't help but sympathize with this guy.
Because here's the thing.

I am Steve Harvey.

I say the wrong things.  I sing the wrong notes.  I miss my cue.  When the pressure is on and the expectations are large, I've blown it.  On the big screen of my small life I have wrecked quite a few scenes with my sharp words or runny mashed potatoes or hair perms gone wrong.

I have spent way too many sleepless nights reliving some of these lower moments of my life.  I cringe thinking of the offensive joke I told, or the day I wore my dress backwards to church, or the years I spent screaming at my kids.

When you start thinking of it, my list of offensive fashion glitches, obnoxious stories, parenting fails, bladder control problems, and marital mishaps begins to add up quickly.  And if I start stewing on those for very long I can begin to feel defeated and unworthy.

Shame.

It is a dreadful thing. It is the monster hiding in the recesses of our hearts that haunts us.  It loves to whisper humiliating reminders of how imperfect we are.  It cripples us with the fear that we'll never live up.  That we'll never be able to hold our tongue, lose those 20 pounds, or clear up that back acne.

But there's a secret that you, me, and Steve Harvey need to learn real fast and forever.

IT IS FINISHED

All our shame and humiliation and unworthiness we're juggling have already been cast upon Jesus.  He didn't just carry it for us. He became it.  He became our shame. He embraced our humiliation.  He bore the wrath of our unworthiness. And in return what do we get?  A guilt trip?  A judgmental finger wagging in our face?  Hardly.

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

2 Corinthians 5:21

I mean....have you ever?  In our culture of condemnation and judgement and mocking, this seems so foreign to us.  But in Jesus, there is no condemnation, no mocking.  Simply this....grace.  

His grace makes us worthy.  His beauty makes us lovely.  His love makes us lovable.  Jesus made the great exchange for our sake:  our sin for his righteousness.  

So the next 700 times we pull a Steve Harvey, let's remind shame of its place.  It can take us only as far as the cross of Christ.  At the feet of Jesus, all of our striving is ceased.  It is finished.

To The Boy Behind The Wheel

To the Boy Behind the Wheel That Night:

I can't seem to get you off my mind.

I know we've never met and probably never will.  But we share a similar story.   Young kids in our prime.  Big dreams, little worries.

And then life interrupts.

I was The One Behind The Wheel, too.   And, I'm heartbroken to say, my circumstance resulted in a funeral as well.

Right now I hope you are surrounded by family and friends.  I am thankful for the ones that surrounded me during that time.  I am.  Their presence created a soothing balm to my wounded soul and helped alleviate some of the horror of those days.  But there were no cliches or comforting words that made it better.  And time doesn't heal every wound.  

I relived those moments leading up to and following my wreck a million times over the days and weeks and months that followed.  There were moments I thought I was going crazy because I COULD NOT think about anything else.  When I closed my eyes, every scene would replay in the theater of my memories.  When I opened my eyes I had to deal with the reality of this life and death I was living.

Because the reality was these were dark days.  I had to wrestle with incredibly heavy questions.  Like why I lived and this man died?  Why wasn't it the other way around?  Why didn't I try to give him CPR instead of standing there screaming?  What if I had swerved the other way or just left a few minutes earlier? And why did he have to die this way...so suddenly?  Why couldn't he have had a chance to tell his family goodbye?

Mr. Davidson, the man I hit that day.....the man that died....he was just going out for a gallon of milk.  I wonder if he got to kiss his wife goodbye that day.  Or if he got to bounce his grand babies on his knee one last time.  I hope he got to look his children in the eyes and tell them he loved them.  I hope he was able to pray with a member of the church he preached at.  I think about him all the time.

I wish I had answers to all these questions that swirl around my mind.   I don't.  Thirteen years later and I am still wrestling with the same Whys and What Ifs.  But there are somethings I do know.

I know I have lived two different lives.  My life before July 5, 2002, and my life after.  Everything I see and do and experience is now seen through the prism of that day.

Every intersection I approach, I tighten my grip on the wheel.  Every time someone slams on their breaks, my heart skips 5 beats.  I sometimes feel paralyzed by the What Ifs.  Thirteen years later, I am still paranoid when someone else is driving my kids around or when my husband is late from work.

But there is something about this second life of mine that is......better.  Not necessarily happier (though I am happy now). But truer, more authentic.  The emotions I feel now are more genuine.  The love I feel for my family and friends isn't as shallow as it once was.  I am keenly aware that encounters with people could be my last.   So I say 'I love you' more. I give more generously.  I pray.  I pray a lot more.

And that is what I want to leave you with now.  For you to know that I pray for you.  I pray to the God who has all the answers to all the Whys that He will comfort you with His love.  That as you lay on your bed on your sleepless nights you will be convinced of God's perfect love for you.  That in Jesus, all of your What Ifs are chased away because He has conquered them all.  That you can rest in His perfect, good plan for your life. Because that is what awaits you.  In all of the uncertainties and turmoil right now you can hold fast to this:  Nothing can separate you from His love for you.

 And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.  No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Rom 8:38-39

Neverland

The other night I was tucking the kids into bed.  When I managed to make it to Sweet Yahoo's room, I sat with her for a while to talk.  Believe it or not the two of us don't get much time to have a full on conversation with these boys around.  So bedtime is good for both our souls.

She began to share with me a recurring fear she was having based on a bad dream she had had a few weeks prior.  This came as no surprise to me.  Sweet Yahoo's thorn in the flesh is fear.  It loves to run wild through the moments of her life.  Her decisions seem to be defined by the loudest voice yelling 'But What If!'

Not unlike most kids her age, she is becoming increasingly aware of the finality of this life.  She had had a bad dream about one or all of us dying or something to that effect.   And at night, when no one was around, she had time to ponder the 'What ifs....'

I consoled her and loved her and spoke some truth to her.  God's truth.

He will sing over us and quite us with his love...

His love is everlasting to everlasting..

He will never leave us nor forsake us.

                                             He has overcome the world.

                                                   he is our Cleft in the rock

                 our strong Refuge

Our Rescuer.

And she felt better.  His Love is the only miracle drug for the crippling cancer of fear.

A kiss on the forehead and I was off to tuck the First Born in.

I can't put into words....can't rightly relay....what's going on in the life of this boy.  He is growing up.  I can almost see it happening.  I can feel him yearning to break out of this 'little boy' life he has been living and go on to newer, better things.  And I can see that he is making huge strides into becoming a man.  He is learning to listen better and that his words carry weight.  He is learning to see the world from other's point of view and to have compassion on the weak.   It is a genuine blessing to me.  Because if you have been following our life over the past 12 years you will know that I didn't always have the assurance we would get to this place.

This one has been the one that has kept me humble and on my knees. There were so many days that seemed hopeless. I thought he just wouldn't get it. That his heart was harder than the beatings discipline I could administer.  That the admonishments and warnings and encouragements to obey were being sucked into a vacuum, unable to reach him.

But God is faithful.  And His Word will not return void.

As I turned the corner to enter his room with his 97 books blanketing his bed and Luke Bryan (eye roll) cranking on the radio, he looked so grown up.  So I should have seen it coming.  That boulder coming out of his mouth that was going to crush me.

"When I turn 12, can you stop tucking me in?"

That's shock and awe right there, folks.

The look on my face must have surprised him as much as the request he had just made was to me.  He immediately said 'never mind' and that he 'didn't mean it'.  But it was too late.  My Peter Pan had done gone and turned in his key Neverland.

You know that fear I was so proud to crush down back in Sweet Yahoo's room?  Apparently it's contagious.

The final pages on this season of life are being written for me.    I don't fix her hair much anymore, I don't pick out their clothes.  They make their own poptarts and ramen noodles and have their own inside jokes.  My time is a little more my own.  All the things I thought I wanted 5 years ago.

 And that leaves me quite fearful.

These sweet kids of mine are growing up at exponentially fast speeds.  And it forces me to stare reality in the face and come to terms with the fact that I am not in control.  I fooled myself for years thinking I was.  That just because I told them what they were going to eat and fastened them in their car seats myself that I somehow had some control over them.  But now I know differently.  And so my own battle with the 'What Ifs' begins.

                                                                                            

What if they reject all we've been trying to teach them?

  

What if she runs off and marries a Democrat?

What if she runs off and marries a preacher?

What if he becomes a preacher?

What if he becomes incarcerated?

What if they do drugs?

What if I'm a grandmother in a few years?

What if Baby never learns to read?

What if they're not close when they grow up?

What if he doesn't get to play sports much longer?

What if they get exposed to porn?

                                        

What if they make porn?

What if they screw up?

What if I'm the one screwing them up?

I was proud of myself, though.   I held it together just long enough to make it to my bathroom.  I could feel the fear ball up in my throat as the tears streamed down my face.  And there, as I sat on the side of the bathtub, my Heavenly Father spoke some truth to me...

I will sing over you and quite you with my love...

My love is everlasting to everlasting..

I will never leave you nor forsake you.

                                                 I have overcome the world.

                                                   I am your Cleft in the rock

                 your strong Refuge

Your Rescuer.

Those words.  God's own version of shock and awe.  His love causes that fear to unleash its grip on my timid heart.  He chases the 'What Ifs' away and replaces it with whispers of hope and joy.  

I am thankful that just because I am facing these last days of this season of life, it doesn't mean that the story is finished.  That there are abundant days ahead for me and my children.  That the Author and Finisher of our lives has his own Neverland waiting for us.  It is the place where the What Ifs go to die.

Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.

Psalm 31:25

Be Still My Heart

So here we are.  The final week before Christmas.  And I have a few words.

Moms....this week....this is not our Magnum Opus.  It is not about us.  Or our kids.  And I know we say we already know that.  I  know we read the Bible story to them and set up the nativity scene and talk about mangers and angels and swaddling clothes.  I know.

But how can we reconcile what we Say we believe with the way our minds are racing and our thoughts are distracted and we're running around all like

Where is the rest?

Why is it so hard to just sit and treasure these things, these gifts already given, in our hearts.

And I'm not preaching.  Or maybe I am, but to myself as well.   Because I am this Jennifer Gardner (yeah, I wish). I bite off more than I can chew.  All in the name of 'making memories'.

Is there meaning to this madness we have created for ourselves? Christmas should instill joy into our hearts, because the Savior entered into our chaos to bring the peace we so desperately were seeking. But when I look around I just see a lot of....despair. Frazzled moms and disengaged dads and lonely kids.  All of us desperately searching for something we will never find under that tree.

So I'll end with this. If you are like me and fall into the category of 

frazzled, 

disengaged,

 lonely 

I invite you to take a minute and study that nativity scene one more time. What was the meaning to that madness? 

Simply God inviting us into His rest.  His invitation for us to gaze upon the feed trough, with Baby resting inside, and come feast on his love.  To hear His proposal delivered by armies of angels to experience genuine joy only He will provide.  To join together with those two speechless teenagers as he dashes all of our earthly dreams only to deliver an eternal hope that will never disappoint.  

His Word made into fragile flesh.  Be still my heart. Be still my worries and my concerns. Be still my to-do lists and absurdly high expectations.  Oh, come let us adore Him.

 The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

John 1:14

An Open Letter to The Farmers' Wives

And here's to all the ladies with the dirty apron on.

I see you there.  Weary and worn from the 1000 ordinary things you did today.  You're exhausted from the 16 hours of non stop you just walked through.  You consider it a success the kids are finally tucked in and they only yelled for you four times from their bedroom asking for another story, or water, or asking what you were cooking for breakfast tomorrow.

And I know.  I know the last thing you want to do is scrub those pots and pans from the supper you slaved over but they barely picked at.  But plunging your hands into a sink of hot soapy water is as close as your going to get to a manicure this year so you resolve yourself to it.  Besides, it beats the ironing and the mopping and the toilet scrubbing still waiting for your attention.

And I know this, too.  The dishes and toilets and laundry would be so much easier to do if you weren't alone.

 This season of calving and combining are our tours of duty.   We become single mothers for a couple of months while they take up residence in the fields. We continue mastering the 1000 ordinaries but in his absence pick up the check book balancing and oil changes and the other 1000 ordinaries he usually does for you.

And it's not the responsibility of juggling it all.  It really isn't.  It's the heavy loneliness.  Because we can move mountains when they are here with us, can't we?  But now all we have is listening to the low roar of the bean head spinning to remind us we're in this thing together.  Us and them.  Partners in crime. Because farm life is criminal at times.  The long hours, little pay, constant headaches of machinery breaking and calves dying.  Cruel and unusual punishment for the faint of heart.

But for the farmer and his bride it's just another day in this quickly vanishing paradise.  There are not many of us left, girls.  Not many of us crazies are still out there trying to work a 7am-midnight shift.  Not many of us willing to surrender our livelihood to mother nature and God's Providence.

And the harvest we're trying to reap is much more than corn and beans and supper on the table.  It's work ethic and self sacrifice and being something bigger than yourself.  It's the catalyst for the children's memories that will be made.  The plot of the stories they will tell their own kids when they tuck them in.  The motivation to know they can do this farm thing themselves when they are weary and worn and up to their necks in ordinary.

So I leave you with this.  As your hands meet the hot soapy water and you might be wondering if it is worth it all.  If you're beating yourself up because you haven't jumped in the leaves with the kids or served apple cider.  If they're mad at you because you make them haul hay over taking them to the movies.  Be hopeful this life we're doing is preparing their hearts for a harvest of righteousness.  We can do this thing.  And it will be a beautiful picture of the gospel of grace to ourselves and our kids.  

And one more thing.  I bet you're not the only one feeling lonely.  I bet my bottom dollar he's thinking of you out there on that combine.  So, let's do something wild and crazy. Let's tell the laundry 'Sayonara' and leave the dishes for in the morning.  And instead, go pour him a big cup of coffee and meet him out in the field.  Your hands might not be as soft, but your heart will thank you for it.  

  

5 Things I've Done This Week That Will Make You Feel Like A Better Human Being

I went to dinner the other night with some of The Honey's family that live out of town.   As we chit chatted, they asked me what I had been up to.

Initially, you give the standard answer:  'Not much'.

But then they did the follow up.  So I started listing the stuff I fill my days with.

Cooking

                                       Cleaning 

Educating

                                     Taxing driving

                                                                                           Refereeing

Nursing

                                                         Coordinating calendars

Home maintenance

                                                                                                                                                      Veterinary care

                                                                               

The list goes on.

And you know this already, don't you?  All you other women out there participating in this great juggling act we call motherhood.  Some weeks we have 20 balls up in the air and it appears we are carrying our load with ease and grace.   We make every appointment, supper is on the table, stories have been read.  Other weeks, not so much.  We burn the biscuits, the kids go to bed crying, we run out of chocolate chips.  It's during these weeks we need a little encouragement.  A reminder that we are not alone in this daily circus act we call life.

So, if you are having one of those weeks, if you feel like you just can't get it right, here is a list of things I actually did this week.  It humbles me to say them out loud on my virtual stage.  I hope it encourages you.

Here goes.....


 1.  I might have went ahead and served someone a hot dog bun from a package where mold was obviously present. To my credit, I did choose the one that was furthest away from the moldy ones spot.

Look at these kids.  Don't you want them to make it?

2.  When I walked into the bathroom and saw the toilet paper roll was empty, I was too lazy to change it.  So I just went and used another bathroom.

3.  I caught myself praying for Joel and Julia from Parenthood to work things out in their marriage.  Parenthood.  The TV show.  I prayed for television characters.




4.  When I finally went to bed after a long day of cooking, cleaning, educating, taxi driving, etc.  I was frustrated that I had forgotten to put the clean sheets back on the bed from washing them earlier that day.  So I just slept straight on the mattress.

5. I tried to talk The Honey into just letting us have milkshakes for supper because after 14 years of cooking I am, as they say, 'so over it'.  I was vetoed.  So we went out to eat.


More humbling than all these things:   this was, by far, not my worst week as a wife and mother.  But those stories are for a different blog post.

So the moral of this story, boys and girls trying to make it in the real world, is this:  don't let the moldy hot dog bun or accidentally praying for fictional character kind of days keep you down.  Because one of these days, if we keep persevering, we will be lucky enough to get to have a milkshake for supper.  Solidarity now, girls!  We can do this thing.

The Math Teacher's Beatitudes

Blessed are the teachers of math to 6th grade boys,

for theirs is a dark corner of the pantry and a jar of peanut butter and bag of chocolate chips

Blessed are those who beat their head against the wall after explaining percentages for the 90 kazillionth time, for they shall see a long hot bath at the end of the day.

Blessed are those who mourn low test scores even though they went over these exact same problems the day before,

for they will be comforted by the thought that one day this child will graduate and move out of your house and get a job.  Hopefully in retail.  Where they have to work with percentages.  

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after kids who can do their math homework in less than two hours and without getting distracted by hunting or football or butterflies,

for they will be filled with the knowledge that they hid some chocolate underneath the carrots in the fridge.

And blessed are you, moms and teachers, when you don't strangle someone when they still can't say their 9s multiplication table after years of practice,

for you will be shown mercy later in  life when they start studying calculus and realize how ridiculously clueless you are and you have to call in for reinforcements.   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



To read my other thoughts about teaching math to disinterested and ungrateful children, go here.

This is the expression I get to stare out all during math class most days.  It makes me think of Kanye's poignant and inspiring ballad Golddigger:

He got that ambition, baby, look in his eyes
This week he mopping floors next week it's the fries

Let's keep the hope alive, people.  And Happy Friday to all the teachers!  Let's go do this thing!