Purpose: His Not Mine

That crying feeling, it comes back, after a day off. The family sleeps and I sit up alone, quiet, knowing its name. Depression.

Ugliness, designed by God, produced by my endocrine system. And why? I always want to know why.

The traffic in my brain, here is what it says: There's nothing to look forward to. You, your life, it's ordinary. Nobody cares or notices your presence here. Beat the clock to get breakfast, lunch, dinner, produced on time. Socks and underwear in drawers. Clean towels for all. Do it all over again the next day. You like to write but it doesn't matter. Tons of writers, they spill words no one reads. Too many people like to write, too few like to read. Worthless pursuit. Too hard and nobody cares. Forget that ache inside to produce beauty and meaning. Forget it.

My three-year-old beauty with post-nasal drip, she stops the traffic, cries in the night.

I go in the dark room, lay next to her, pull her close. She presses herself as close as she can, receiving my love. She nurses and I marvel.

He says it, maybe?

This child, she cares. Her sister deep in slumber one bed over? She cares too. And they need you. They're my gift to you. Give them your life.

I think of Jesus, forced to carry his own cross. The living God came as a baby, humbled and needy. He could have fought and killed his enemies, but he gave up his greatness, his strength. He gave up everything.

Is that what motherhood is like? Giving up everything? I give up my need to write something pretty? I give up my need to stimulate my brain by reading online stuff that pulls me away from my babes, but lets me escape from the laundry? From the monotony?

Is God telling me that my only claim to fame, to anything out of the ordinary, is in choosing to give up myself...for them? That like a recovered alcoholic must choose every day to stay sober, I must choose every day to give up myself? Are we addicted to ourselves, the way the alcoholic is to drink?

Motherhood, it's about staying in the shadows, not the limelight. It's investment in someone else, with possibly no return.

I think of that blog, the one with the brainy content. Several days a month, it really draws me in like a vodka and I neglect my kids for theological discussions. Not all day, for there are meals and laundry, but still, it feels sinful. I know it is, when I think of the discussions I can have with my children instead.

Investment. How many times can we choose something else, and still say we invested in our kids?

Our interests and pursuits, they can feel very important. But He lets us know when we've crossed the line. How many mothers cross the line with their smart-phone addictions? Or with the PTA or that church ministry? Name your passion. Shame on us all.

I don't really want to write something pretty after all.

I want Him to infiltrate my mind every moment of every day, so I can invest in the most precious commodity...the children He blessed me with...the children He trusted me with. I want to bring Him glory, not let Him down.

We have this ugly thing inside. This draw of some sort. What do I even call it? It makes us seek our own greatness, instead of His, like Satan fighting God in the Garden. He wasn't content to be just an angel. He wanted it all. Eve, she wasn't content to just commune with God. She wanted to be like God.

Is it Satan fighting us mothers, wanting us to pursue something other than investment in our children? He tells us it's not enough? That motherhood--servanthood--is too lowly?

When we seek not our own, we choose Him. Therein lies the fulfillment we hunger for. Only in Him can it be satisfied. Not in writing something pretty, or participating in something brainy. Not in being noticed, or receiving accolades.

I go back to the depression that started all the traffic, that led to the truth. Is there a purpose, then, for the depression every month?  Does it force us to look squarely at our sin, as we look for a route out of sadness?

I don't know. But now, as I finish this, it's gone. No sadness remains.

Just purpose. His, not mine. 

Momma Blessings and Reflections

~ Daddy won a raffle at work and brought home a huge gift basket of flavored popcorns, peanuts, chewy candies, tea, and peanut brittle. Thankfully there was no chocolate--nothing to tempt Momma! The basket was wrapped in polka-dotted gift paper and curled ribbon. Miss Beth, eyes wide, said, "Oh, it's bootiful!"


~ Miss Mary in the bath, watching me wash Beth's hair, said: "Mommy, I have to watch you closely. When I'm a mom I have to know how to wash my kids and cook. When can you teach me to cook?"


About a month ago while folding clothes with me, she asked with a hint of dread, "Mommy, if I'm a mom do I have to wash clothes and do dishes all the time?"


"Well, yes Baby. But you won't mind so much because you'll love serving your family. God will help you." I tried to choose my words carefully, but they depressed her nonetheless. That night I had a chuckle with my husband, telling him motherhood can be a hard sell. We were both encouraged by Mary's latest comment...she seems to be embracing at least some parts of motherhood!


She's come a fair distance with this, because several months ago she told me she wanted to be a train driver. I asked her if she also wanted to be a mother, and she exclaimed, "But I can't be a mother! I don't even know how to babysit!" 


~ Miss Beth sees her share of doctors and apparently she observes them carefully. She's decided she wants to be a doctor when she grows up. Her ophthalmologist responded last week that she could certainly be a doctor if she studied hard. 


Yesterday, a quiet sick day, four of us watched The Wizard of Oz, a recent thrift-store find. It wasn't interesting to Beth so she got her clipboard, put some paper on it, and came over to me with some reading glasses on. "What hurts you today, Mommy?", she asked in three-year-old style. Oh, the cuteness of this scene! "My head is hurting right here," I said, pointing to the temple of my migrained head. Forty minutes into a dose of generic Excedrin Tension Headache, it was better, but I had to think of something. She drew a circle and made a mark where my head hurt. Then she pretended to write other notes. She repeated this a few times with each of us, thrilled to be taking notes like a real doctor!


~ Paul loves math and puzzles and board games and spelling. But reading? Not so much. He's good at it but it seems like a chore to him. He doesn't like books that describe too much scenery. "Get on with it", his head says. I vaguely remember that as a young reader...skimming some of the artsy stuff when I wanted just the story. Now I'm hungry for the artsy stuff, hoping to learn from the more poetic authors. 


When I can find the right stories for him, however, things change and he'll sit and read and read. So far this school year he's loved Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mr. Popper's Penguins, and the My Father's Dragon series (a trio). Many others he read barely made an impression on him...they were just assignments. He's reading well above grade level so I'm not fussy about length or difficulty. I care mostly about quality and finding something he'll fall in love with. It's hit and miss and he doesn't even know what he'll like, so he isn't much help in choosing literature. Right now I'm just thrilled to see him gobbling up the last of the My Father's Dragon series, and I'm praying for another treasure he'll love. 


Peter loves to get lost in books. Lately he's been engrossed in all the historical fiction novels I recently bought. Yesterday, though, Paul raved so much about the My Father's Dragon books, which are short, that Peter began to read those. I love the freedom homeschooling affords us!

This is the first book in the series. Scholastic's website puts this at a 990 Lexile and a 4.8 grade level.

This book includes the three tales.

 Yesterday I caught Miss Beth lying across the second easy chair, next to Paul's sprawled, reading-engrossed body. She put on some reading glasses and put her head in a Mrs. Piggle Wiggle novel she grabbed off the shelf. She's lying there on some unfolded towels, reading to her okapi, acquired years ago from the San Diego Wild Animal Park. That girl sure blesses!

okapi

~ Someone asked about the multiplication program I recently bought. It's called Time Tales. I bought the DVD with small flip chart for around $40.00. Expensive, but well worth it! Peter couldn't seem to retain the multiplication facts; we just weren't getting anywhere. I began to fear a learning disability, so I perused learning disability websites for curriculum that might work. A long, tedious, very technical article I found detailed four learning-disabled students who went two to three years with no progress in multiplication. When they were taught with mnemonic devices, they immediately began retaining the facts. After suffering through that research article, I searched for mnemonic devices for teaching multiplication, and the Time Tales product came up. 


I don't think Peter has a learning disability, though a fair percentage of AD/HD students do (about 1/3). They tend to be bright students who don't meet their potential. The disorder itself is considered a learning disability due to the inattentiveness/selected hyperfocusing, but there are some problems beyond this in some AD/HD students. Mostly, I'm learning that the more we try to put learners in a box, the less effective we become as teachers and facilitators. They are all unique and our task is simply to find what works...not dwell on or worry about what they can't do.


The Time Tales, at first glance, looks too simplistic. I put it in the player and said to myself, "I paid $40 for this! It's too simplistic." But my child thrived. He quickly learned the stories and now knows even the most difficult facts. And he's retaining them! My boy is very proud of himself, leaving me a teary-eyed, grateful Momma.


The DVD comes with a second disk that allows you to print out practice sheets and other associated helps.

One Foot In Front Of The Other

He hangs and swings from the high cupboard door impulsively and down it comes, heavy, hanging on just a hinge. I rush forward, holding it, grieving.

Why does he do these senseless things?

The same day he hangs his jacket, a nice one from Burlington, on the fence. Retrieving it with a yank, it rips ugly down the back, exposing down batting.

It all weakens my spirit, these and other annoyances. My emotions run high on hormones, besides, and I feel like crying.

I tell him he must clean the entire playroom by himself to help pay for the jacket. This brings torment and fits of anger, for the room resembles a cyclone.

He fusses long that he can't do it. It's too messy and he simply must have help.

A mountain of clothes taunt me from the couch. Dishes on the table, the counter, the sink, remind me of my inefficiency. Visible crumbs and debris shout at me from the floors and carpets.

I feel like my son...it's too messy and I don't want to do it and I. need. help.

I'm now treating eight pink-eye infections, two eyes per victim, and the three times daily drop schedule exhausts me, along with Beth's medicine and Peter's medicine and my own headache medicine.

The dryer threatens to go out and I raise my eyes to heaven as I'm apt to do when it all goes wrong at once. One day no heat, another day the timer won't advance, another day it works seamlessly. When can we even get to the used appliance place, with all these illnesses raging?

Peter's fussing from the playroom detours my thoughts. Self-pity, I shout at myself. Stop the self-pity!

"Peter, I have dishes and laundry and crumbs screaming at me and I feel exactly like you do. How can I do this to the glory of God, when all I feel like doing is crying?"


"The answer is the same everyday, Peter. We can do nothing apart from His strength. We're going to pray right now."

"Dear Father, help us to obey you and do our work for your glory. Help us to remember, before we fuss and complain, to come to you for help." 


Nothing changes immediately. We still feel like crying and Peter says it didn't work.

But in half an hour Peter makes significant progress and I have the dishes cleared from all surfaces and in the dishwasher, now humming away. I remind both of us to put one foot in front of the other and keep going...a long obedience in the same direction.

In no time the work completes itself as we mold our will to His. And we don't cry after all. 

"It worked, Mommy. Jesus is helping me. Look how much I got done."


I praise Him and agree that yes, Jesus helped us.

He always does.

My mind settles on this thought: Put one foot in front of the other and parent these children and suddenly, one day, as fast as the dirty dishes, they're gone.

And my eyes pool. Because I love this job and I hate this job but mostly I love this job.

And He whispers it.

"It's not about the dishes, the clothes, the crumbs, the broom. It's not about the chores, any of them, ever."


It's about the heart...yours and theirs.  In the mundane, in the moments, in the process, show them what journeying with Me is really about.

Is He Your Lord?

I need to write something to a fifty-year-old, previously widowed Christian woman who filed for divorce from her non-Christian husband of 3 years. Her reasons? He won't go to church and he's too fat. He wasn't a Christian when she married him either, mind you. The husband's developed a belly but don't picture a nightmare of a weight problem. He's not obese and even if he was, her conduct is reprehensible.

The real problem is that this woman, like so many Christians, never had the benefit of discipleship, either because of her own stubbornness or because the Christians in her life couldn't be bothered.

The letter will be long and I don't really have the time. The laundry isn't caught up and the floors need mopping. Books are on hold at the library and need to be picked up.

Oh, sure. I could let it go and not get involved. My hands are full here already and didn't she make her bed by marrying a non-Christian in the first place? What makes me think she'll listen to biblical counsel anyway? It's a waste of my time.

Isn't it?

And what right do I have to be acting like a counselor? Teachers are not counselors...I'm not equipped.

Right? (Hint: If you have knowledge of the Word and love in your heart for the student, then you're equipped. God disciples through us, not because of us.)

Here's the shameful part, in the form of a confession. Three years ago when the pair contemplated marriage we knew it was a grave mistake on the woman's part due to the prospective groom's non-Christian status. I'm related to the groom and I like him, though for most of my life I didn't know him. That means I didn't and still don't have knowledge of what kind of husband he makes. But none of that matters, for these were issues of the Word only. 

Do not be unequally yoked, the Bible says. Pure and simple Scripture that needed to be impressed upon a baby Christian woman who had never made Jesus her Lord. Jesus was Savior to her only and that's what He still is today.


We should have stepped in and privately counseled her three years ago, as the Holy Spirit prompted. Obviously we both feel terrible about this. Responsible for it even, in a small way--a responsibility we share with other Christians, for she was a churchgoer and didn't keep this relationship a secret.

We were conducting our busy lives and didn't want to upset other members of the family. It just seemed easier to let it go and pray for them.

Going back three years, here was the scene: We arrived at their small wedding reception just in time to see them greet the last of their guests. It appeared they were in some sort of an argument by the time we, the last in line, shook their hands and congratulated them.

We drove home feeling like cowards, knowing the scene in the coming months wouldn't be good.

The next day they drove to California, where the groom resided at the time; it was a long-distance, mostly phone relationship prior to the wedding. (They've lived here for eighteen months now, however.)

Out of sight, out of mind. I mostly forgot to pray for them because Beth was a tiny baby and I wasn't a prayer warrior back then.

How many times have you failed to get your hands dirty for God, for fear of this or that consequence?

The Gospel offends. The word obedience offends. The word sacrificial offends. All the words necessary to disciple another Christian, offend.

I will write this woman that though she married a non-Christian, she still must obey God and stay with her husband unless he decides to leave her. Her husband may never attend church with her or become a Christian. He may never lose weight or support her in the fashion she desires. Yet God still calls her to treat him with respect and let him make the important family decisions. 

What must happen in her heart, for these words to penetrate?

It's the same for all of us, isn't it? 

In order to obey God, we have to give up our sense of entitlement. We aren't entitled to happiness.

The Cross is enough, period. 


And yet if we submit our will to His, God gives us even more. When we make Him our Lord, and not just our Savior, we're given a peace that surpasses all understanding.

Life eternal in Heaven. Peace in our journey here. Are you rejoicing yet?

If not, ask yourself about a sense of entitlement. Do you have one, in regard to your home, your spouse, your children, your friends, your family, your possessions, your health?

Throw that sense of entitlement away. Get on your knees and give thanks for what you do have.

It is enough. Far more than you, than any of us, deserve.

Disclaimer: It certainly might be a valid point that someone who hasn't made Jesus their Lord, really isn't saved in the first place. I don't pretend to know if the two must exist at the same time, but I do know that many people who claim Jesus as Savior, haven't been discipled. Discipleship happens through us--through Christians. We have a responsibility to guide new believers, even if it means offending them. God doesn't need us to do this. The God of the universe doesn't need us to do anything for Him. But I think one believer guiding another--called discipleship--is His preferred way to grow the Church.

Think about your sphere of influence. Who can you disciple right now, other than your children? Our first commitment is to those under our roof, but He will prompt us to do more at times. And we must obey. We must make time for Kingdom matters...for the eternal over the temporal

photo credit

Counting My Blessings

~ Our sweet barber gave Peter a copy of Birds and Blooms magazine. It didn't take long for him to fall in love and wonder how he could obtain his own subscription. I awoke this morning to find this notice taped to the cupboard:


Peter's Propotey Mantanence


- vacuming
- weeding
- digging
- planting
- transplanting
- folding
- dusting
- raking leaves
- making beds for other people
- organizing
- dead heading
- I can trim some things


Job prices depending on size of job.


I kissed him on the cheek and told him how precious this was to me. He smiled and said, "I thought you would think that. My first draft was terrible. You wouldn't have liked it."


Getting him to do second and third drafts is a nightmare, so just knowing he improved it on his own made me silently thank God for his faithfulness to me, a homeschooling Momma desperate to help an unconventional learner like Peter! I needn't fear; He is with me! 


Whenever you fear, this might help. It's an excerpt from Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, p.161.  She imagines God having this conversation with her:

All fear is but the notion that God's love ends.  Did you think I end, that My bread warehouses are limited, that I will not be enough?  But I am infinite, child.  What can end in Me?  Can life end in Me?  Can happiness?  Or peace?  Or anything you need?  Doesn't your Father always give you what you need?  I am the Bread of Life and My bread for you will never end.  Fear thinks God is finite and fear believes that there is not going to be enough and hasn't counting one thousand gifts, endlessly counting gifts, exposed the lie at the heart of all fear?  In Me, blessings never end because My love for you never ends.  If My goodnesses toward you end, I will cease to exist, child.  As long as there is a God in heaven, there is grace on earth and I am the spilling God of the uncontainable, forever-overflowing-love-grace.

~ As Beth nursed at bedtime last night, I could feel my body relax from the day's stress. Several minutes into it I said softly, "I love you, Beth." I could feel her body relax further and then she put her head up and returned, "I love you too, Mommy." Then she continued nursing, only to stop again and put her head up, telling me, "I really do, Mommy." 


Sometimes it takes a whole day for a moment like this to arrive. This mothering thing can seem so hard. But then God sends these graces, these gifts. I really do believe they are His words, tucked into a child's vocabulary. For the moment I hear them, I am certain being a Mommy is exactly where God wants me to be. 


The world's voice can be a cacophony in our heads sometimes. A woman should do this or that important thing, not spend 24/7 with her kids. But God asserts His voice above it all, from the mouths of the babes we nurture. And then it becomes clear, crystal clear, once again.


~ Another moment of purpose clarity came with Mary at bathtime. She seems so wise all of a sudden, like the Holy Spirit's begun to dwell in her: 


"Mommy, sometimes when I cry it looks like I'm sad, but I'm really happy." 


"Yes. That's true. We cry when something touches our hearts, not just when we're sad." 


"I think it's God that touches our hearts, Mommy." 


Yes, child. That's exactly it.


~ A cold, snowy Saturday meant no outdoor play so we made sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies while Daddy worked his half-day shift. When Daddy arrived home he noticed the chocolate chip cookies first thing and munched away. "These are so good. Thank you, Honey."  His love languages are quality time and physical touch. I've known this since the first year of marriage. But the true way to his heart--something I've learned in the last couple years? Food. He's 5 foot 8 inches and 158 pounds. Don't ask me where it goes, but he does work very hard 55 hours a week!


~ Mary and Beth are best friends. They even share their pink-eye infections. They're happy about it too, since it means they can keep playing together. Let's hope there are enough drops in that minuscule little bottle, because every time we go back to the doctor we come home with some new and uninvited germ, no matter how much hand gel I slather on. Tough February for illnesses; we're on round 2 with colds, too.


Have a blessed Sunday, friends. Fear not, count your blessings, and know that motherhood is the highest calling.