The Reverse Draft

Baseball season is afoot, and with it comes the hat of coaching that David so willingly picks up for his boys.  This year, Collin's league involves an evaluation of around 100 boys who, in a day or two, will be drafted on to a team.

David is meticulous about stats and has ranked in an extensive spreadsheet his evaluation notes and a calibrated top 100 from the first draft pick down to the last, mostly according to observed technical skill or personal knowledge of the player.

Yep, the subject of drafting players hangs heavy in this house.

So tonight I was chatting with my girlie chatterbox because in middle school, many small details and incidents must be hashed and rehashed before the day might officially end. 

She told me, after months of waiting, she finally was tapped to be team captain in PE, which meant she got the power position of drafting her team for dodgeball.   

Well, I said, who did you pick?  The super sporty 8th grade boy?  The cool hip 7th grader who hardly gives you the time of day, but might start liking you if you picked her first?  The older, cute girl who you want to impress? Who then, pray tell?

Her reply: Mom, I decided to go in reverse for once.  You know, to pick the ones who always come last.

A reverse draft?

Apparently so. After ceding the first pick to the other captain, she called up as a coveted top pick the sweet girl adopted from a foreign orphanage who, because of a slight disability, could only move slowly from here to there.  Not exactly the most competitive selection for a winning lineup.

Oh boy Mom, she was so excited.

Then she called the girl with Asperger's, who shouts out in class, never quite brushes all of her hair, and acts- shall we say- different.

We all stand together and wait, crying inside to be chosen.

After that came a series of non-sporty, quiet girls with braces.  

Apparently God blessed this selection, because they fared pretty well against all the jocks and popular coolkats who ended up on the other squad.

So I'm ending this long day pondering how a child can be taught many subjects and facts, but is she also learning lessons of kindness and love?  Can a hyper-sensitive middle school mind see beyond the staged and sometimes-thorny outer shell of a fellow teen and right into the prism-like beauty of that person's heart? 

Such unexpected love for others must certainly originate with the One who first ran the reverse draft.  You know, the heavenly team captain who, century after century, picked the rejected (Jesus), the prostitute (Rahab), the elderly (Abraham and Sarah), the runt of the litter (King David) as the All-Stars for His team.

And although I am pleased with her numerous 7th grade accomplishments, I am convinced that her memorable draft will go down as one of the most meaningful successes of all.

Simply Showing Up

Those of you who subscribe to this blog by email know the mixed emotions I had about Vacation Bible School, for which I volunteered this summer.  I posted a lengthy exposition about my conflicting thoughts which has subsequently been squirreled away in the hidden "things I write but would be wise not to publish" file.

However, suffice it to say that I did have a lot of introspective questioning going on in my mind the entire week of VBS.  Forgive me.  I'm hard-wired to evaluate everything.

That said, I was matched with some precious 8-year olds who were pretty darn fun to be around and assigned a shy, mild-mannered middle school assistant named Luke.  All of these small folk were strangers to me before the week began but by the end we were hugging and high-fiving together.  They graciously looked the other way when I flung myself into the wrong hand motions and generally zigged when they zagged during the group song time.  Kids can be forgiving around geeky middle-aged adults if you give them plenty of snacks, smiles, and encouragement.

I finished the week feeling positive and hopeful but slightly unsure whether the little kids in Group #19 had moved forward in their spiritual walks.  Ever the pessimist, I am.

So imagine my surprise when I trudged to the mailbox tonight, tuckered out from a hot two-hour swim meet and the tedious drudgery of turning over my kids' closets all day, only to find a letter hand-addressed to me in creaky, unfamiliar writing.  Here is what it said:

      Dear Christin,

                I want to thank you for the love and encouragement that you showed my 
               grandson Luke at VBS this year. 

               You will never know what a positive influence you were to him.  

              God bless you for lifting his self esteem.  I am praying blessings over you.

                                                                                                        Sincerely, 
                                                                                                        Luke's Grandmother

Luke?  Ahhhh--Luke, my middle school helper.  The sweet guy who I brought a cold Coke in my Vera lunchbag every day as a meager thanks for him playing soccer in the scalding sun when I desperately wanted to sit quiet in the shade. The person who clearly loved being around little kids and showed it by eagerly helping with their crafts and projects.  The fella I couldn't help but tell every morning how grateful I was to get to hang out with him and how terrific he was with younger children.

I didn't pay attention to any of that interaction.  I was too focused on the place I thought God needed me to be at work: the VBS children.  So....what if I wasn't there for the kiddies at all, but instead for a young man who needed a kind word?  I never thought much about it that possibility, but I sure am thinking it over tonight.

I am reminded for about the millionth time: service boils down to showing up with a willing heart.  It's that simple.  Next time instead of fretting, I'll  leave it to God about what he intends to do with my meager efforts.  I am pretty sure about one thing: it will not be what I expect.

In the meantime, I'll be squirreling this reminder away in another file, just to remind me when VBS rolls around again...

So Many Kids: What Gives?

Today at my favorite Publix, I checked out almost needing two carts since the summer elves have taken up residence and eaten me out of house and home.  I had a light crew with me this morning: only the baby, the newly-six year old and the seven year old.  As so frequently happens, the cashier eyed us thoughtfully, taking in the baby gumming his black checkout pen, the other child flipping through my open wallet like a teenager, and the third shiftily looking back and forth at the Redbox while brushing soggy free-cookie crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand.

And like I have heard almost every single day over the past six or so years, he commented:  "Ma'am, you sure have your hands full."

Oh, how I have sought to come up with the perfect reply to this deft observation.  Not because I desire to be unkind, but because there is so much I would love share in earnest reply.  Today, I simply looked him in the eye and said: "Not really. There are two more at home," to which he could only glance at me with deflected pity and continue to scan.

This comment can be topped by the time I was in Walmart, eight months pregnant in a balloonish tent dress, pushing a 1 year old baby sucking two pacifiers at once, with several energetic preschoolers clinging to the metal sides of the cart.  Some well-meaning devout stranger put her hand on my arm at the checkout, leaned over and confidentially asked, "Aren't you so excited about the Pope coming to America next week?"  To which this Methodist mama with pregnancy-brain could only sputter: huh?

I admit in the general populace in modern America, it is unusual to see larger families. The diapers, the potty training, the forgotten putrid sippy cup under the passenger seat all the way through the mass feedings, chaotic sports schedules, wacky adolescent hormones and the jaw-dropping cost of college--it really is quite a lot to wrap your mind around.  I am always floored at my dental bill when I take all the kids at once.  I mean, really!  False teeth might cost less in the long run.

All hassles aside, having this many children comes down to one thing for me:  purpose.  At a certain point, the hubs and I came to realize that part of our purpose on Earth was connected to raising children in a Christian home, with a prayerful desire that they eventually go out into the world reflecting Christ in an authentic, respectful and intelligent manner.  So we went "all in" for this purpose, and now we sit here with five and absolutely no regrets.

The old adage is true: it's unlikely that someone will lie on their deathbed lamenting I had too many children! Woe is me!

And, to be honest, we like our kids. No need to overcomplicate things; there was no master plan.  We liked the first one so much that we had the second. We liked the second so much we had the third.  And so forth.

We want to be with them, we enjoy the process of raising them, we savor the chances for all of us to be together under one roof.  There simply is no shortage of entertainment with this many funny folks, nor any shortage of marvel at the people they are becoming.

I know without a doubt that God has great plans for their lives, and I am very interested in being a part of His plan with the days I have been given.

My fortieth birthday, three weeks before the birth of #5. 
Gifted with tooth fairy money, this chair is physical proof that there is a teeny tiny 
return on investment for costly dental care. 

So to the clerk in Publix, our ever-patient pediatrician (who I saw twice on squeeze-in appointments in the last 48 hours), the beleaguered Honda salesman, the transient lawn helpers, and anyone else wondering what faulty birth control must be going on with this many children under one roof, I say: there is nothing in life more satisfying than living out your calling.

This happens to be mine and I joyfully accept it, even as my two college diplomas gather dust in the closet, the noise decibels in our home exceed the legal limit, and the dog was hand-fed a bag of party-size Fritos by the toddler for breakfast.

Yes, despite the shock of uncovering a secret trove of live frogs in someone's pink bedroom only this morning, I would not say I have full hands.

Only a full heart.

A Little Secret: How I Switched Shrillness for Stillness on Easter

At this Sunday's Easter service, our church was packed to the gills.  I am always amazed at the finery that shows up that particular Sunday, and it's simply good people watching to see folks in their expensive clothes with the store tags freshly snipped off intensely walk/running to a pew so that they won't be left without a seat in those final moments before the service.  We were no exception, scurrying in at 9:20 and masterfully claiming the last line of folding chairs on the back row.  With Josh tucked in the nursery, that made six slightly damp and out-of-sorts Roberts in coats and ties and starched dresses all perched mercifully on a chair to call their own, awaiting the "Super Bowl" of Sundays to begin: the message of resurrection.

9:25am.  This is Collin and one tired-looking mama taking a victory selfie that we made it on time to score a seat on the back row.  The hubris was short lived.

I had gotten up late that morning.  Big mistake.  I had 12:30 luncheon at our home to finish preparations for, with a good 80 minutes required for the ham that I threw in the oven while my hair was still dripping.  The baby sat watching me, feeding the dog off his high chair tray and throwing the rest against a nearby wall.   Despite explicit instructions the prior evening, certain socks, shoes, and hair accessories could not be quickly located by the remainder of my brood, with one rain-soaked loafer eventually found in the middle of the driveway (!).  I forgot to press about four garments that needed wearing, so I whipped that job out before shoving on my high heels (the closed-toe ones that wouldn't show my chipped polish) and tossing a linen Talbots number from the resale shop over my still-wet hair.

My life, no matter the level of planning, is an unplanned mess.

As we waited for the hymns to start, we realized that so many people were in the foyer that it seemed some were giving up and leaving.  David jumped up and disappeared for a few minutes, then came back and waved us over to him.  What?  Give up our seats?  No way, man.  These are golden.  The waving intensified.  Okay, okay--I reluctantly gathered up my chicks and was directed by the hubs to a never-noticed, vacant old sound booth near one of the central pilasters.

With only three chairs.

We climbed the short stairs, jammed in, and tried to get situated as the choir began to sing a sort of rock 'n roll contemporary blend.  In the back corner of the choir loft, there was a middle-aged man with freshly combed hair in his coat and tie.  Not only was he not singing, he looked downright miserable.  David glanced at me and we both looked at the poor guy, realizing that the ushers had filled the empty choir seats with unsuspecting latecomers.  This fella looked like he was dying inside.  Like maybe he had not been to church in a long, long time and not only did he not know the words, he had come with no intention of singing or participating at all.  Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined ending up in that loft with the entire church filled to the rafters and looking right back at him.

In the meantime, as we inched towards the sermon, I jostled to situate all the kids happily--something that was never going to happen in such a cramped, seat-less space.  I went from one kid on my lap to two kids on my lap to not feeling my toes or much of anything below mid-thigh.   I wanted to cry a little.  This was Easter Sunday!  We're supposed to worship and feel gratitude and be struck by the magnitude of His sacrifice!  Instead, I was made pretty miserable by our close quarters and the thought of my unfinished ham and the iron I had possibly left on and a particularly cantankerous child whispering loudly and continuously in my ear.  Ugh!  What to do?

I glanced all around, from the beleaguered guy in the choir loft to the music minister with his hands held high to the on-time regulars who were glued to their regular pews, unwilling to budge a single inch even for this Sunday.  Noticing a dark niche under the empty sound booth counter that appeared to have some free oxygen, I decided retreat was the best option.  Much to the amazement of my kids, I gathered up the hem of my nice dress, flipped off my shoes, and hunkered down comfortably under that counter for the remainder of the service.  High heels, nice pearls, pretty dress were all irrelevant to finding a spot where my heart could be still.

I wondered who inherited our comfy seats on the back row.

I wondered what all the proper Methodists would've thought if they could see me hiding in my secret spot right there in their midst.

I wondered if the gentleman in the choir loft would like to switch places with me.

And switching places is what I couldn't stop thinking about the rest of the service. Because, the more I thought about it, the more I was overcome with the revelation that Easter is all about switching places.  It's about me deserving to be up on the cross because of my broken and sinful nature, but Jesus switching places with me and taking the brunt of undeserved punishment, even to death.

He gave up his seat in this world for those who had no space at God's table.  He knows all about my highly imperfect life, just as it played out in the rush of that morning, and yet personally and lovingly is preparing a place for me in heaven. 

Easter worship is knowing that because of His resurrection, my distracted attempts to praise Him will one day be switched out for a kingdom of singing angels where I may glorify Him completely and know peace without end.  

And I prayed during that hunched-up time for the man in the choir loft, that this seemingly punitive hour would not keep him from the limitless hours of eternity.  I prayed that Jesus himself would switch something in that man's heart and every person in that room who hadn't darkened the door of a church all year to know that He didn't come only for us Methodists in all our finery--He came for those who struggle, who doubt, who deny, who refuse to come at all for the show.

He came for the mess and in spite of it felt it was worth redeeming.

Thanks be to God.

Hey!  Put your hands by your sides and smile like normal people!

Now that's better.

How the Brain Trainer became a Faith Trainer: Life Lessons for a 12 Year Old

My oldest daughter is quite an intense young lady.  She is seriously in love with all things learning, and fortunately learning comes rather easily to her.  I admire her from afar and wonder if we have very much in common at all because I can't recall what I was like at that age, except that I did love me a good grade or two.

So last year, in 5th grade, when their class was asked to write a 5-paragraph essay on any topic for a district competition, she thought about it intently for awhile, going back and forth on what the audience would enjoy, what she would enjoy, what could fit into five paragraphs and the three-minute time frame, which is in my opinion a dreadful format but the one required in this situation.

She decided to "save" her favored topic, classical education, for 6th grade so that she could showcase it at district and, in her limited mind's eye, evangelize the public school crowd about the merits of the classical approach.  Instead, her speech for that year was entitled "Three Typical Recurring Themes in Disney Princess Movies," which was a breakdown of the consistently missing parent and other pretty deep motifs.  She figured it would be intellectual yet entertain the kindergarten crowd at the same time.  In the candy pink fluff of Disney princess, she wrapped quite a meaty meal.

So when this year's competition rolled around, she was a loaded gun, having thought about her "classical education" speech for a full 365 days with a brimming eagerness that I think (mother's opinion here) is her trademark.  She read some tough material in the research stage, only to write and rewrite it multiple times.  The challenge: to fit a very complicated subject into a mere 3 minutes.  It's tougher than one might think.  And I suspect that while she crafted an excellent speech, she came under the duress of the strict time limit when competition day dawned, and alas, "Classical Education: The Brain Trainer" came in third in our school behind the winning speech, a magic-themed effort entitled "Abracadabra".  No opportunity to take it to the "masses" at the district level.  The eagerness crushed, the spirit doused as the road led to a dead end.

When I say there were tears, I mean THERE WERE TEARS.  On and on and on.  She wanted to win for all the right reasons, and when she didn't, she really couldn't reconcile the loss in her mind.  Didn't God want people to know about this amazing system that honors our minds as "fearfully and wonderfully made?"   "Why put in the work and see it not pay off?" She begged me for an answer. And the heartwrenching question lingering in her mind: "If God put this desire in my heart a year ago, why did it come to nothing in the end?" 

Ah, the age old question. Why, God, why?

There is a happy ending to these mama ramblings.  Our school's open house was this week, and she was asked to deliver her competition speech before a near-full house.  And, conveniently, because of the original parameters, it spanned merely three minutes--just the right amount of time.  We had a whole bunch of new families visiting the school that night, in addition to a majority of our current parents. It was an important and sort of magical moment.

She rose to the occasion, walking up to the microphone in her navy blazer and pleated plaid skirt without a nervous bone in her body.   The speech was a rousing success. Seeds were planted. People laughed, they engaged, one or two were possibly humbled that a 12 year old understood and could confidently articulate the very thing they were trying to learn about by coming that night. 

Even if one mind or heart was moved, it was more meaningful and effective than giving it before a dry crowd of fellow competitors and their nervous parents at any competition because, on this night, the words went out, sunk in, and took root in listening hearts.  The act, caliber, and delivery of the speech itself was a testament to the effectiveness of the very classical education she described.

I am thankful that my Intense One received such an early and powerful life lesson about how God's plan for her is often going to be different than the plan she anticipates, but that it's important to trust that He "who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think" (Eph 3:20) WILL ACTUALLY DO IT according to his own perfect timing and design.  The key, I told her, is to be willing---for instance, to take a year-long desire, put the necessary hours of work and brain power into the effort, and focus on creating excellence.  Without knowing the future, she must come to the place she is called with preparation, eagerness, and best efforts.  That is always going to be her role.  The results or how He uses the fruits of her labor are out of her hands, but through faith she will consistently find that His purpose will always be far greater than anything she might hope for or imagine.

The point is not to desire her efforts to be honored, but to focus on bringing Him honor by her efforts.  Amen.

I caught the moment with my smartphone from the back, so the audio is low and the lighting is bad, but if you'd like to hear the actual speech, it's worth a three-minute listen to "Classical Education: The Brain Trainer" by Madeleine Roberts.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QV3Ns8e4JAE

Churchy Thoughts: Beyond Sunday Morning Sermons

Lately--make that for almost 10 years--I have been visiting and revisiting the matter of church in my mind.  I will say straightaway that (a.) I am a lifelong Methodist and (b.) I am no theologian nor have I hashed through third, fourth, and fifth level doctrinal issues and (c.) I believe that going to church on Sunday is very important beyond what is said from the pulpit. 

Moreover, I continue to independently seek truth through reading the Scriptures firsthand, but there is no practical way to discard years of pastoral input and have a fresh and truly uninfluenced opinion.  In my naiveté , I used to think things came down to two camps: Christians and Non-Christians.  Now I realize that folks are a-campin' out every which way- Fundamentalists, Prosperity Gospel, Evangelicals, Post-Evangelicals, Charismatics, Relevants, Reconstructionists, Revisionists.....need I go on? 



I grew up and married in this beautiful Methodist church, built in 1890.

It's a lot for me to wrap my mind around.

Sometimes, I gotta go back and simplify it all.  I know the Gospel.  I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God who died for my sins.  I am well aware of my brokenness and my need for a Savior.  I believe that I am saved by grace through faith. I read my Bible, go to church each week, discuss God with my kids every single day. 

But when I attend the service on Sunday morning, it sometimes feels limiting.  I hunger to be fed.  This doesn't always happen through the particular pastor preaching that day and/or through my chosen worship setting (traditional, contemporary, blended, what should I pick off the church menu?)  Sometimes I am distracted (my emergency nursery number flashes on the sanctuary screen), sometimes I am exhausted (getting five children into dress clothes, plus me), sometimes we are super late (see prior parenthesis), sometimes the message is esoteric or the preacher's just not feelin' it or, most often, my heart is not focused and ready to listen as 9:30am rolls around.

But, goodness gracious, I could use a Word.  God knows how badly.

Thankfully, the use of modern technology is completely changing how I view "church."  I currently have three church apps loaded on my phone--one from Montana (Levi Lusko/Fresh Life), one from Texas (Matt Chandler/Village Church), and one from North Carolina (Steven Furtick/Elevation).  (And lest you think by this list that I've given over completely to the young, funky crowd, I also enjoy Tim Keller, Andy Stanley, and Bill Hybels, just not on an app yet.)  I regularly listen to sermons from these particular pastors when I'm driving around town, taking a morning run, folding laundry.  And it has been just what I needed, meeting me right where I am, when I can pay the fullest attention, digest what is said, reflect on how it applies to my life, replay it in the really good parts, and pause it to change a diaper or two.

I am not a unilateral fan of technology, but access to sermons outside of the Sunday morning routine and perspectives from pastors well beyond Tallahassee have been a game changer for me.  And not one of them are Methodist, I should note.  And that's okay with me, because this decade of questioning church has led me to a few basic observations:

1) The most religiously wise sects of Jesus's day, those who knew Judaism inside and out, missed the very person that scripture prophesized over and over would come, so their intricate knowledge of doctrine and laws by their "denominations" did not keep them from being blind to the Most Important Thing, and

2)  When Jesus was talking with Peter, who he was hand-picking at that moment to found the future church, he didn't give a long interview with nitpicky questions like "Peter, do you believe in infant baptism? Do you agree with predestination?  Okay, what are your thoughts on celibacy, birth control, and divorce?  Was the world was created in 6 literal or figurative days?" 

No, he simply asked one thing: "Do you love me?" (John 21)

So I'm embracing the fact that God can and will use a wide variety of wise, well-respected preachers who he has anointed to teach in order to feed me along this spiritual journey.  And this crazy busy, sometimes distracted, often tired yet well-intentioned wife, mom, and Methodist is thankful.


Do you regularly use a church app that you can recommend? Leave a comment and I'll be sure to check it out.

Resolved: Slow & Steady, I Think I'm Ready

New Year's resolutions.  Is too late for those?  We are, after all, fast into January and I'm already sleeping far too little and rounding hairpin corners as I hang on for dear life.  I've been thinking over the resolutions part of the new year for the past week, and the thoughts running through my head have ranged from the oh-so-serious to the very inconsequential.

Here is a sampling:

:: Resolve to remember these resolutions come July.
:: Be slow to anger, even righteous (justified) anger.
:: Read Scripture before my feet hit the floor each morning.
:: Fold the clean laundry as quickly as humanly possible.
:: Spend dedicated time each day with each child, one-on-one, mainly listening.
:: Pray with intention and focus.
:: Put toilet locks on and childproof the front door.
:: State life-giving words over my children, even on those days when I am unspeakably frustrated with them for such actions as playing in the toilet (Josh), not flushing the toilet (Reid), or both (see above).
:: Call my mom every day. (Not throwing this in because she is perhaps the only reader of this blog, but because she does #5 so well)
:: Send more hand-written letters.
:: Sustain an ever-present awareness of my own very evident need for a Savior.
:: Love my husband well, setting aside selfish interests, however small, to serve and support him.
:: Finally start being methodical yet creative (creatively methodical?) about meal planning instead of being startled every night that they want dinner again. (Read: less plain ole yard bird with sides, less "it's breakfast for dinner again, kids!")
:: Teach my two eldest how to cook (see above).
:: Pare down my closet to only the things I love and get rid of the "might wear someday" and "used to wear, like in college" pile.
:: Play one kid game per week of their choosing, with the exception of the dreaded Dark Tag.
:: Try to get more sleep.
:: Fit the whole blog thing into an already tight schedule because the writing part gives me joy.
:: Respect Sabbath rest, remembering that this means getting organized and working harder the day before.
:: Round the corners more slowly.

 

For some truly amazing resolutions, take a look at those of Jonathan Edwards, one of the most influential theologians in early America, which he wrote at the tender age of 19 and read to himself once a week for the remaining 35 years of his life (the once a week thing being one of his very first resolutions--well played, sir!)

 

UPDATE:  The "try to get more sleep" resolution only took one night to shoot down. I blogged this entry until 1:15am, had Child A come in wanting to sleep on the floor right around then, and at 3:30am, Child B woke me up to tell me about a bad dream and a tummy ache.  Shortly thereafter, Doggie A fake retched, probably choking on the latest stocking stuffer she got her paws on, followed by Child C dashing down the hall at 5:00am feeling scared because her bathroom door was open. Come 5:45am, Child D was up cooing in his crib and ready to play!  Some days there isn't enough caffeine in a cup--bring on the java IV!



RESOLVED: play with abandon

 

RESOLVED:  Listen well and often

 

RESOLVED: Love without condition

 

::Guiding Scriptures for 2014::

 

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.      
2 Corinthians 4:7

 

For the grace of God has appeared that offers salvation to all people. It teaches us to say “No” to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives in this present age, while we wait for the blessed hope—the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are his very own, eager to do what is good.

Titus 2:11-14

 

The Magical Dust of Christmas

excerpt from Max Lucado, It Began in a Manger

It’s Christmas night.

The midnight hour has chimed and I should be asleep, but I’m awake. I’m kept awake by one stunning thought. The world was different this week. It was temporarily transformed.

The magical dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having and what we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning, wooing, and warring.

We put away our ladders and ledgers, we hung up our stop watches and weapons. We stepped off our racetracks and roller coasters and looked outward toward the star of Bethlehem.

 

It’s the season to be jolly because, more than at any other time, we think of him. More than in any other season, his name is on our lips.

And the result? For a few precious hours our heavenly yearnings intermesh and we become a chorus. A ragtag chorus of longshoremen, Boston lawyers, illegal immigrants, housewives, and a thousand other peculiar persons who are banking that Bethlehem’s mystery is in reality, a reality.

“Come and behold him” we sing, stirring even the sleepiest of shepherds and pointing them toward the Christ-child.

For a few precious hours, he is beheld. Christ the Lord. Those who pass the year without seeing him, suddenly see him. People who have been accustomed to using his name in vain, pause to use it in praise. Eyes, now free of the blinders of self, marvel at his majesty. All of a sudden he’s everywhere.

In the grin of the policeman as he drives his paddy wagon full of presents to the orphanage.

In the twinkle in the eyes of the Taiwanese waiter as he tells of his upcoming Christmas trip to see his children.

In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer.

 

He’s in the tears of the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas.

He’s in the heart of the man who spent Christmas morning on skid row giving away cold baloney sandwiches and warm wishes.

And he’s in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall shoppers as the elementary school chorus sings “Away in a Manger.”

 

Emmanuel. He is with us. God came near.

It’s Christmas night. In a few hours the cleanup will begin—lights will come down, trees will be thrown out. Size 36 will be exchanged for size 40, eggnog will be on sale for half-price. Soon life will be normal again. December’s generosity will become January’s payments and the magic will begin to fade.

But for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that’s why I’m still awake. I want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that those who beheld him today will look for him next August. And I can’t help but linger on one fanciful thought: if he can do so much with such timid prayers lamely offered in December, how much more could he do if we thought of him every day?

Max Lucado, It Began in a Manger



Staying off the Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame

Big Mama's gonna run another race.  A Disney half-marathon to be exact.  In approximately two months.  


Sure could use some of that pixie dust.

And as I hit the pavement this cold morning, the piercing air coupled with that horrible burning feeling in my calves led to this profound thought:  if I don't get some training under my belt, I am going to (1) literally die on the pavement of Main Street USA or (2) watch my pride die as my sorry self gets picked up on the Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame.

Nice visual, I know.  I'm a visual, living-in-color type of person.  And I savor a good analogy, so let's follow the "race" one for a few moments, because the whole time I was running this morning, I was thinking about the race of parenting, one that we are all thrown into together with that first child's first breath.  We are a corporate body, fit or unfit, exhausted or bright-eyed, focused or scatterbrained, all hoping to cross the finish line with our sanity intact and our kids alive and in one piece.

We are all in this together, right?

Maybe not.  Sometimes, when I look around, it seems like a chaotic and miscellaneous effort, like we aren't even running in the same direction or towards the same finish line with other parents.   I have had to clasp my husband's hand hard in the hectic crowd and self-generate a kind of environment for my kids that is a tough row to hoe: one that to a certain extent goes against the cultural mainstream.  We try to have our children off of technology as much as possible and plugged into things like good books, year-round math, outside play, and lively conversations with each other across the dining room table as a substitute for hours of TV, mind-numbing apps, continual texting of friends, and a full slate of afterschool activities.  It is not a flawless effort, but we do have our share of good, old-fashioned times to show for it:  they've sledded down the driveway (flat dolly + old fashioned sled), experimented in the kitchen, ziplined in the back yard, crafted till their fingers bled (durn chicken wire for paper mache!), not to mention played innumerable games of Four Square, Keep Away, Hide-and-Seek Tag, and its very evil twin, Dark Tag (don't ask--it involves the spooky recesses of my closet).

From 8-3, we've fought to send them to a school where they will be intellectually engaged by a rigorous curriculum that challenges them to think and articulate those thoughts and dig deep into knowledge.  This is also not an extremely popular notion, because it takes a huge amount of commitment and effort to do it well.  When you start saying things like intellectual inquiry, critical evaluation, rhetorical persuasion, let's be honest--most parents think you are a touch crazy, or you are showing off, or both.  And they drop you as a running partner and you find yourself in a paltry group headed uphill on a barren stretch of the race course, wondering where the heck everyone has gone.

Which leads me to this question: why run the race with such intensity?  Why even pursue a culture of excellence on a course so challenging that it makes your calves sting and your breath draw short?  Yep, Mr. Temptation, I hear you way back there, hollering "Can't you just run the race like the rest of us, Roberts People?  Do you have to push so hard and try to eeeeeek something out of every moment?  Can't you lay off and join me in watching your favorite Bravo TV shows and let your kids sail through easy school and allow them plug into their apps with the rest of their friends so they will leave all us grownups alone?"

I don't apologize for the intensity.  I am an inherently lazy person (really, I am), but God has set the purpose of raising five children before me and it's not a job for any slacker.  There is something inside me that wells up and shouts in reply: THIS MATTERS.  We have laid this privilege of parenting before the Lord and He has called us to something requiring intensity-- a state of living that commands both focus and commitment.

It's hard to accept, but I am learning that as parents, we are often running towards different goals. My goal is simply this: that my children fulfill God's purpose for their lives.  That as much as it is possible, their gifts, personalities, minds, and hearts are 100% engaged in doing His will.  Yes, I admit it:  I don't care if they are "happy".  Can I say this without being arrested by DCF?  It's true--happiness is not my hope for them because I know it is a bottomless cup that will never be filled.  Only in living within God's will can they find purpose and gain something greater: profound and lasting joy.  As Olympic runner Eric Liddell said, "I believe God made me for a purpose, and he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure."

And if they are going to run the race of life with success (and stay off the proverbial Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame), it is most imperative that they be given some training in advance, or they will be just like I was today, huffing and puffing and envisioning myself as completely unable to cross the finish line without roadside assistance.  So all these efforts to expose them to the history of the world, where we stand in it, how God is working through all of it, how to find truth and express truth with conviction---this is all part of a training of their minds, a pat-pat-pat-pat of their young feet on an intellectual road paved by the thinkers and scholars that came before them. 

As a parent, I strive for them to achieve a high level of mental fitness so they can go out and engage in more difficult and important questions with greater ease:  "Why do you believe in this religious stuff?" or "Why is this cancer cell mutating and what can be done scientifically to stop it?"

There is one person who never shied away from intellectual engagement, and that was Jesus Christ.  He sat in and debated with the greatest religious scholars even at a young age; he didn't hesitate to present radical ideas to the masses and used penetrating questions and parables to challenge and stir up great debate amongst his closest followers.   He modeled for us a fearlessness in engaging in tough topics and in clearly articulating answers so his followers would be prepared for that time when he would no longer be with them.

He knew his time was short; for us as parents, there is no way to know when our own finish line is going to rush up to meet us.

Actually, remembering that dreaded race calendar, I suspect my days might be numbered.

Empty Arms

Another Christmas card is in the can, so to speak.  Whew, we did it.



emphasis on the "bright" in 2010

Every year, I put an overabundance of effort and importance on a cute, original card.  My thinking is that with this quantity of munchkins, I am surely missing lots of good photo ops, and the card shoot ensures that a single good picture will exist of each child at least once a year.   So I rush around and try to piece together outfits for a blend of boys, girls, and grownups that might help us appear more coordinated and make us look, you know, like we have our act together.  (We don’t.)  I visualize the color scheme and the options available across the age groups, run in and out of stores, order stuff online, have my gray covered up, and make sure haircuts happen at least one week in advance of the big day.

In other words, the level of effort verges on the ridiculous.  I freely admit it.



We had two photo shoots this year 'cause the first one
 made me us look strangely tired.  Imagine that!

The funny thing is that when the proofs come in and I am looking at all the healthy, shining faces, there is one part of me that aches a little bit, and leads me to think about something both piercing and bittersweet.

I think about empty arms.

I know this post is anti-festive and hostile to the modern cheerful-at-all-costs Christmas spirit, but can I be honest?  I ache for the children lost to us—the pregnancies that ended in heartache.  I look at our Christmas card photos this year and how they communicate such perfection and happiness and lovely children and sweet smiles, as such cards really should.  But I am a mother and know that certain hearts are not there and it grieves my own.

So I try to reconcile the holiday joy, which I really do feel, with the nagging heartache and am surprised that it’s really not that difficult.  Because at Christmas, Mary moved into motherhood with the birth of Jesus, a path that began with an adorable babe and mommy snuggles and all the sweet baby sounds.  But follow her story thirty-three years, and it ends painfully, with a mother who no longer had a son to hug, to admire, to follow.  That story ends with empty arms for Mary, too.  We are aligned, if even in a small way, by our suffering.  And this thought makes me not feel so alone.




Can I confess?  2012 involved a tiny bit of photoshopping.
But it turned out so great that I might never outdo it.  Still gonna try, mind you.

I tell myself: there is tragedy and triumph in the Christmas moment…the hope of a new birth to a new mother and, later, the deep grief as she watches her son brutally die right before her eyes.  But then—then—the most glorious rebirth takes place at the resurrection, and the hurt of mother and son serves the sacred purpose so many years later of allowing me access to eternity.

I feel empty arms today but his arms were also empty when they were spread wide on the cross — so I could walk right into them.

And I consider that without the suffering of her mama heart, so intricately bound up in the pain of the cross, Mary's greatest purpose could not have been fulfilled.  To be a mom.  To be Jesus's mom. The suffering was a necessary and non-negotiable part of that purpose. 

Christmas 2009

So as we turn the calendar to December, my heart is quickened to pray for those who open up card after card of happy Christmas scenes depicting perfect-looking families and for the empty arms they bring to mind.  For those ex-wives who have no husband to hold; for those who have seen precious ones die of long sicknesses or quick accidents.  For those who never had a chance to bear the child they always desired.  For those teetering on the edge of loss as people they care passionately about are eaten up with illness, weak health, or addiction. 

For those who in the camera’s flash appear to have their lives together, but behind the shiny smiles, they grieve.

And I resolve to gratefully lean into the small suffering in my own life and accept it as part of God’s greater plan--a plan to develop depth and empathy and nuance in my character and make me the wife, mother, friend, daughter, and sister that He wants me to be.  That, to quote Tim Keller, “there will be a purpose to it, and if faced rightly, it can drive us like a nail deep into the love of God."




preview of 2013

My Anniversary Card

Today I celebrated my 17th wedding anniversary.  There was no fancy dinner, no roses, no quiet hand holding.

Instead, today was a day of action, and it reminded me vividly of the “why” behind those 17 years.

Our special day started at 6am, when we bounded out of bed to head into the cold dark to finish the setup for a youth adventure race that our kids’ school was organizing as a fundraiser.  Although unquestionably a huge team effort, David was an integral part of the race, having spent many hours figuring out the nuances of the course, creatively naming the obstacles after the classical theme of the event, staking and taping off the 1.2 mile route, assembling the best playlist in the history of amateur races, and generally problem-solving a 200-person, 10-obstacle, slightly dangerous and logistically challenging race involving children as young as age 2 that had never taken place before. 

He was into it.  Why?  Because he believes in the fundamental mission of our school: to raise intellectuals for Christ.  He is passionate about our children knowing Jesus and one day being the most well-spoken, well-educated people in the room, able to defend and articulate their faith.  The school is all about such goals, and this race was designed to support its mission.

But for David, it’s not enough merely to have a sound opinion about something.  He doesn’t believe in things politely, stand aside, and leave it at that.

He is a person of innovative ideas and trustworthy actions. 

He spent his time today (and many days prior) dedicated to working with the team and making that race a smashing success.  And it was phenomenal.  We had children from all sorts of origination points—public school, private school, homeschool, our student body.  As he released coordinated 2-minute wave after wave of age groups banded with the color coding he set up, running through stakes that he personally had buried to define the race course, listening to tunes he had thoughtfully selected (Aaron Copland, Toad the Wet Sprocket, U2), his fingerprints were all over this event, and it was a resounding accomplishment. 

There is no doubt that David is a doer in the utmost sense of the word. 

But this just takes us to 10:30am on our 17th wedding anniversary.  For my husband also chairs another board, which he doesn't take lightly.  He rushed off to change in the race parking lot, Superman-style, and head to the public ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new 37,000 square foot Salvation Army headquarters that has been in the praying, purchasing, fundraising, and renovating stages ever since he joined the board. 

So, imagine David at 11am, wearing slightly wilted khakis and a button-down that I half-pressed last night and standing in front of around 100 folks in dark suits and tie-pins from the mayor’s office, numerous Salvation Army officers in their full-dress uniforms from chapters from Atlanta to South Florida, various members of the press and dignified officials and businessmen.  As he set aside the thoughts and concerns of the race earlier that morning, his clothing ceased to matter as his words connected with the crowd and he delivered from the podium on the gleaming front steps of that building a rousing, inspiring, call-to-action-type speech.  “Jesus tells us to serve the poor and needy, and this building is not only a place where the poor and needy can turn to be served, but a place where those desiring to serve Him can come and live out those words.  If you desire to serve Jesus, come here—do it here (gestures to beautiful new building).”  His words, spoken with great emotion, caused many (who pastor their own SA churches and speak regularly) to seek him out afterwards and thank him heartily for expressing what was in their hearts.

Looks neat and tidy, but we still have mud spatters on our faces from the race.

Would I take this man to be my lawfully wed husband, to have and to hold from this day forward?  I am thankful that on my 17th anniversary, by lunchtime, David reminded me many times over exactly why on November 9, 1996, I said yes and continue to say a resounding YES to that question.  Why I can't help but respect and admire him more every single day.  His thoughtfulness about faith, service, parenting, business, relationships, education and every matter that has any importance always translates into real-life execution of his ideals.  There are not enough people like that in the world.

And I’m here to testify that there is something magical about waking up with a godly man of action.  You know that the days with him will have meaning greater than your wildest hopes and dreams, and they will be an adventure ordained by God, satisfying beyond measure.

So a quiet day, some roses, and a restaurant dinner are always nice, but somehow David took this day and make it into a vividly illustrated, live-action card painted in broad and living strokes with this bold message:

I love the Lord my God.

I love our children.

And I love you.

The Promised Land (is in Our Front Yard)

(Monday management post on a Tuesday.  Read on to see why....)

The yard was a mess.

And in spite of our good efforts, its large size coupled with unending weeks of summer rain had made for an autumn train wreck in the beds, shrubs, and hedges.

But we had a bigger problem. David's increasing work responsibilities (plus coaching two football teams, chairing two boards, raising five children) have kept him from the yard, which he actually seems to enjoy after the intense quantitative wonder powers he burns through in the office.  And although I have been spotted on the riding mower once or twice, you can imagine it's not practical with a baby in tow.

And, I have to admit, the yard has been a point of contention for me.  I frankly have wanted to get outside help for 17 - yes, seventeen - years.  My upbringing included paid lawn crews, his...well, didn't.  I think the worst argument we ever had involved my ill-fated attempt to hire a lawn man when David was still in his suit-and-tie job in South Florida. While I'm not a marriage expert by any stretch, I have learned from experience when not to push him for things that will never happen. 

So I pray instead.

And yesterday, God came through for me in a big way. In His perfect timing,
our maxim of saving not spending and
our values of joyfully giving and
our desire to serve those in need and
our real-time problem of imminent lawn disaster
all converged to one point with the triumphant arrival of the white van of Promise Land Ministries.

Sure enough, Monday morning, my lawn-saving chariot rolled down the lane laden with scruffy men and a lengthy trailer of equipment.  But this was a different sort of group.  They're from a halfway house down south of Tallahassee, and, while I don't know their life stories, most are former drug or alcohol addicts, trying to gain a second chance and transition back into the world.  The ministry offers yard work in exchange for donations of any amount, and uses funds to provide these young men with a Christian environment, some sort of income, food, shelter, and the focus of a structured day's work.

They arrived, piled out, and, to be perfectly honest, my initial reaction was one of trepidation.  This was not exactly the typical crowd that's come down the driveway to visit, I'm embarrassed to say.  There were teeth missing and ratty clothes and soiled ball caps and a lively assortment of tattoos.  But as I stood watching them cheerfully grabbing their various equipment and getting to work, the fear dissipated and was replaced with this heartbreaking thought:  that young man is someone's son.  There is a mother out there somewhere worrying about him.  He might look world-weary to me, but I am a witness to how he is trying his best on our unwieldy hedges, taking extra care to shape and trim, not knowing how much the final "donation" is going to be.  How can I thank him for this willing act of service?

Unexpectedly, I stood in my front yard on a random overcast Monday morning and was being offered the chance to minister to someone's son. To His Son. 

All the while, they reciprocated by being an answered prayer to me and blessing our family with their labors. 

This man is the group supervisor.
He likes ice cream sandwiches, come to find out.



They are watching us,
these sons of the world.



So I decided to put away fear and the culture gap between this WASPy housewife and those workmen who have been held by addiction, and to treat them as guests.  At the same moment, David came downstairs and verbalized my thoughts: "Why don't you go ahead and order them some lunch?"  We were finally in a place of unity over an initially divisive issue (yard work) rather than stuck in a place of consternation and frustration.  

We search with complexity for how to know the Lord's will, and He reveals it to us in simple Monday moments.

Out came the table cloth and plates, and when the food arrived, they eagerly sat down and with one action, clasped hands and prayed. 

That's about when I started to cry.

Oh Lord, thank you that have brought these guests and willing workers to my table and they have acknowledged You before me.  I am grateful that after seventeen years of hoping, it has led to this worthwhile moment in time.

When Josh woke up from his nap, we joined them at the table and, wouldn't you know it, most of them are fathers themselves.  Seeing our baby in their midst brought up tales and descriptions of the little folks in their world that they happily shared with me.  The two year old twins, one boy and one girl.  The 53-inch tall five year old (whoa!).  The common thread of children was the bridge between our worlds.  Reading between the lines, Josh's presence seemed to inspire them and remind them of why they are fighting back to normalcy: those children they have brought into being who need a strong and healthy father in their lives.

And when my kids jumped in the car at school pickup later on, it was great fun to recount the day's strange and wonderful events.  I teared up a little at the touching moments; they teared up a little that they would be off of yard duty for the near term.  Score one for Monday.

P.S.  One nice fella found something in the pool's overflow tank.  You guessed it.

For more information about this charitable way to get yard work done, contact Ed at www.promiselandministries.org.