*All pictures by Lea Marshall, patient friend/photographer, who puts up with
our growing brood year after year. I think she just likes all the goofy outtakes.
(which I will share shortly!)
12.20.2013
12.18.2013
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.
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.
 |
| 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.
12.16.2013
Fly on the Wall
Overheard at my house this weekend:
Me: Well, what do you think we should do about it?
________________________________________________________________________________
David (to me): Collin sat right next to me during the Mental Math round.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Anne M: Mom, there’s something that bothers me a teeny tiny bit about Christmas day. You know how I get presents when I get up? All the presents right at the beginning makes me forget about Mary and baby Jesus. I don’t think about them because I’m thinking about the presents, you know? It makes me feel sort of sad about Christmas.
Me: Well, what do you think we should do about it?
Anne M: I don’t know, that’s the thing. If I were a boy I would give my presents to Jesus, but since I’m a girl, I guess I should keep them because he doesn’t want all that girl stuff.
Me: Hmmmmmmm.
________________________________________________________________________________
 |
| Yes, there are two Roberts on this list of winners. Did I mention we are a competitive bunch? (Lil Josh had his moment in the sun, too!) |
David (to me): Collin sat right next to me during the Mental Math round.
Me: I don't understand how it works. Did they even give
you a pencil? No? You just had to do it all in your brain?
David: All you could write was the answer. Hey Collin, do you know what fraction .18 repeating is? Did you
get that one right? I couldn't figure it out so I skipped it. It's somewhere between one-fifth and one-sixth.
Collin: I dunno, I skipped it, too. Did you get the one that was one-half times one-third times one-half of the square root of two hundred twenty-five?
David: Yeah, that one
was easy…one and a fourth.
Me (nonverbal): Feeling
dumb over here---can we please change the subject?
__________________________________________________________________________________
Madeleine: Mom, you
are going to freak out when you hear this. You won’t believe what
we found at the Living Christmas Story tonight--in the pots they put at the market.
We were walking around Bethlehem and we looked down and Dad noticed
something was in there. He pulled it out
and there they were! You’re never going to guess what it was.
 |
| This moment--placing three times in a large, diverse crowd of math would likely never have happened without this momentous decision. (Yep, they got matching trophies.) |
__________________________________________________________________________________
Me: I can’t begin to
guess. Just tell me.
Madeleine: Teeth,
mom! Two bags full of baby teeth! In the pots!
It was so completely disgusting.
David: Yeah, I made
some inquiries hoping whoever brought that prop would remember they left their
kid’s teeth in there. But nobody seemed
that interested.
Me: Maybe those pots
belonged to the real tooth fairy?
Anne M: You know what
the best day of my life is going to be?
The day I die! The day I die will
be the best day of my whole life put together!
Me: What's your thought process there?
Anne M: Because I get to meet Jesus! IT IS GOING TO BE
AWESOME!
Me: Amen, sister, amen.
12.13.2013
Fly High {Friday Photo}
 |
| Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither. -C.S. Lewis |
12.11.2013
Purple Holiday Rant
REALLY?
We are such suckers for marketing, especially good marketing like anything that can go viral on the Internet. We waste valuable minutes of our life watching this ridiculous gimmick and believing that it shows how giving and generous the world can be. What thoughtful folks they are at West Jet--if only they served Tallahassee, I would be their #1 customer! What a deserving guy who got the socks and underwear he requested in such a snarky manner! And that poor little boy who only wants Thomas the Train for Christmas--I'm so glad he got his happy ending! Oh, if only I had been on that fateful flight--I could've gotten my much-desired espresso maker!
Quick, edit the video and make it look awesome because West Jet's purple Santa is about to storm Facebook with this particular piece of marketing magic.
 |
| Yay! Now I can play on my Nintendo DS, my DS 3D, my Wii, and this awesome freebie! |
We are just foolish enough to think this video expresses man's goodwill. I got a little choked up myself until I thought how ridiculously First World this whole spoof really is. Look a little deeper and you see what it does in fact express: manipulation. That's what good marketing does. It affects our opinion of something and shapes it in subtle ways. Kudos, West Jet. We are a nation of passive thinkers who enjoy little juicy morsels like this. If we have to eat our marketing pie, at least let it be deliciously entertaining.
Christmas, you are a hot commercial mess and we--citizens of the wealthiest and most well-educated nation in the history of the world--go along with it year after year, purple Santas and all.
12.06.2013
The Busy Days of December {Friday Photo}
 |
| Nothing like a good book to keep the honey-do requests, unanswered texts, blinking voicemail, and child-chores at bay. Weekend, you can't get here quickly enough. |
12.01.2013
Empty Arms
Another Christmas card is in the can, so to speak. Whew, we did it.
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.
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.
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.
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."
 |
| 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 |
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 |
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