'Twas The Night Before Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve . . .  

Don’t be the innkeeper.

Make room for him, my friends.

Don’t tell him no and don’t shut him out and don’t send him away.

Open the door to your heart and let him in.

He just wants to come, like any baby waiting so long inside a mother’s womb.  He simply longs to enter your world, to stay with you always, to be present in every moment of your life.

His light is shining all over the world tonight and it is too bright to ignore.  Hear him knocking on your soul and understand that He is enough for you.  His forgiveness overshadows every failure.  His grace overcomes all guilt.  His glory abounds forever.  He alone provides hope and peace and comfort and salvation, and his great, unfailing love for us KNOWS NO END.

So please, don’t be the innkeeper. 

Let that baby king come in.  Draw him close to you, place him on your heart as you would any other tiny child, and breathe in the incredible goodness of him, our Emmanuel.

Our Savior.

Our Jesus.

Emmanuel

It’s December 13^th.   Twelve days until Christmas. 

Plenty of time.

Plenty of time to get the shopping done.  Plenty of time to wrap the gifts.  Plenty of time to trim the tree and mail the cards and bake the cookies. 

Don’t panic, my friends.  There is plenty of time.

I know how it goes.  We hustle and bustle all month long.  We rush around in a flurry, here, there, and everywhere.  Our minds race with all that must be done.  The commitments pile up and the lists grow longer and we wake up in a cold sweat fretting about whether we’re on track to accomplish all that we need to accomplish to pull this thing off. 

Did we remember to move the elf?  Did we remember to read the Jesse tree devotional?  Did we remember to put a treat in the advent calendar?  Did we actually order that gift for our mother-in-law, or did we just dream that we did?

It’s okay.  Christmas is busy.  We try to get things done early, but it’s tough to put much of a dent in the responsibilities that go along with making this much magic in a single month.  There are expectations this time of year – BIG ones – and most of them fall on us moms.

In addition to the myriad of roles we play every other day of the year - you know the ones – nurse, cook, housekeeper, chauffer, psychologist, rule enforcer, wife (that usually does seem to come in last, doesn’t it?), in December, we add a slew of duties to this mama position that can make our heads spin.

We do the planning and the decorating and the shopping and the baking and the surprising.  We create the cards and order the cards and stuff the cards and address the cards and stamp the cards and mail the cards.  We rack our brains to come up with the perfect gifts for everyone in the family and fuss about how much money we’ve spent to make everyone we love feel equally special.  We plan school celebrations and ornament exchanges and tacky sweater parties.  We cut and tape and tie and hide packages in places we might never find them again, and y’all, at six o’clock this morning I was using the tip of my pinky finger to spread Nutella on the tiny mouth of our elf, because, ya know, that sneaky little fella got into the candy jar last night while we are all sleeping lying awake trying to think of new elf tricks.

It’s okay.

Christmas is hard and I’m tired too.  My body shifted into overdrive the second we put away the pumpkin pie and my brain is turning to eggnog as I try to fulfill all the requests and requirements that go along with the biggest holiday of the year. 

But it’s okay.  I won’t get it all done and I won’t get it all right.  I will forget to send someone a card.  I will burn a batch of gingerbread cookies.  I will get him the wrong color and her the wrong size and I will worry about presents when the whole thing . . . the whole month . . . our whole life . . . is all about His presence.

I will screw up this Christmas because I am a mess, and isn’t it funny how He came?  Not in a royal palace, surrounded by the splendid majesty he deserved.  No.  He came in a barn.  He came in the middle of the dirt and the muck and the animals and the mess.

He came to be human, and the barn was the perfect place for him to enter the world, because it wasn’t perfect.  A king born in a messy barn was exactly the right setting, because he wants to settle himself in our mess.  He wants to settle in our messy hearts and stay forever.

So don’t panic, my friends.  Enjoy this Advent season.  Enjoy the hustling and the bustling and the extra obligations.  Enjoy the rushing and the racing and the added commitments.  Amid your shopping and wrapping and celebrating, feel the comfort he provides.  Feel the peace he brings.  Feel the hope he offers.  Feel his light and love envelop your soul as he settles deep within, content to stay as long as you let him.


There is plenty of time to get ready for Christmas. 


There is plenty of time to get ready for His coming. 

Because He’s already here.

Grateful

Thanksgiving.


Giving thanks.


To Him.


For Him.


Because every blessing . . . all of them . . . come from Him.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!  May you gobble 'til you wobble, and may your day be filled with His abundant blessings!


Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name, make known among the nations what he has done.
Psalm 105:1

The Skinny on TOO MUCH SKIN

Can we talk about nudity today, friends?  A tough subject, perhaps.  A bit taboo, maybe, or at least it used to be.

Naked was once a term found in the same sentence with words like ‘forbidden,’ ‘prohibited,’ ‘unacceptable.’  There’s a reason underwear used to be called ‘unmentionables.’  Since Adam and Eve listened to that sneaky snake and ate that darn apple and realized they were running around in a garden without any clothes on, people have tried very hard to keep important areas of their bodies covered, concealed, and contained. 

So WHAT IS UP with nudity these days, people?  Seriously, how did the naked human body become something so easily shared?  So readily flaunted it’s as if modesty never existed . . . as though nothing is sacred, special, saved? 

What happened to privacy?  What happened to restraint?  How in the world did we come to equate nakedness with confidence? 

Confidence?

Sharing pictures of your naked body with the entire world doesn’t scream confident to me.  It screams desperate.  It screams impulsive.  It screams . . . lost.  And not Have you lost your panties?   Not Have you lost your mind?  But lost, as in . . . Have you lost your sense of self-worth?  Have you misunderstood what it means to have respect, both for yourself and from others?  Have you forgotten you are so deeply loved by God that you don’t need anyone else to adore you?  

Those people?  Those people gawking at your nakedness on their computers and their phones and in magazines?  They might be gazing at you and staring at you and ogling you.  They might be wishing they could talk to you or touch you or even be you.  But they don’t respect you.  They don’t love you or adore you.  They don’t even know you.  And yet, you’re sharing yourself with them so casually, so carelessly . . . without any real consideration for what it means to be naked in front of another human being.

There are headlines about cleavage and curves.   There are articles about nip slips and side boobs.  Stories of nude photographs leaked to millions come out so frequently that teenage girls all over the country now think it’s okay to send sext messages to every boy they know on a regular basis.  Y’all, there are songs that refer to our intimate body parts as junk. 

Junk?

These parts . . . they are given to another in our most personal and vulnerable moments.  They connect us to those we have committed to love though everything.  They express our desire and they fit together perfectly to create generations.  They bring forth life and provide for the life they usher in.  These parts?  They are special.  They have purpose.  They are NOT junk. 

It scares me.  All of it.  I have a daughter and a son and a husband and it scares me to death.  This frivolous overexposure.  This tolerance.  This condoning of what was once so off-limits and this relegating of our bodies, which have true value, to junk that has none.  It scares me. 

I know it’s not the biggest of our problems. There is poverty and hunger and there are millions of orphans.  There are women and children who are sold into slavery Every. Single. Day.  This nudity epidemic isn’t the only issue in the world, nor the most important, and I’m certain many might not think it an issue at all.  But shouldn’t we at least consider the possibility that we are perpetuating dangerous attitudes with our failure to address the way nudity and sex have become absolute obsessions in our culture?  Might we be fueling a fire that suggests women are merely objects of pleasure, and not worthy human beings with an abundance of gifts to offer?

In the midst of a nation spellbound by the blatant undressing of so many, how do I teach my son that a woman is to be cherished and treasured for who she is, not what she looks like?  How do I teach my daughter that she doesn’t have to bare her body, because the right people will care about her soul?  How do I remember that I don’t have to live up to a specific standard . . . that I was created in the image of God, and that’s what makes me beautiful?

The world says other things.  The world fixates on physical appearances and applauds immorality, and there is no doubt about it, in this world, sex sells. 

I live in this world, but I can’t be consumed by the deterioration of society’s values.  I must hold on to the truth.  I must teach it to my children every day, as the world bombards them from every direction, begging them to buy into the myth that attention brings happiness.

Because the truth . . . the truth of Him . . . Him.  He is the only real source of contentment in this world . . . in this life.  The truth says my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within me (1 Corinthians 6:19).  The truths says I can glorify God with my body (1 Corinthians 6:20).  The truth says I do not have to be conformed by this world (Romans 12:2).  The truth says God does not look at outward appearances, but at what matters most (1 Samuel 16:7). 

The truth is Jesus.  And grace.  And the kind of love that transcends and transforms, from the inside.  The truth is what God sees when he looks at us, and that’s what we should be sharing with others. 

Not our flesh . . .

Our hearts. 

Falling for You

If you doubt the existence of God, may I suggest something?  It’s super simple.  Won’t take you but a few seconds, yet might just change your eternity.

Step outside.

That’s it.  Just walk out into the world and take a look around, my friends.  The evidence, the proof of Him . . .

Y’all.  It’s everywhere.

It’s in the gold.  Dancing from branches, swaying on the breeze as the temperatures fall, it pours like warm honey into the soul.  The color of his lampstands in the temple.  The color of the bowl where he holds the prayers of the saints.  The color of the streets in heaven.  It glistens and gleams and reflects the light, His light, and I know . . . it’s all His doing. 

It’s in the orange too.  The orange, reminding me there will be a harvest, again, because his provisions never stop.  It catches my eye, lapping at me, like flames reaching out to touch the coldest heart.  That fiery orange, so pure and vibrant it could never be replicated, it burns down in, consuming me with the warmth only He can bring.

It’s in the red as well.  Every shade, from scarlet to crimson, the hues seem almost unimaginable on leaves once green.  The red, so rich and sure and alive, dripping like grace to cover me, all of me.  That red, the color of blood poured out on a cross, the color of blood shed to redeem a broken world, the color of our Savior's blood, given to bring life that never ends.

The gold shimmering in the sunshine, it won’t last.  The orange will be gone within weeks.  The red disappears as each day grows colder.  But that gold hanging like love notes from the trees, it cries out, See my greatness and power and glory and majesty and splendor. That orange flaring up before my very eyes, it calls loudly, The world is all my creation. That red flashing deep and vibrant and true, it sings, Delight in what I have made. 

And though they all drop away as fall becomes winter, for a short time each year, every year, the colors of autumn offer beautiful, fleeting reminders. Those colors, they burst through my doubts and shout from the treetops and pulse in my ears . . .

You

are

worth

EVERYTHING

to

me.

Happy Fall, friends!  May this season of bounty and blessings fill you with love the way it always seems to do for me - may His love be so complete in you, that it can't help but overflow to others. 

Magical Choices, Part 2

So I owe you an update.  Yea, I know.  That’s a dumb thing to say because there are like, all of three people, maybe, reading this, but it sounds way too weird to say “I owe myself and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future an update,” sooooo I’m sticking with the I owe YOU an update line.

I owe you (and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future) an update on Disney World.

We went to Disney World for fall break.  We were planning to go to the lake.  We were planning to have cool temperatures, boat rides, fires, smores, quiet, peace, relaxation, and absolutely nothing on our must-do list, which seems to have grown to epic proportions lately.

Then my in-laws invited us to Disney World.  Invited, as in, we will pay for your family of four to enjoy a weekend at the most expensive magical place on earth.

Would you say no?

Neither did we.    

The kids were beside themselves thrilled. I went kicking and screaming.  Well, actually I was stewing silently about my lost lake trip and keeping my entire body to myself and not touching anything or anyone and using antibacterial wipes if I was forced to touch something and passing out wipes to my kids and my husband and anyone near me who would take one.  But internally, I was kicking and screaming.  And what I was screaming was, DON’T MAKE ME GO!!!!!!

Our flight took off anyway, and God answered my first prayer when our plane landed safely in Orlando with the seat backs and tray tables in their upright and locked positions, and most importantly, the oxygen masks and barf bags untouched.  And although I never expected God to follow us from the airport to Disney World, I’ll be darned if he wasn’t right there with me the entire weekend, answering my prayers one right after the next.

Now I do need to tell you that my prayers were sucky prayers.  I wasn’t praying for big, important, world peace and a family for every orphan kind of things.  I do that, sometimes, but not when my focus is on keeping my anxiety in check and my OCD under wraps in such a way that my husband and children can enjoy themselves without being traumatized by my insanity. Disney World is not the place to plead for an end to war.  I was in a battle of my own, friends, and it was all I could handle at the time.

I should also tell you that I’m aware there are countless people who do not think I’m crazy because of my anxiety and OCD, but because I don’t share their adoration of “the happiest place on earth.”  There are people in this country who are completely in love with all things Disney.  We saw at least half a dozen couples on their honeymoons at the Magic Kingdom.  If my fiancé had even suggested we consider Disney World for our honeymoon, I would have returned the diamond without hesitation and fled, and I mean every word of that y’all.  

Disney is a highly entertaining place.  In my opinion, it’s a great place to take children once every few years.  I think It’s a Small World is an adorable ride and I love Thunder Mountain Railroad.  I could do without the women in shackles on the Pirates of the Caribbean extravaganza (shouldn’t someone be complaining loudly enough about that to get some much needed, politically correct updates?), but I admire the way Disney parks are kept clean and organized, the “cast members” remember to stay in character at all times, and boy do those folks know how to put on a parade.  But I am not one of those moms who shows up at the gates of the Magic Kingdom with Minnie Mouse ears on my head secretly harboring fantasies about becoming a squatter in Cinderella’s castle.  And if any one of my friends ever mentions going to Disney for a girls’ trip, I will never speak to her again. 

Ever.

I go to Disney World because I want to witness my kids enjoy it.  Without them, I’m staying as far away from that place as possible.  So those prayers of mine before we arrived and the entire time we were there?  Well, I’d say totally and completely selfish pretty much sums ‘em up. 

Please, Lord, let the weather be nice.

Please, Lord, let the hotel be clean.

Please, Lord, let the kids get along.

Please, Lord, let my in-laws keep up.

Please, Lord, let the lines be less than thirty minutes.

Please, Lord, let me keep my lunch through the Space Mountain ride.

Please, Lord, PLEASE let me survive two full days of large crowds, public bathrooms, and people walking around chomping on turkey legs the size of my arm. (Could I get an Amen for that one, people?  Seriously, those things have to be a public health hazard.)

The thing is . . . God knows me.  He knows my heart, and he knows that sometimes, it does beat for others.  Sometimes, I put away my egotistical desires and ask the One who makes the impossible possible to do meaningful things in the lives of those who need him.  Sometimes, I forget about my own needs and ask God to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick, provide for the poor. 

But sometimes . . . many times . . . maybe even most times, I go to God with nothing but my own mess.  My ugly, selfish, sinful mess. 

And He hears me.

And He loves me anyway.

And He takes my self-seeking prayers, and my filthy heart, and my inability to look past my own circumstances, and He shows me just how much I mean to Him.

The weather was perfect.  The hotel was wonderful.  The kids got along.  The in-laws were amazing.  The lines were well under thirty minutes.  I kept my lunch through Space Mountain (uh, barely, and just for the record, I am officially retired from that ride, along with The Tower of Terror at Hollywood Studios, which I will curse until the day I die).

I’ve often heard it said that God meets you where you are.  I’ve also heard it said that he has no intention of keeping you there, but we’ll save that for another day and another blog.  Here’s what I think . . .

I think God met me at Disney World.  Amid the noise and clutter of a weekend I didn’t expect and wasn’t sure I could embrace, I think God showed up in a thousand different ways to remind me of a thousand different reasons He loves me. 

For the sake of full disclosure, I must tell you that those amazing in-laws I mentioned hired a concierge to help us navigate the logistical maze that is five parks in two days.  I am quite sure Ramon was very expensive.  I am also quite sure Ramon was an angel sent from heaven.  With his MBA from NYU and the five languages he speaks, Ramon left a lucrative career in risk management to start his own concierge company, and he now spends over 325 days a year escorting groups of people around the Disney parks, and any other major Orlando attraction.   

Ramon was not only an angel, he was a genius (and some might say certifiably crazy because of the previously mentioned 325 days a year at an amusement park).  We never looked at a map.  We never looked at a schedule of events.  We never argued over what to do or where to go or when to eat.  We followed Ramon around like ducklings as he calmly and casually escorted us to each ride, show, restaurant and park. He took pictures of the family in all the right places.  He saved us a spot in the shade to watch the parade, complete with a little mat for the kids to sit on.  He found, cleaned, and set tables for us while we ordered lunch so we could sit right down and enjoy our Disney dining experience.  He secured us a table at Animal Kingdom’s Rainforest Café in under two minutes when there was a sixty-minute wait.  Our group of 4 adults and three children hit five parks in one weekend and never felt stressed, rushed or even tired, and the kids were able to do almost every single thing they wanted to do, and more, in a 48 hour vacation. 

I don’t know when we’ll go back to Disney World.  This trip might have been our last because, ya know, Ramon.  Without him, we just couldn’t hack it, and based on the treatment we received, Ramon is not in our budget. (If you’d like to find out if he’s in yours, I will gladly share his contact information as I highly recommend him to everyone on the planet).

The thing is, even without Ramon, I know I would have enjoyed our trip to Disney World.  Despite all my resistance, I found much more joy than I imagined I could on our surprise getaway.  The weekend was miraculous, in my opinion, and not because of the beautiful weather and the short lines and the generous in-laws and the personal concierge.  The weekend was miraculous because God is in the business of making miracles, and I asked him to come along.  I invited God to join us, and God never turns down an invitation to be present in our lives, no matter where we’re going.  And because I asked God to come with us, and I knew without a doubt that he would show up, I saw Him everywhere. 

Making the Magical Choice

There is much talk these days about how we choose to spend our time – with whom, doing what, in which location?  Are we filling our days with mundane responsibilities and leaving little time for just ‘being,’ and are our souls suffering for it?  Do we lack the ability to relax, to be quiet and still, to say “no” when bombarded with life’s frequent requests?

Am I overcommitted, overscheduled, over the top crazy as I attempt to manage the dolling out of my time, talents, and treasures?

Yes.

Of course.

Absolutely.

No doubt about it.

I need to add the word “no” to my vocabulary more often, like most of the moms I know.  I need more quiet, more stillness, more relaxation in my life, like most of the people I know.  I need to realize when I’m exhausted from the constant striving to get it all done, the pushing to fit it all in, the rushing around at a frantic pace because somehow, that’s become my most consistent mode of existence.

My children have a day off school next week for fall break.  We were planning to spend the long weekend at the lake.  Just the four of us, in one of my favorite places on earth, in my favorite season of the year.  Boat rides wrapped in blankets, smores by the firepit, a completely empty calendar, inbox, to-do list.  Three full days of the quiet, stillness, and relaxation my soul has been craving.  In short, my idea of pure bliss.

And then, we got a call from some very spontaneous, very generous grandparents.  They had other ideas about our fall break, and those ideas didn’t involve quiet.  They didn’t involve stillness or relaxation or anything at all my soul has been craving.  In fact, they involved just the things my soul dreads.  Airplanes, hotel rooms, lines, public bathrooms.  And a very famous mouse by the name of Mickey.

The first thing that came to my mind was one simple word . . . no. 

I wanted smores, not Space Mountain, I thought, as all sense of gratitude eluded me.

Sometimes, you need to say “no.” 

But sometimes, an unexpected offer comes along.  It might be an invitation from a friend, or a request from a teacher, or a gentle nudge from a pastor encouraging you to try something new.  It might even be a revelation from God – one you know is going to bring choices and challenges you aren’t sure you can handle, and you’re confused and scared and angry and you wish He wasn’t making the path so clear.

Sometimes, the unexpected offer comes from people you love.  It’s no revelation, just a simple request, and it means a change of plans.  It means you must wait a little while longer for what your soul craves, because you know that in the waiting, there will be great joy.  There will also be roller coasters, increased anxiety, very little sleep, and a whole lot of germs.  But more importantly, there will be the anticipation of a secret to share, the moment the surprise is revealed, the enormous grins on their faces, and the certainty that comes from knowing . . .

Sometimes, you gotta say YES!!!

Disney World, here we come!  

Boobs and A Box of Chocolates

I got an interesting tip from the counselor at my children’s school several years ago.  She’s a genius, and let’s face it, my kids could use a little genius in their lives, cuz they sure ain’t gettin’ it from me.  I often wish this counselor could just take my kids home and raise them for me, delivering well-adjusted, college educated, happy, normal contributing members of society back to me in a couple decades.

Anyway, the tip she gave me had to do with carpooling.

Carpooling can be an enormous blessing in our lives as parents.  How many times have you had to pick up one child in one location and another child in a different location at the exact same time?  It happens every Tuesday afternoon at our house.  Sewing class and cross-country practice both end at 5:00 pm.  There is only one of me and two places to be and sadly, no carpool to be had.  So, the older kid waits.  He’s hot and sweaty and tired and thirsty and he wants desperately to get home and finish his homework because that’s the kind of kid he is, and he has to stand around waiting for his ride.  Meanwhile, little sister’s chauffeur shows up right on time, and she hops in the back seat bragging about the new scrunchie she made without missing a beat.  Trust me, if there was a carpool option that would help our Tuesday 5:00 situation, I would absolutely use it. 

I have a carpool for Libby’s gymnastics practices that is truly a lifesaver.  It helps everyone in our family and I’m grateful for the women involved.  I wouldn’t give up our gymnastics carpool for anything less than a pro-bono limo driver, and I’ve yet to meet one.  Still, I understand why the genius counselor provided the advice she did, which was this . . .

“You should only use carpools when absolutely necessary, because a lot of really important conversations you can have with your kids are likely to take place in the car.”

Why the car? you ask.

It’s simple.  Because research has shown kids are more likely to discuss serious topics when they don’t have to make eye contact with you AND aren’t threatened by the reaction you might have (since you’re supposed to be preoccupied with the gas pedals and steering wheel and Atlanta’s rush hour traffic).  It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?  And I believe that genius counselor, because I had this extremely important and very enlightening conversation last week in the car with my recently turned nine (but thinks she’s closer to thirteen) daughter:

Lib: Mom, lots of girls on the teams at the gym have sports bras.  When can I get a sports bra to wear under my gymnastics leotard?

Me: Uhhhh (thinking fast about the best way to answer this question without A, hurting my child’s pre-pubescent feelings and B, making sure my child knows she’s flat-out nuts if she thinks I’m buying her a bra anytime soon) . . . I’ll be happy to get you one just as soon as you need it, honey.

Lib:  When will that be?

Me:  Uhhhh (concentrating hard so as not to make any statements my child can later turn into things I “absolutely promised,” as she has been known to do in the past, and keeping my tone as matter-of-fact as possible in the hopes that she will feel comfortable having this kind of conversation with me again in the future) . . . When you get breast buds.

Lib: (without attempting to hide the disgust in her voice) . . . Breast buds?  What in the world are breast buds?

Me: (starting to sweat a little thinking about where this conversation could go from here) . . . Remember how we’ve talked about the way God decides when boys and girls go through puberty and start growing into men and women, and how many things change in your bodies when you go through puberty?

Lib: (with large amounts of skepticism) . . . Yeaaaaaaaa.

Me: (gaining confidence in my parenting abilities by the second) . . . Well, one of the things that changes for girls is they begin to grow breasts.  Breast buds are the beginning of those breasts, and they are a sign that a girl is going through puberty.

Lib: (less disgusted and more intrigued) . . .When will I get breast buds?

Me: (thankful the conversation is surely about to end and wondering when my parent-of-the-year award will arrive in the mail) . . . Only God knows that, honey.

Lib:  So, when did you get breast buds?

Me: (wondering why this conversation didn’t end as expected) . . . Oh, I was pretty late to start going through puberty.  And actually (deciding to insert a joke here might not have been my best move), I’m not so sure my breast buds ever really turned into breasts, like most people’s do (come on, that’s funny if you know me and my size nearly A’s).

Lib: (not laughing and possibly close to tears):  But . . . I don’t want my breasts to be like yours. 

I want BIG ones.

?

!

?

!

I could tell you the rest of the conversation – there was some frightening ridiculousness that dribbled out of my mouth unexpectedly about a box of chocolates and how you never know what you’re gonna get and only the Lord knows the plans He has for you and maybe you’ll be more like your grandmothers or great-grandmothers or the people who can shop at Victoria’s Secret and buy real bras instead of training bras and it was all VERY. VERY. BAD.  I’m still trying to figure out why I felt the need to connect Forrest Gump and God during this intimate conversation with my daughter about boobs, but that’s what I did.

So carpool away my friends – we’re all doing the best we can and sometimes the best means another person drives your children - but make sure you still have some one-on-one time with your kids in the car on occasion, because it’s true . . . in life, you never know what you’re gonna get.  And if you’re lucky, one day, you might just get your daughter sharing her BIG dreams with you from the back seat.

Thirteen Years Later

We all remember and we always will.  Those decade old feelings of complete shock and overwhelming sadness resurface this time each year, and we picture the planes exploding and the buildings disappearing and the people . . . the people covered in ash and grime . . . the people clothed in confusion . . . the people just like you and me, people who might have been our coworkers or neighbors or friends, stumbling around in despair through a city they no longer recognized.   

It seems different this year.  The fear isn’t only a distant memory today.  We aren’t simply honoring the fallen and the heroes of that horrible morning on this anniversary of September 11, 2001.  This year, we’re dealing with real concern for what it all means now.  Because the people who flew those planes into our buildings and our dreams?  They are alive and well, my friends, and they claim their job isn’t finished.  They live and breathe in lands not so far away, and their single greatest goal is to destroy the hopes and hearts of Americans.

I don’t have a clue when it comes to foreign policy and national security and the politics of waging war on hatred.  I don’t have any answers.  But I have a God who is truth and I believe every word he says.  And my God says this . . .

Overcome evil with good.  Romans 17:21.

Our response to hatred should mirror his.  We can hate the evil as much as he does, but we cannot hate the people. 

I am going to pray for our country today.  For the leaders making the decisions, for the brave risking their lives on my behalf, for the citizens everywhere who, today, are remembering, crying, worrying.

And I’m going to pray for our enemies. 

Because God tells me to. 

Because hatred never solved anything. 

Because I believe that in the end, good will overcome all evil.  

8 Days and, Yes, This Mom is Absolutely Counting

I’m pretty sure I write some version of this same post every year about this time.  In June, I’m all “Summer is the best thing in the world and it’s sooooo great to have my kids around all the time and I just loooovvvee relaxing in our pj’s together every morning and not having to deal with homework and carpool and All The School Things.”

And the next thing I know, it’s August, and we all know what happens in August.

Mama reaches the end of her rope. 

I love my children.  I sooooo looooovvvee my children.  I really truly promise I love my children.

I just don’t love them quite as much in August. 

You see, when I say I’ve reached the end of my rope, I don’t mean I have a secure two-hand hold with a few inches to spare people.  I’m hanging on by my fingernails to a very thin thread here.  I’m so close to the end of the rope that when I was prepping lemon chicken at 4:00 this afternoon for us to have for dinner, I took a long hard look at the bottle of white wine I was using to make the sauce before I put it back in the fridge.  A very long, very hard look, and those of you who know me well know I don’t partake in a whole lot of wine.  I never partake at 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon.  Today, however, I seriously considered it, because it’s August.  My fingernails are killing me and I can’t hold on much longer.

Just last week, I was lamenting over the end of summer, wondering why we couldn’t just have another few days to relax in the sun.  It was July then.  Much closer to June. 

Today, all I can think is why in the world does summer have to be so long?

We’ve done the pool thing.  A lot.  We’ve done the vacation thing.  It was awesome, but it was a long time ago.  When we all still liked each other.  We’ve had play dates and sleepovers and mornings in our pj’s and far too much time watching movies and playing on the Ipad and making forts in the basement.  We’ve stayed up too late and gone out to dinner too often and had popsicles on the deck. We’ve eaten plenty of watermelon and played enough board games and used up every ounce of sunscreen we own.

It’s.Time.For.School.To.Start.

I know this because today, during lunch, my eleven and a half year-old (who has always liked to follow rules and rarely done anything all that bad) threw a piece of hard-boiled egg at his sister because she touched his Rubix cube.

Yep.  You read that right.  He THREW a piece of EGG at his SISTER.

Well heck yea he did. I mean, come on.  She touched his Rubix cube.  AND IT’S AUGUST!!!!!!!!

I actually handled it outwardly better than my inward desires would have suggested.  Inwardly, I saw an enormous food fight going on in my kitchen.  And I’m not talking about a fun, banana cream pie in the face kinda food fight.  I’m talking mama slinging all kinds of nasty things right at ‘em.  Inwardly, I wanted to chuck a handful of minced garlic at his face.

Instead, I mustered up the kindest mama voice I had in me, and I said, ever so sweetly, “Clearly you have had just about enough of summer, and it’s time for you to return to school where throwing egg at your sister is not an option.  In the meantime, put on your golf clothes, because I’m dropping you off at the driving range and I’m leaving you there until I decide to come get you!” 

And that’s how I know it’s time for school to start. Because my son threw food at the kitchen table, and I, the parent holding on by her fingernails, could come up with only one way to handle it, and that way involved . . . a golf course?

Hopefully, Charlie’s teachers will have had enough time away from kids to remember the meaning of the word ‘consequence’, because I’m working so hard to cling to this rope that I’ve lost my maternal edge. There’s no fight left in me, my friends.  It’s August, and this mama is officially done with summer.

Thankfully, summer is over next Thursday.  PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW!

Until then . . . there’s always that bottle of wine in the fridge.