Isn’t it intriguing the way God puts people in your life for specific reasons?  Sometimes he sends a caregiver – someone who is giving and thoughtful and makes you feel better when the skies look gray.  Sometimes he sends a friend – someone relatable who you can connect with and talk to about anything.   Sometimes he sends a teacher – someone who shares stories and experiences that provide valuable life lessons.  And sometimes, well, sometimes God sends a hit man – someone who will slap you upside the head, thrust his finger into your chest, and rattle off the kind of truth that makes you realize you’re totally NOT getting it. 

There’s this nasty little sin God warns us about that goes by the name of pride, and boy, have I got a handle on that one.  I’m about as familiar with pride as I am with bleach, and as you well know, that’s some big-time familiarity.

I’m proud people.  I'm proud of all kinds of things I have no business taking pride in.

I’m proud of my biceps.  Two and a half years of P90X and Insanity will do that to a woman approaching forty.  Seriously, come on over for a visit.  I’ll let you feel them. 

I’m proud of my children.  They’re cute and they’re doing well in school and they almost always remember to use their manners in public. 

I’m proud of my home.  It’s nothing fancy and I have a list a mile long of things I’d like to renovate and redecorate when I win the lottery, but it’s organized and clean and if you do come over to feel my biceps, you’ll probably think I’ve got it all together.

A while back, I was even proud of my parenting.  Sure, I let my kids have donuts on Saturday mornings and I make them take showers every night, even in the winter, but in general, I thought I had this mama thing pretty well covered.  And then, out of nowhere, God sent that mean ol’ hit man to knock me right into the middle of next week. 

You see, I've always had a plan regarding the whole eating, self-confidence, body image thing when it came to my children.  I don’t want Charlie and Libby to be anything like me in those departments, so before I even had kids, I decided exactly how I was going to make sure that didn’t happen.  I admit it wasn’t a well-researched strategy.  I simply intended to do things completely differently from the way my parents did them.  I know, I know.  I can’t blame my mother and father for all my issues.  Like most, my parents are good people with good intentions.  Still, I firmly believe they made mistakes in this arena, and I’m determined not to repeat them. 

Without going into great amounts of detail, here’s what my instruction on eating and body image entailed.  My mom made a LOT of chocolate chip cookies while I was growing up.  The only thing she made more of were comments on how she needed to go on a diet to lose weight from all the cookies she’d been eating.  My dad . . . well, after I gained some weight in high school (they should never allow seventeen-year-old cheerleaders to sell candy as a fundraiser.  I consumed way more boxes of peanut M&M’s than I sold), he told me I needed to drop a few pounds so I wouldn’t get my feelings hurt when I went away to college the next year.  Quality teaching?   I think not.  The ramifications exist to this day, and likely, for the rest of my life this side of heaven.

So.  Like I said, I had a plan when it came to educating my own children in the areas of eating and body image.  My plan involved lots of discussion about healthy choices and moderation and staying active and loving yourself for who you are.  Before my kids could even talk, I was telling them about things like calcium and fiber and vitamins and the importance of raising one’s heart rate.  Omega 3's is a regular phrase used in our house, my kids could name the superfoods when they started preschool, and to this day, I’ve never used the word ‘diet’ in front of Charlie and Libby.  

My intentions as a parent have been to keep the focus on food as fuel for the body and to demonstrate a lifestyle that includes plenty of exercise.  For years, I concentrated on pointing out why certain foods and staying active make me feel good and what effects such choices have on the human body.  Essentially, my goal has been to be a positive example for Charlie and Libby, and, quite frankly, I thought I was doing a good job.  Of course, that was before the hit man appeared.

I should probably tell you that the hit man is actually a woman.  She’s also well versed in dealing with people’s issues.  And this is how our recent conversation went about my valiant efforts in promoting healthy eating habits and high self-confidence in my children.

“So, Alison, tell me . . . when you sit down to eat meals with your kids, do you eat the same things they’re eating?”

“Are you kidding?  I haven’t had a sandwich or a plate of pasta in over two years.  I eat salads.  Big, healthy bowls full of heart-healthy greens loaded with non-dairy goat cheese and fiber-filled raw almonds topped with sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil."

“Mm hmm.  I see.  And when you allow your kids to indulge in sweets, what does that look like?”

“It looks like me reminding them that sweets are a special treat which should only be eaten in moderation and boy I sure used to love eating those pumpkin muffins myself.”

“Okay.  Now, what about when your kids go to school.  Do you pack their lunches?”

“No, lunches are “included” in tuition, so they aren’t permitted to take their own lunches.  But trust me, Charlie and Libby know they are only allowed to get chocolate milk once a week and I encourage them to visit the salad bar for fruits and veggies.  And, of course, I ask them every day when they get in the car after school what exactly they had for lunch.”

“Of course.  So, tell me this, Alison, how often would you say you eat for joy?”

“What?  I’m sorry.  I must have misunderstood your question.  Did you just say eating and joy . . .  in the same sentence?  That makes absolutely no sense to me.  I mean, what on earth could you possibly be speaking of with this eating for joy insanity?  I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life.”

“Right.  Well, I have just one more question for you then.”

“Okay.  Go for it.  I’m going to knock this one out of the park just like the others.  Bring it on, lady.”

“You’ve just told me you don’t eat the same things your kids eat.  You constantly remind them what’s healthy and what isn’t.  You attempt to control their food choices even when they are not with you.  And you need to know what they are eating for every meal of the day.  Correct?”

I nod in agreement here, but I’ve got a bad feeling about where this is going and I’m pretty sure I won't like what she’s going to say next.  Sure enough, the hit man (woman) breaks out her finger, shoves it against my chest, and crushes my every last parental objective with a dose of reality that will reverberate in my heart and mind for the rest of time.

“And you think your kids aren’t going to have the same issues you have?”

At that moment, all the air left the room, and I actually had to remind myself how to stay alive. 

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  Okay.  Okay.  I think my heart is still beating, though just barely.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

I’m rarely speechless, but there were simply no words.  As the rush of comprehension consumed my every thought, destroying my pride and replacing it with shame, the tears spilled forth.  Dark, heavy, loathsome tears.  Tears of guilt and regret and despair.  Tears filled with an intense desire to turn back time, to do it all again, to give it another shot so I could please for the love of all things healthy have the chance to get it right.

God allows people to come into our lives for a purpose.  Some for a second, some for a season, some for a lifetime.  I have no doubt the hit woman’s purpose in my life was at least partially fulfilled during our conversation that day.  She opened my eyes when they were tightly shut, illuminating my mistakes while I still  have time to make ammends, and I'm grateful for her willingness to be brutally honest with me.  

Several days after that conversation, our family went out for pizza. 

I had two slices.

Everyone remembers.  Ask anyone over the age of twenty, and she can likely tell you where she was that horrific morning.  Eleven years ago today, I was in an elementary school in a northern suburb of Atlanta.  I was waiting for a group of eight-year-old struggling readers to enter my classroom, sit down at a kidney shaped table, and begin the demanding process of decoding words in a language that was not native to them.  I thought it a noble job.  I believed I was making a difference.

Nine-hundred miles away there were other teachers in other classrooms doing similar things: grading papers, planning lessons, preparing materials, praying for patience.  Over a decade later, I’m sure they can easily recall what they were doing the precise moment an airplane flew into the World Trade Center.  In fact, I imagine their memory is much more astute than mine.  They heard the blast.

The rest of that day exists only as a blur in my mind.  When I attempt to remember, I simply see snapshots of my students faces mingled with the disturbing images of airplanes and smoke and fire and buildings crumbling to the ground as though they were made of sand. 

In the days that followed, I watched more television than I’ve ever watched in my life, desperate for answers like everyone else.  How could such a terrible thing happen?  Why would anyone desire death for a complete stranger?  Where in the world do we go from here, now that we have witnessed the depth of disgust one human being can have for another?

More than ten years later, pieces of the puzzle have been painfully constructed.  We now have a warped picture of the events of that day – a story showing a legacy of hatred that goes back thousands of years.  There are names and faces of those who died and those who killed them.  There are facts and statistics about the speed of planes and the gallons of fuel and the tons of rubble.  We watch documentaries and feel a familiar anguish as our stomachs twist into knots of confusion, fear, and sadness.  We are filled with despair over a tragedy so immense it will forever cast a shadow of doubt about the safety of our nation.  And as the tears fall yet again, we are confounded with the same questions. 

How . . . and why? 

The answers have never really come.  I suppose they never will.

Yet every year in September, I’m reminded of something besides the needless death and destruction that will always exist in a world where there is evil.  Every year in September, I remember that as I walk through the activities and duties of my day under the banner of freedom America provides, there are heroes who walk among me.  

They are real people.  Normal people.  They have jobs and spouses and kids and mortgages and problems, like the rest of us.  But one day, when the time comes for me to explain the true definition of ‘hero’ to my own children, I will point to these people.  I will share the story of September 11 with Charlie and Libby, and as the memories of that day overwhelm me with grief, I will hold my children close and tell them about the firemen who ran towards the fire.  I will tell them about the passengers who stormed the cockpit of an aircraft moving five-hundred miles per hour.  I will tell them about the employees who rushed back into the burning buildings. I will tell them about the doctors who raced to the crime scene with as many supplies as they could carry.  I will tell them about the police officers who worked endless hours searching for survivors.  I will tell them about the citizens who showed up with water and food and comfort, unwavering in their determination to help. 

September 11, 2001 was an awful day.  It will go down in the history of the United States as one of the worst days ever.  It was a day when the threat of terrorism became an appalling reality.   It was a day when thousands of people lost their lives and thousands more lost people they loved.  It was a day most of us will never forget.  Still, I think the most important thing about September 11 is the fact that it wasn’t just a dreadful day.  It was also a day when normal people became heroes.    

She turned seven last month, and it threw me.  It wasn’t as if someone tossed me over the fence and I floated down onto a patch of soft grass.  This felt more like someone hurled me against a brick wall and then I ricocheted off the concrete driveway into a tree. 

Seven.  It just sounds so . . . not little.

I think if she were my only, seven would simply be another single-digit number.  I think if she were my oldest, seven would just be one more than six.  But Libby is my youngest child.  She is my baby, and yet, clearly, she’s not.  She’s seven. 

Of course, I realize the baby stage of my life is long past.  I haven’t changed a diaper in ages and I can’t remember the last time I found myself dozing in a rocking chair at two o’clock in the morning.  The toddler days are gone too.  I donated the high chair, strollers, and sippy cups to Goodwill years ago.  I no longer measure time in weeks or months.  I’m not sleep deprived.  There are no outlet covers in my house. 

I mourned the passing of the baby and toddler stages as they ended, and I continue to do so every time I look at old photographs.  Still, until last month, I thought of myself as the mother of young children.  I liked that role.  It fit.  Now, my youngest is seven, and I’m just a mother.  I don’t have young children.  I have two kids.  They go to school from eight to three, five days a week.  They have homework and their feet stink and they can’t make it down even one aisle in the grocery store without asking for something I’ve told them a thousand times I’m never going to buy.  And I’m slumped under a tree, dazed and confused with a huge bump on my head, trying to figure out exactly how I got here.

The strange thing is, she doesn’t seem all that grown up.  She still has skin like silk and loves to snuggle, and occasionally, we find her thumb in her mouth in the middle of the night.  Seven isn’t really such a significant jump from five and six.  Yet, it was quite emotional to celebrate Libby’s seventh birthday, and as the days since then have passed, I’ve realized my despair doesn’t have all that much to do with my daughter becoming a seven year old.  It has to do with what it signifies to have children who are no longer in the young category.  It has to do with the fact that as Charlie and Libby enter a new stage in their lives, so do I. 

Since the moment God gifted me with our first child, my life has revolved almost completely around the act of mothering.  When you have young children, there is rarely time (or energy) for anything else.  My days and weeks and years have centered on Charlie and Libby’s needs and desires, and there were many.  When I woke up each morning, I was prepared to do one thing – be their mama – and I knew what to expect.  There would be cuddling and singing and answering questions and dressing and preparing meals and feeding and cleaning up and reading and playing and talking and disciplining and helping and teaching and more cleaning up and protecting and laughing and soothing and calming and appeasing and bathing and tickling and giggling and praying and even more cleaning up.  I filled every day to the brim with the physical and emotional duties of motherhood, and on most nights, I went to bed believing I had accomplished something of great importance.

For almost ten years now, my primary focus has been on my children, and I know they will continue to be my top priority for another decade.  Yet, now that my kids are growing up, my role in their lives is changing.  My days are no longer packed from dawn to dusk with the many responsibilities of parenting.  Now, my days are filled with time.

I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but not so long ago, I looked forward to this time.  I cried last fall, on that first day both of my children would be at school from eight to three, heavy tears fraught with the loss of having them close more often than not.  But deep down, in a place no good mother wants to admit exists, I felt a small sense of joy at the idea of all that time.  Time for myself.  Time to do the things I’d put off.  Time to do the things I wanted to do.  Time to breathe.  

The first days were exhilarating.  That allusive time I’d been craving, while foreign, seemed so full of promise. But the days came one after the next, over and over until there seemed to be too many.  Sometimes, I’d find myself wandering around the house, walking in and out of each room as I tried to decide what to do. 

Summer brought relief.  They were close once more.  While no longer a constant caregiver, I transformed into the role of chaperone, and found contentment there.  The house was noisy and the days were busy and my mind was happily cluttered with the tasks of parenting two children all day long.  Then, in the blink of an eye, August arrived.  School started and she turned seven and here I am, surrounded again by all this time.

I considered last year one of adjustment.  I expected to struggle a bit with my new role as a stay-at-home mom whose kids aren’t at home, and I did.  Now, the novelty has worn off and reality has set in – this is permanent – and I feel as though I must make some decisions about what this stage of life means for me.  I can easily fill up my day. I can spend the hours from eight to three doing responsible, positive things.  I can go to Bible study and exercise and volunteer at the kids’ school and clean my house and walk the dog and do the grocery shopping and prepare meals for others and work in the yard and play tennis and read and write and have lunch with friends.  Yet, for some reason, all of these things just don’t feel like enough.  And I keep coming back to the same thought . . . what’s next?

I have all this time.  Time to do something important.  Time to do something truly meaningful . . . dare I say . . . time to do something . . . eternal?  I want my life to have value.  I want to make a real, lasting impact on someone or something.  The question is . . . how?  Who?  Where?  Most importantly, why? 

Why do I feel the need to do something other than what I’m doing?  Why can’t I find satisfaction in the everyday tasks of my life?  Why do I have this gnawing feeling there is something more for me to accomplish? And if God intends me to explore another purpose, one that won’t diminish my ability to put my own family first, yet will bring pleasure while being full of worth, why, oh why isn’t He showing me the way?

Yea, yea.  I know.  Patience has never been my strong suit.  I guess all I can do is keep praying. 

Dear Lord,

     Thank you for seeing me through all the seasons of my life.  I know you have a plan for me.  I want to do your will.  Please God, please show me what’s next.

I sure do hope He provides an answer for me soon.  I’m ready to listen, willing to try, and hey . . . I’ve got nothin’ but time.


Ecclesiastes 3:2    There’s an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on earth. 

Isaiah 43:18-19     Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See I am doing a new thing!