BOO!!!

Soooo . . . Halloween.  Not a fan.  I realize we’ve already established this in some . . . actually ALL . . . previous posts about Halloween, but it’s the last day of October AGAIN, and I just wanted to clarify the obvious.  I officially hate Halloween.

I know.  I’m a party pooper.  Trust me, I’m perfectly okay with that title.  I’ve never been all that good at parties, especially Halloween ones.  I don’t like dressing up – spending money on clothes I’ll never wear again just ticks me off.  And the candy . . . the candy makes me want to hand out bags of fresh brussel sprouts to trick-or-treaters.  Seriously people, how many calories and fat grams and artificial colors and flavors and preservatives do our children need in a single twenty-four hour time period?  Shall we discuss the decorations and costumes next?  Because those are the things that really put me over the edge. 

As we’ve already established, I’m all about the pumpkins and mums and scarecrows and little girls wearing ladybug wings, but why does Party City have bloody limbs sitting on tables when you walk in their front door?  I apologize for my inability to find the thrill in a severed head, but I simply do not find such things scary or funny or festive or spooky.  I find them disturbing. Gravestones in my front yard?  No thanks.  Spider webs all over my bushes?  I pay a pest control service to make sure that doesn’t happen.  Ten year-old boys running around with foot-long plastic knives in their hands?  Have you seen the news recently?  Do we really need to encourage the young men of our country to carry weapons?  Twelve year-old girls in flapper outfits?  Ever read the definition of a flapper?  They are described as young women who drank, smoked, wore excessive make-up, and treated sex in a casual manner.  Pretty sure I don’t want my daughter in a flapper costume any time in the next, oh, fifty years.

I know Halloween is supposed to be fun, and my children will participate in it tonight with all the others.  There are ghost figurines on my kitchen counter and a “Boo Y’all!” linen towel in my powder room.  We’ve carved our pumpkin and roasted our pumpkin seeds.  We are meeting wonderful friends tonight for trick-or-treating and Charlie and Libby will eat far too much sugar before they go to bed way too late.  But let’s just get one thing straight . . . I. Hate. Halloween. 

Still, there are lessons in most things, even (especially?) in the things we like the least.  And sure enough, the holiday I never look forward to provided one for me this year.

She told me months ago what her costume would be.  I dismissed it.  Nodded my head, smiled knowingly, maybe even chuckled under my breath as I thought, you’ve got to be kidding. She mentioned it again, several times in fact, as the weeks of October flew by.  I’m sure my reaction was always about the same. 

“We’ll see.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You might change your mind.”

“There are lots of options.”

Strange how I continue to doubt her, when she’s proven over and over the type of person she is.  Decisive.  Confident.  Strong.  Independent.  Sure.

Not bad qualities, when used in the right ways.  Yet I push them aside as if they aren’t important enough to recognize.  As though I can’t see the good in them.  As though I would change her if I could. As if the character traits that make her exactly who God meant her to be aren’t worthy of acknowledging . . . of celebrating even.  

I compliment her when she’s kind.  I praise her when she’s thoughtful.  I encourage her to be sweet and caring and honest and helpful and loving.  And she is these things . . . sometimes.  And she will continue to be these things . . . sometimes. 

But what my daughter has always been, and what I truly hope she always will be, is decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

We walked in Party City, past the blood covered headless creature, and she immediately went to the wall of costumes, seeking the only one she wanted.  And I did what I’ve vowed time and time again not to do.  I indulged my own wants and needs at her expense. 

I spent a full five minutes trying to change my daughter’s mind.  I pointed out other costumes, the ones I wanted her to choose for Halloween.  I reminded her that she had never been a witch or a Native American or a doctor or an astronaut.  I forgot the fact that Libby has never been interested in the smocked dresses and big bows and gentle spirit I've always wanted for her, and I tried to persuade her to do . . . to be . . . what would make me happy.  Yes, I stood there in Party City and ignored everything that makes my daughter who she is in order to satisfy the mess in my heart.  I dismissed the character traits Libby already possesses, and which will serve her well in the future, and instead worried about what her current choices say about me.    

It took a full five minutes for me to realize my mistake.  A full five minutes for me to comprehend the error of my ways.  A full five minutes for me to understand that I was actually helping my daughter become a person who doubts her own decision making skills, instead of one who knows what she wants and goes after it, regardless of what others might think.

She walked out of the store with a huge grin on her face, and she spent the rest of the afternoon performing hilarious shows in our backyard in her black morph suit.  Yep.  Libby . . . the black morph. 

Not what I expected.  Not what I wanted.  But what she chose. 

When my daughter wears her black morph suit for Halloween tonight, I won’t be able to see her beautiful blond hair.  I won’t be able to see her big blue eyes.  But I will be able to see her spirit, and I will be grateful for who she is.  Decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

Happy Halloween!!!

EWWWWWW . . . Gross!!!

Can we chat about life for a minute?  Just the real, messy, normal stuff that happens every day?  I know that might sound somewhat ordinary, but here’s the deal . . .

I started this blog for several reasons.  One, I hoped God could use me to bless someone (anyone) else.  Okay, maybe trying to bless others was slightly ambitious for someone of my average standing and intelligence.  At the very least, however, I wanted to share my ramblings in the hopes that someone out there somewhere might find something in my writing that makes them smile, or relate, or let go of some of their guilt, or even for just a tiny little second think about Jesus and what he did for all of mankind when he died on the cross to provide the ultimate gift of grace.  Again . . . perhaps a bit lofty. 

The second reason I started this blog was because there is a circus that puts Ringling Brothers to shame going on inside my brain seven days a week, and I need to put all the clowns and acrobats and lions and tigers and bears, oh my, into some kind of organized rings.  You know, so I don’t end up jumping off a high wire one day.  

Reason number three is really two reasons, or more accurately, two people.  Their names are Charlie and Libby, and one day, after they have passed the season of listening to everything I say (that’s actually so far gone it’s barely worth mentioning) and the season of questioning everything I say and the season of resisting everything I say and the season of hating everything I say, they might come back around to being curious about what I have to say.  I realize we are decades from this, and the truth is, it might not ever happen, but a girl can dream, right?  A mom has to believe her children will, at some point, mature enough to understand their mother did the very best she could.   And since I quickly outgrew the art of scrapbooking after spending enough money to redo my kitchen (dammit) documenting every moment of my children’s first few years of life, I have resorted to blogging in the hopes that I am recording something of importance for Charlie and Libby to have in the future.

So, since this blog is supposed to be providing my offspring with proof that their mom didn’t only think about whatever it is they think I’m thinking about, we are going to talk about life today. And folks, God is very, very, VERY good, but sometimes, life is very, very VERY gross.  We’ve had some serious gross going on around here.

Not sure if you read the rambling I wrote a couple months back about Charlie’s first email?  As I’ve previously mentioned, the smart bloggers can insert a link for past blogs in a spot like this, but I have yet to learn how to do it, so if you haven’t read that particular rambling and would like to, it’s called ‘A First To Remember.’  Basically, it was about the jubilation my ten year-old child felt at the beginning of fifth grade when he sent his very first email – let’s just say it was unexpected.  I mean seriously, who knew sending emails could make a little boy giddy? 

Here’s the gross part.  Sit down if you don’t have any kids over the age of five, because this is heartbreaking and you will need the support of a very soft couch or chair of some sort when you realize this is where you are headed.  I have sent my sweet, precious, adorable son an email EVERY SINGLE MORNING since the day he squealed like a little girl after sending his first email.  That was on August 14^th.  Today is October 22.  That means I have sent Charlie a loving message (along with a Bible verse) for sixty-nine straight days.  Now, would you like to know how many emails I have received from him?  Go ahead . . . take a guess. 

ZERO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Zip.  Nada.  Nothing.  Zero emails from my only son.  He has not responded even ONCE in over two months.  No ‘Thanks, Mom’ or ‘Hope you have a good day too, Mom’ or ‘It’s so nice of you to think of me every single morning for sixty-nine straight days, MOM!!!’ 

That’s totally disgusting.

Ready for more gross? 

We aren’t stomach bug people.  The last stomach bug to hit our family was almost six years ago on the Disney Cruise, where, let’s face it, the CDC would have a field day.  Have you ever been on a Disney Cruise?  There are a thousand kids with runny noses touching everything they see all contained within 300 yards.  Libby was the one to get the stomach bug on the last night of our Disney Cruise, and she was up all night utilizing a state room trash can held by her mother.  Still, she was only two years old at the time.  I may remember that night well, but as she clearly demonstrated last Friday at 3:30 am, she doesn’t. 

What I’m trying to say to you is this . . . you should include stomach bug protocol on your list of important items to routinely discuss with your children.  Put it right up there with fire safety and stranger danger, my friends.  If you don’t, you will end up with a child who has forgotten the appropriate places to vomit when she gets the stomach bug, and you will wind up cleaning every spindle and step on your staircase at four o’clock in the morning.  And then all over again for several hours the next day, because there are a lot of places you miss when it’s dark and you’re half-asleep.  Oh, and you will need to call a carpet cleaner too, for that brand new runner you just had installed. 

So gross.

There’s more grossness, if you dare.

Ever had a colonoscopy?  Good times, folks, really good times.  I don’t skip meals.  I rarely go more than a few hours without eating.  I consider it not only essential to good health, but also to my happiness and, as you’ll soon agree, my ability to parent.  When you are having a colonoscopy on Tuesday morning at 9:00 am, you have to stop eating after Sunday dinner.  You can have clear liquids on Monday, because apple juice and chicken broth are so incredibly appetizing when you are starving, but that’s it. 

Did I mention I don’t skip meals?

By 10:00 am on Monday, my head hurt.  By 3:00 pm, I had done every possible activity I could think of to keep my mind off my growling stomach.  By 6:00 pm, in the middle of the drink two entire liters of the most disgusting liquid ever created cleansing phase of the super fun colonoscopy prep work, I wanted to give up and vow to never ever have a colonoscopy.  EVER.  By 9:00 pm, I could barely walk, and sitting down?  NO.  NO. FREAKIN’. WAY.  By 7:00 this morning, I told my eight year-old daughter I was going to bop her in the head with her hairbrush if she didn’t stop fussing about the bump in her ponytail, and y’all, I wanted to do it so bad I’m not sure how I stopped myself. 

And that’s how a colonoscopy works people.  Trust me, the tube inserted in the hole not intended for such intrusions was the best part of the whole process.  I didn't mind that part a bit.  Heck, I was off in propofol dreamland with doctors watching over me who clearly knew much more about the stuff than those who gave it to Michael Jackson.  And when the probing was done and I woke up, I could eat. 

So that’s it.  That’s our latest gross, documented for my children to read when they decide their mother might have had something worth saying after all, even if it was just the normal, messy, gross stuff of life.  Because what this mama really wants her children to discover (if they ever do grow up and dive into her many ramblings), is that in the normal, messy, gross stuff of life, there is always goodness. 

There is the son who might one day remember how his mom sent him an email every morning reminding him she loves him. 

There is the daughter who got to spend the day in her pajamas watching movies on the couch, while her parents attended to her every need. 

There is the husband who drove four hours home from a work trip to be there to take his wife to the hospital for a simple procedure. 

Yes . . . there is always goodness . . . because there is ALWAYS a good God.

May you not have too much gross in your lives this month, friends, and may you always find the good in the gross when you need to.    

A River Runs Through It

So this precious woman who knows God way better than I do recently spoke at my weekly Bible study.  She shared the parable of the river, which was originally authored by Max Lucado.  Now, people have disputed this parable as having little relation to the scripture Lucado intended to explain (Romans 1), but I happened to find it incredibly interesting because, well, let’s just say I saw myself right smack in the middle of it.

In the parable of the river, there are five brothers who live with their father in a mountain castle.  The father warns his sons about the dangers of a nearby river, but, as expected, only the oldest one heeds the warning.  Hey, I totally get this guy.  Typical first born.  We know the rules, folks, and by golly we follow them.    

Of course, the other four brothers aren’t such people pleasers.  They just have to check that river out.  Sure enough, the river sweeps them all away and they end up miles downstream, far from the mountain castle they called home, and from their loving father.

The first brother isn’t too concerned with the migration his disobedience has forced upon him.  In fact, he decides to indulge himself and make friends with the natives in this new land.  They are sinful people, and he joins right in and settles down with them, laying roots in a place he never should have been. 

Ever done that?  Washed yourself free of goodness to exist among a crowd?

I’m a first-born, a rule follower, a people pleaser.  Still, I can’t say ‘no’.  I’ve been swept away plenty of times.  I’ve been swept away by guilt and envy and gluttony and greed and the list goes on and on my friends.  That raging river is a constant in my life, tugging me from the shores of truth into a roaring flood, where the dark swirls all around me and I can’t find the surface to catch my breath.  I’m drowning in that river of worldly desires.  Every day, it threatens to pull me under.

The second brother watches his sinful sibling from afar, noticing every misstep, keeping track of all the things he’s doing wrong while priding himself for staying away from the potential pitfalls of their new surroundings.  

Been there?  Pointed fingers without ever pausing to glance in the mirror?

Once again, my answer isn’t the one I’d like it to be.  I’ve observed from a distance more times than I can count, smiling and nodding and comparing while refusing to engage in what I believe to be someone else’s poor choices.  I’ve stood back, silently watching another stumble as I counted myself more faithful, more loving, more loyal . . . better.  Better because I wasn’t speaking aloud what my head was thinking?  Better because my hands refused to act on the stirrings of my heart?  Better because I thought I belonged in the judge’s seat, when the truth is, we’re all on trial with the only Judge, and we’re all acquitted if we simply choose to stop issuing our own verdicts and listen to His decree instead.   I’ve held gavels when I should have been holding hands.

The third brother wants to go home.  He feels badly for ignoring his father’s warnings about the river, and begins laying rocks to make a path back to the mountain castle.  He labors and toils, exerting all his energy into advancing, moving forward, making progress.  He doesn’t let up, hauling his load and pushing himself to perform and working and working and working to reach his goal.

Ever do such a thing?  Going and doing and giving all for a gift that doesn’t require anything but one small step of faith?

I am trying to earn God’s grace.  I am trying to buy it with my words and pay for it with my actions and deserve it with my life.  And it’s free.  He never meant for redemption to have anything to do with me.  It’s always been about Him.  He came to the earth as a baby to find me.  He shared the truth to show me.  And he gave up his life to free me.  I can lay rocks all day long every day of my life, but they will never get me where I want to go.  My sweat and tears and efforts warrant nothing but exhaustion.  They won’t ever make me worthy.  They won’t ever win me merit.  Salvation is a gift.  It is the single greatest gift ever given.  And all I have to do to receive it . . . is receive Him.

The fourth brother does nothing.  He sits by the fire alone . . . waiting . . . certain his father will come for him despite the fact that he disobeyed.  Soon, the oldest brother arrives instead, embracing his younger sibling.

“I have come to take you home.”

The first-born son, there on behalf of the father, proposing forgiveness of sin, offering himself as the single solution.  And the brother by the fire does the only thing necessary to get back to his loving father . . . he allows the first-born son to carry him there.

Lord, how I want to be like that last brother, the one who sits patiently by the fire of your glory, filled with the warmth of faith in your goodness, certain that the one who says, “Follow me”, is the only one I need to hear.  I want to stop embracing sin and criticizing others and striving for salvation, and instead, I want to crawl into your arms . . . and lean my head on your shoulder . . . and fold myself into your boundless peace.  For only then will I find the grace I seek.  Only then will I find my way home.