I've Become A Circus Act

Since I haven’t had any time at all to sit down and write, I thought I’d give you a quick update on what is taking up the hours of my life.

It goes by the very exciting, and equally exhausting and overwhelming name of . . . work.

Yes.  I’m officially a working mama now. 

I got my real estate license late last spring and started getting my feet wet with a few clients during the summer and fall.  In January, things began to kick into high gear, and my feet are no longer a bit wet.  These days, life’s a deluge.  I’m soaked from head to toe, my hair hanging  damp and stringy in front of my eyes as I hunch over to block the piercing rain shooting darts on my back.

Working is hard, y’all.

Having a job where people need you to perform duties that are still new to you, and therefore take much more time than they probably should, means all those other duties you’ve been performing quite efficiently for the last twelve years get pushed waaaaaay down to the bottom of your to-do list.  And let’s face it.  Many of those items on my to-do list for the last decade or so were to-do’s.  My list now includes a multitude of activities that can’t really be called to-do’s.  They are must-do’s, and there’s a difference. 

Working is a juggling act, as life often is, but suddenly I’ve added all these balls to my act.  Things are flying around all over the place and here’s the thing . . . I was never any good at juggling.  I’m dropping balls left and right and most of them involve the duties that are old hat, the things that were once second nature, almost automatic – the people I know will love and forgive me despite the fact that I’ve dropped their ball and it’s rolled so far away I can’t even see it anymore.

What I very clearly didn’t realize is that all those things I’ve been doing for so long – the ones that have suddenly been relocated from their position of top-priority to one of the many things that have to be done today -  those age old duties are not just going to automatically take care of themselves.  Those long juggled balls are not going to stay up in the air on their own, my friends.  I have to keep them there. 

I’ve been trying to explain to my friends and family that I could really use their patience and understanding right now, as I’m going through a major period of adjustment trying to settle into my new existence as a working mom, but no one seems to get it.  I’m sure you’re doing fine, they say.  You can handle it, they tell me.  I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m not doing all that fine.  In fact, I’m rather certain I’m not handling it at all.  I could give you many reasons why I believe this to be true, but for the sake of time, I’m just going to share one with you today.

Last week, I FORGOT TO PICK UP MY DAUGHTER.

Yep.  You absolutely read that right.  Libby’s cooking class ended at 4:30.  At 4:45, a wonderful friend of mine sent me a text offering to bring her home from said cooking class the following week.  Thank goodness for that interruption, because I was knee deep entering a listing and there was nothing breaking my working mama concentration.

It was fine.  There were contractors putting in new lights at my house and they had to move their truck so I could get out, but thankfully, we only live about a mile and a half from school and I arrived by 4:56. 

I cried the whole way there.

The worst part about it was that this wasn’t the first Libby ball I’d dropped that week.  Honestly?  It wasn’t the second either.

So . . .

How do you feel about my juggling now?

I know I will get the hang of things, and so will my children.  Women all over the world manage to be excellent wives and mothers while simultaneously having a career.  There will be many positives to this new adventure – I believe that.  It will be good for my kids to witness their mother learn the value of time management.  It will be good for my husband to have some financial support.  It will be good for me to contribute to our family in new ways.  It will all be good, because God is good.  I have asked Him into this endeavor and I have faith that He will show up in it.  In fact, He already has.

I saw his hand when things recently worked out with a deal I wasn’t sure had a chance of working out. I saw his hand when I received my first paycheck in over twelve years and instantly felt a deep new appreciation for my husband.  I saw his hand in the generosity of a colleague who supported me every step of the way.  I saw his hand in the friend who texted me at just the right time, offering a reminder that my top priorities must remain just that – above everything else.  And I see his hand each day in the faces of my clients, who have trusted me enough to help them buy or sell a home, and who make me smile while doing it.

To all the working mamas out there - bravo, well done, nice job, and hang in there.  You are a true inspiration to me, and no doubt to many others trying to turn their own circus acts into successes. To all the mamas who are working at home – I have a newfound awareness of just how much important work you do on a daily basis.  Keeping children safe, fed, clothed, educated, healthy and happy are life’s greatest and most difficult calls, and they require endless amounts of kindness, energy, and grace.  I pray we can all support one another as we juggle the balls in our lives, and that we can forgive one another when we drop a few.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might . . .

Ecclesiastes 9:10

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. 

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.  

IT'S ALIVE!!!

And by it, I mean me! 

I’m home, appendix free and with my brand new semi colon.  There is still a lot of pain and swelling, but I have never been more grateful to be home in my entire thirty-eight years of life.

Home is nothing short of pure bliss right now, and I promise to never complain about my kitchen again. 

Okay.  I promise to never complain about my kitchen again at least until the end of the month.

Here’s what I need to tell you about hospitals; (I used a semi colon there just for irony – thanks A!)

There are many wonderful people inside hospitals.  

Hospitals are one of the most horrible places on earth.

I spent three and a half days in a highly reputable Atlanta area hospital, 24 hours of which I was so strung out on anesthesia and pain meds I slept and vomited my way through them.  And I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

We have excellent healthcare available in America, and I am fully aware of the lack of healthcare many people face in developing countries.  My surgery and consequent hospital stay were in a facility I’m incredibly blessed to have such easy access to, and there were hundreds of others there receiving quality care at the same time I was.  The doctors and nurses were trained professionals, educated in some of the most widely respected medical schools in the world.  I had my own recovery room, complete with a bed, full bathroom, and a television, and I had access to any medicines or health products I could have needed at the push of a button.  Someone came in each day to clean my room, and offered to use only soap and water because of my nausea.  Someone came in each day to deliver my liquid only meals, and didn’t say a thing when he had to remove them an hour later untouched.  Someone delivered me one foot away from the car door in a wheelchair upon my discharge. 

I. Am. So. Grateful.

And yet, I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

I know there are children who will not get a meal today, liquid or otherwise.  I know there are babies who won’t get the medicines they need.  I know they are people who haven’t showered in three days and feel as disgusting as I did but won’t get to shower for how knows how long because they don’t have a shower or a house or food or a bed or a television or a hospital.  Please know I KNOW these things and I am so grateful. 

But y’all, hospitals are truly horrible places, and after three and a half days in one, I think America can do better.

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing.

How can healing come when medicines are being pumped into a body that can’t take them?  When the patient, in fact, has to be the one to suggest perhaps all the heavy-duty pain meds on a continuous drip into a body that hasn’t consumed food in days might be what is causing all the nausea?  When the patient, who thankfully was coherent enough to speak and think for herself (not always the case in hospitals) has to ask if we can just try something by mouth instead?  (Advil is working just fine, my friends, and the nausea was gone almost as soon as that pain pump was removed – I really should have gone to med school, don’t you think?)

How can healing come when one person enters a room where a patient is trying to rest every couple of hours to listen to her heart and bowel sounds (it sounds like a hot tub down there in case your curious - the neighbors can hear my bowel sounds right now without a stethoscope), and then another person comes in every couple of hours, BUT NEVER AT THE SAME TIME, to take the patient’s pulse, blood pressure, and temperature?  Thinking maybe that could be the same person, since the entire process would then take a total of three minutes instead of two minutes but everything would be done at once, instead of every stinking hour throughout the entire stinking night? 

Just a thought.

Along those same lines, they could use a few more classes on time management and multitasking in nursing school, in my opinion.  Please be aware that this very humble opinion comes from someone totally and completely inadequate as a caregiver who could never be a nurse in her life and thank you to that wonderful man who held the barf bag for me and cheered for me every time I vomited into it like I had just finished a marathon.  Still, I’m pretty sure there is someone out there who could train nurses to be able to get both a bandaid and a cup of ice at the same time, preferably within less than seventy minutes.  (Just so you understand I'm not trying to be ungrateful - this was not a one time incident - this happened with every nurse, every time, with everything I needed.)

How can healing come when the food given to someone who just had almost a foot of her colon removed is full of artificial colors, flavors, preservatives and even sweeteners?  Seriously?  Italian Ice and orange Jello for someone who wants to get healthy and never have to go back to the hospital – are you kidding me?

I'm home, and although I know it is wrong, I am finding great joy in my circumstances today.  I’ve showered.  I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair and even had a cup of coffee with my creamer that has nothing whatsoever artificial in it.  I’ve taken a few more Advil and I’m resting comfortably in a chair in my home, and I am so very grateful.  There are people in downtown Atlanta who didn’t get to leave that hospital yesterday.  There are people all across the world who don’t have a hospital and need one.

I will remember the man who held the bag and cheered for me as I threw up into it.  I will remember the woman who offered to clean my room with only soap and water.  I will remember the nurse who told me I looked so much better when I could only have looked so much worse.  I will remember the boy who delivered my food and encouraged me to eat my grits. I will remember how lucky I am to have access to doctors with the amazing abilities to provide a higher quality of life for me.  And when I look at the six incisions across my stomach, I will forever remember what a true blessing it is to have wonderful friends who cared enough to pray for me, and a family to come home to when the worst was over.

Thank you, God, for hospitals.  Thank you for all the nurses and doctors who work in them.  Thank you for those unseen in the hospitals – the ones who prepare food and deliver equipment and test blood and stock rooms.  Thank you for medicine.  Thank you for life.  Thank you for friends, for family, and today, maybe more than any day I’ve ever known, thank you, God,

 for home.

Writing 101

I love stories.  Always have.  Give me a good story and I’ll lose track of time, reading voraciously to see what will happen next, who winds up where, how it all ends.  When I pick up a book, my husband grins at me over the cover and says, “See you when it’s over.” 

I’m ashamed to admit it because I consider myself a fairly intelligent adult, but I read the entire Twilight series in less than a week.  I was furious when my book club chose the first installment as one of our monthly reads.  Even told the woman checking me out at Barnes and Noble how irritated I was about spending my husband’s hard earned money on a book for high school kids about vampires.  Seriously . . . vampires?  I was a mother with two children.  I had important duties to tend to.  There were people counting on me to wipe their bottoms and cut their grapes and teach them the alphabet and I certainly did not have time in my life to read about vampires.   I was pissed.  The woman told me I’d be back within a week for number two.  I smirked.  I scoffed.  I sneered.

I went back the next day for number two.

I’m not saying Twilight is quality literature, people.  It didn’t change my life or impact my future or improve my soul - the Bible is where I go for that kind of stuff.  I’m not even saying it was quality writing, although you gotta hand it to a lady who is creative enough to come up with a vampire/werewolf/human love triangle and make it a worldwide sensation.  Jane Austen was never a bazillionaire. 

What I am saying is that Twilight was a good story because it created in its readers a need to see how it was going to end.  I HAD TO KNOW – is Bella going to become a vampire or not?????

Thankfully, if you were team Edward, which I was (how could anyone in their right mind not be), Twilight had a happy ending.  Because what I am not ashamed to admit, is I have always been a happy ending kind of girl.  I will never be a fan of books that don’t wrap things up in a neat little package with a bright, shiny bow on top.  If a book ends badly, or not at all – you know the kind - one that leaves you hanging so you must decide for yourself what happened next.  Damn those authors with commitment issues.  We count on them to finish their flipping books.  That’s what you do when you write a book – YOU. FINISH. IT.  Sorry – clearly, I have my own issues.  So like I was saying, if a book doesn’t provide an ending or has a tragic one, I likely won’t recommend it.  Life is tragic enough.  My escape mechanisms need to be all rainbows and butterflies.

Recently, I’ve found myself encouraging some friends in tough seasons to remember that the very best stories in life are written by the author of life Himself.  

“God is writing your story this way for a purpose.”

“I can’t wait to see what your next chapter is like.”

“Just think what God might have in store for you soon.”

Yep.  Said all those things to people who are important to me.  They smiled and nodded and thanked me, and then probably walked away cursing my name under their breath because who does she think she is claiming to know anything about God’s writing skills.

Here’s the thing.  We would probably ALL write our stories differently.  I certainly would.  If I were writing my own life story, trust me, there would be some major plot changes, not to mention totally different main characters.  If I were writing my own story, I would be smarter, funnier, taller, thinner, prettier, more successful, and let’s not kid ourselves, a whole lot wealthier. I would live in a perfect country with no social or economic issues, a perfect community with no traffic or crime, a perfect house with every room furnished exactly the way I want it.  My car would always have a full tank, the sun would shine every day, and the laundry would do itself.  I would never put my foot in my mouth or show up late or fail so colossally I want to stay in bed for days.  I would give and serve and love from sunrise until sunset without ever growing weary or resentful.  I would find forgiveness easy.  

If I was writing my own life story, my family would never turn their back on me, my neighbors would be my best friends, my best friends would never let me down, complete strangers would make me smile each day.  My children would use their manners at all times and dress in the clothes I want them to wear and obey the first time I asked.  They would be thoughtful and helpful and grateful and joyful and make perfect grades.  And they would never track mud in the house. 

If I could write my life story, my husband would agree with everything I said.  He would keep his hair and his muscles and (just thinking ahead here) his libido.  We would parent as a team no matter what and fall more in love each day and retire early to a tropical island with a housekeeper and a chef and a masseuse at our beck and call.   

If I were writing my own story, there would be no sorrow.  There would be no illness.  There would be no sin.  There would be no death.  Which really means . . .

There would be no need for Jesus. 

You see, THAT is why God is writing our stories.  He wants us to know Jesus, because without Jesus, our stories can never end well.  Without Jesus, there are no happy endings.       

The best stories aren’t the perfect ones.  Those aren’t the page-turners that keep us up at night.  The best stories are the ones that take us on a wild journey we could never have predicted and might never have chosen – the ones that truly lead us somewhere important.  Somewhere we might not have planned to go.

The best stories have interesting characters.  The kind you can relate to and share life with because their imperfections are as glaring as your own – the husbands with receding hair lines who make you laugh so hard you cry, the children who forget to brush their teeth but remember you promised to bake cookies after school, the friends who reach out to help before you can even ask.   

The best stories come with unexpected twists and turns that leave you wondering what in the world the outcome could possibly be.  They have flawed people and bad timing and more mistakes than you can count.  They have selfishness and greed and envy and cancer.  Sometimes they have abuse.  Sometimes they have divorce.   Sometimes they have violence and corruption and war.  And they always have death.  They are hard.  They are messy.  They are ugly.  They are filled with pain.

And they are our stories . . . written by Him to point the way to our happy ending.  We simply have to keep reading, one chapter at a time, and remember that there is no better author for our life than the Author Of Life. 

God is not writing a story of perfection for me.  He is writing a story of purpose.  He wants my story to mean something.  He wants it to change me . . . to take me to the places He alone knows I need to go.  Most importantly, He wants it to lead to a happy ending . . . to Jesus.  Because God wants my story, and yours, to last for eternity. 

There are two reasons I know someone is trying to knock some sense into me.  Dream one and dream two.  Both in the same night.  Both causing me to wake up with my arms over my head in an attempt to protect myself from the enormous pieces of machinery coming towards me, while I lay cowering on the ground.  Because I have a son, I actually know the name of these demon machines that threatened to decapitate me in the middle of the night.  They were excavators, one gigantic and one just plain huge, one filled with sand and one filled with red clay.  Apparently, the attacks were occurring on Georgia soil.  

Two dreams in one night in which I was about to be clobbered in the head?  Sure seems to be clear evidence that someone is trying to knock some serious sense into me.  In this case, I believe that person is Jen Hatmaker. 

I desperately want to plagarize Jen Hatmaker because then you would think I was absolutely brilliant.  But alas, I'm not the plagarizing type, so my suggestion is you buy her books as soon as possible and read them yourselves.  Then, you too can have dreams about being frozen on the ground in the middle of an active construction site.  

Jen Hatmaker has me so stirred up I can barely sit still, or think straight, or complete a sentence.  You should see my list of things I want to write about – it’s a mile long and looks like someone on heavy drugs wrote it.  There is, however, one common theme on my rambling list of jumbled ideas – a single name that repeats over and over and over again. 

Jesus.

I know, I know.  I always seem to come back to that guy, don't I?  Trust me, I never thought I'd be that person.  I sin, and a lot of times, I enjoy it.  (If you're doubting my deep need for a Savior, I should probably inform you that Adam and I were trying to come up with something fun for the Elf to do a few nights ago, and the first thought I had involved naked Barbies, Cool Whip, and an empty box of . . . like I said, I sin, and sometimes, I giggle while doing it.)  Despite my sinful nature, I always believed God was the one writing my story, and for whatever reason, in the last few years He's encouraged me to make sure my story points to Him.

Of course, it is almost Christmas.  Jesus should be on my mind, right?  I mean, this is his time to shine.  This is the season when he actually gets to occupy some shelf space.  You might even see him in storefronts and on catalog covers right now.  He'll be the tiny one - the baby lying in a feeding trough in the middle of a barn, because that's where kings are born when hotels are filled to capacity. 

The thing is, I keep seeing Jesus and thinking about Jesus and reading books by Jen Hatmaker about Jesus, but I don't understand why I can't get the fellow out of my head.  Sure, he looks cute in his manger, but my mind isn't racing with images of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, although I'd gladly trade my two big kids in for one right now since a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes wouldn't expect an elf to perform G rated magical feats in the middle of EVERY. FREAKING. NIGHT. IN. DECEMBER. 

All cuteness aside, baby Jesus isn't the one consuming my thoughts.  Instead, it's the Jesus of Easter I'm thinking about.  I'm way ahead on the calendar and completely off on my holidays.  Can I put a bunny on the top of my Christmas tree, because I can't stop thinking about the grown-up Jesus.  The one who performed miracles to prove he was the son of God. The one who provided instructions on exactly how we should live. The one who took every bit of my sin - all of it - and died on a cross to and wash it away forever.

Do I remember they are one and the same - the baby lying in the manger next to farm animals and the man who gave me freedom?  When I'm running around in circles planning and decorating and buying and buying and buying and wrapping and addressing and mailing . . . do I remember that the baby I'm celebrating became a man?  A man who loved me so much he willingly gave his life as a ransom for mine.

As I write the words . . . I know.  I know they are the reason I'm dodging excavators in the middle of the night.  It's not because of Jen Hatmaker.  She's a great writer and I highly recommend her books and blog, but she's not the reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus. 

The reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus is because his Father is after my heart.  In the midst of all my Christmas preparations and holiday busyness, God is whispering sweet reminders in my ear.  As I rush around trying to check off every item on my December to-do list, He wants to make sure I know . . . really know . . . how much he loves me.  And all I have to do to know how much God loves me, is look at Jesus.

The one sleeping between the cow and the donkey.

The one who became a carpenter and a man.

The one who lived, and died, to save me.

To save you. 

To save the world.   




 

She said it matter-of-factly and the words themselves held no meaning. Still, they rocked my world.

I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself.  But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.

"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."

The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.

It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.

A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.

I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.

Please God. Please give me a daughter.

God answered that prayer with Libby.

She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.

My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.

I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.

My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.

My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.

My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .

She's just more.

I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.

I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?

I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.

Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.

Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.

Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.

I’ve lied to my children. I would love to meet a mother who hasn’t, but still, it’s tough to teach the value of honesty when you’ve looked your kid in the eyes and told him that, yes indeed, a pacifier fairy really did fly through his window in the middle of the night because she knew he was ready to go to sleep without his favorite security item. Lying to my child in order to force him to take a developmental leap I deemed necessary probably isn't quality parenting.

There have been plenty of little lies throughout the years as well.

“No, honey, we can’t go to the ice skating rink because, ummmm, it’s closed today.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, we can’t buy that new toy because I only brought enough money to the store to buy the other thirty things in our shopping cart."

"Why yes, love, I do think you look beautiful with six bows in your hair and pink lipstick smeared all over your face.”

I justify the inaccurate statements I make to my children in the hopes of building their self-confidence, or protecting them, or letting them down easily, or getting out of a public place without causing an embarrassing meltdown, or . . . or maybe just because I’m too chicken to deal with the ramifications my honesty might bring. I want my children to understand what it means to have restraint, but I don’t always know how to handle their reaction when I deny the instant gratification they crave. I want them to know they don’t have to go somewhere special to have a great time, but I struggle to find pleasure in the ordinary myself some days. I want my kids to be able to find the magic of life, but I’m not sure how much of it I should create for them and when to let reality settle in.

There have been bigger deceptions in my almost nine year stint as a mother as well. Like most American children, I loved the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus when I was a child, and I’ve enjoyed passing down their unique traditions to my own son and daughter. But as Christmas approaches this year and my children are now eight and six, I'm beginning to wonder, at what point do I put a stop to the sham? I received gifts from “Santa” on Christmas morning when I was a college student and thought it was great fun. Still, do I want to continue in this manner with my own kids?

I’ve received all kinds of advice on how to handle the beginning of the end; the moment when your child begins to realize you have tricked him into playing along with a con involving a large bearded man sliding down a chimney while his eight flying reindeer wait on the roof. ?????

Some suggest it’s best to use the old ‘you gotta believe to receive’ adage. I like that one. It doesn’t spill the beans, but it doesn’t come right out and deliver a blatant lie either.

Some people turn the question around when they begin to notice a child having the doubts of a non-believer. “Well honey, who do you think puts the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve?” I like that one too. It encourages critical thinking without incorporating any admission of dishonesty on the part of the parent.

Many people can tell you about the exact moment they learned Santa Claus wasn't real, and some claim is was a devastating event in their lives. I think I suspected long before I truly knew, but either way, I don't remember being significantly upset when I became certain my parents were the ones delivering gifts on Christmas Eve. I think it didn't matter because, regardless of who was doing the actual delivering, I was thrilled to wake up on Christmas day and find packages under the tree with my name on them. Santa or no Santa, I bubbled over with excitement every Christmas Eve, rushing downstairs before the sun came up each Christmas morning. It was ALWAYS my favorite day of the year.

My son is very logical. I could see his wheels turning even before he started kindergarten when his dad and I would tell him about Santa and sleighs and chimneys. He just wasn't buying it. He had lots of questions. Good ones. And I found it tough to come up with explanations that satisfied his skepticism.

After a couple years, Charlie's questions about Santa Claus stopped. Some of my friends think my son decided to believe in Santa despite his doubts. Honestly, I think he just decided to go along with the idea of Santa because his parents weren't leaving him any other choice. I think Charlie knows his dad and I are the ones leaving presents for him and his sister on Christmas Day, and frankly, I'm okay with that. In fact, part of me wants to come right out and confirm his suspicions. Then we can let him get in on the fun of being on the other side of the charade.

I think the reason I'm not distressed about my son's status as a Santa believer has to do with the fact that I have some real concerns about the deceptions we feed our children in the name of good holiday fun. I have concerns that there is real potential for the magical characters of childhood to weaken the case of God.

Whoa. Now that’s serious. You didn't think I was going that deep, did you? Neither did I, but hey, it's good to get out of the shallow end every once in a while, don't you think?

I know it sounds a little nuts, but stick with me for a minute.

Is it possible we're setting our kids up to question the existence of God by putting money under their pillows every time they lose a tooth?

If you think about it, children are likely to put God in the same realm as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. In fact, they might even place God somewhere below such fictional characters, because they can actually sit on Santa’s lap every year. They can talk to him at the mall and receive letters from him in the mail and see the evidence of his existence when they open their eyes to a room full of new goodies every Christmas morning.

What about God? He's not hanging around handing out candy canes in parking lots every December.

We try to explain God's important characteristics to our children with examples, both verbal and physical. We read books about God, tell Bible stories about Him, listen to songs about Him, and pray to Him. Yet, in many homes, God is just a person kids know about because they hear His name mentioned now and again when somebody sneezes.

When I visualize heaven, I think of streets paved in shimmering gold. I picture every flower, tree, and bush of spring blooming at the exact same time. I see layers upon layers of open petals; the bright yellow forsythia has a towering backdrop of pale pink cherry trees, bright pink red buds, and white Dogwoods, while tulips, daffodils, pansies, and violas burst forth in flaming pastels from all directions. I imagine a luminous light reflecting every color in the spectrum so everything around me is exquisitely warm and cheery. I hear angels making the most beautiful music I’ve ever known, music from every instrument harmonizing together to create a constant, fluid melody that rings in my ears and echoes in my soul.

When my kids think about heaven, do they imagine the same glorious splendor of sights and sounds and emotions that I do . . . or are they picturing a workshop filled with toys at the top of the North Pole?

My son hasn't come right out and asked me if Santa Claus is real. I'm not sure he ever will. If he does, I'm sure I'll dodge the question with something about Santa being the symbol of the Christmas spirit, which is most definitely real in those who choose to make it a part of their lives during the holiday season, and hopefully, every day of the year. Or maybe I'll tell him the story of Nicholas, who was born during the third century and raised to care for and help others, especially children. Back then, and still in many places today, he became known as Saint Nicholas - you see where this leads, right?

As long as my son isn't asking me any direct questions about Santa, however, I'm going to keep my mouth shut. I'm going to wrap all his gifts in paper he's never seen. I'm going to make sure he leaves cookies and milk by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. I'm going to be amazed at the treasures in his stocking on Christmas morning. And when the holidays are over and the jolly man has resumed his post on top of the world, I'll stop talking about Santa Claus and how wonderful he is at Christmas time, and instead, I'll tell my son about God, and how wonderful He is ALL THE TIME.

I won’t forget the crisp sound of the slap as their hands met in the air. It was the sound of understanding. A surprising moment of connection, not just of flesh but of hearts; an unspoken agreement between two strangers who, for a moment at least, identified completely with one another.



They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.



One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.



I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.



I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.



I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.

And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.