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.  

My Lent Project: Day 26

Instead of giving UP something for Lent, I’m giving THANKS for the many blessings of life.  Here’s what I’m feeling incredibly thankful for today . . .


An entire morning with nothing on the calendar.


The birds singing.


The return of the warm weather uniform.


A 75 degree day ahead.


A walk on the golf course with my sweet husband.


The Chattahoochee River.


Grass that's turning green.


Tall pines.


Running into friends while running errands.


50% off at Hobby Lobby.


Another walk on the golf course with a good friend.


Her happiness about leading the prayer on the morning announcements.


Wonderful comments about our boy.


Colorful braces.


Honey lime tilapia.


Strawberry balsamic vinegar.


An awesome catch in left field.


A double play.


Remembering.


Jesus, who was pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our sins.

Every Day (And Twice On Sundays)

I don’t think my friend intended to be profound when she made the comment she did.  She’s far too humble to think of herself as someone who makes important statements on a regular basis, though she does, with both ease and grace.  Still, her comment struck me in such a way that I’ve thought about it every day since. 

We were in my kitchen surrounded by other women, sipping wine and sharing summer stories.  Our conversation turned to houses, and I began complaining about the fact that I can’t seem to find contentment in my house no matter what.  I always see the things I want to change and I’m constantly striving to make our home more beautiful, more updated, more functional.  I want every single part of my home to be perfect, but I don’t have the budget to do everything I’d like to do, and even the things I can do can’t be done all at once.  So our refinished floors looked great for a few years while we saved up to renovate our bathroom, and now our master bath looks awesome but our hardwoods need to be ripped out and replaced.  I told my friend I couldn’t understand why God wasn’t providing the contentment I’d been asking him to provide.  I was being sarcastic . . . sort of. And she responded, in her always calm, sweet, and empathetic way, “I know, I know.  It’s a daily renewal, isn’t it?”

A daily renewal.

Daily.  As in . . . every day.

I pray for many things every day, but they usually have to do with the health, safety, and happiness of my family and friends.  Sure, I throw out frequent requests about my desire to feel content in my circumstances, but although I know God cares about my desires – hard to deny that when he gave his one and only son to have a relationship with me – I find it hard to believe he wants to hear about my wish to walk by the chipped travertine in our laundry room without cringing.

The thing is . . . God sees that chipped travertine too, and he knows it bothers me.  I’m guessing he could easily fix it in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and boy wouldn’t I be able to testify that GOD ANSWERS PRAYERS to all those other perfectionists in the world who get the Houzz.com weekly email update and save dozens of photographs to their idea book and who knows how many homeowners and contractors and interior decorators would come to Jesus after they heard my story?!?!?!

Of course, that’s not how God works.  He performs miracles every day . . . every second, in fact, if we just take a look around . . . but repairing tile flooring at 2 am is not likely on his list of miraculous to-dos.

You see, God doesn’t want me to ask Him for help with something that’s bothering me every once in a while.  He doesn’t want me to ask for forgiveness or patience or happiness or contentment or a stainless steel French door refrigerator when the mood strikes me.  God wants to me to come to him every single day for every single thing. 

Daily renewal.

What God wants most is to show us how much he loves us, to show us he is always by our sides, to show us his unrelenting care and concern for our lives.  And since he knew we were sinners and sending his son to die on a cross for our sins wouldn’t be enough to completely convince us of all those things, he designed us with a deep yearning to be in a constant relationship with him.  A relationship of daily renewal.

We can’t simply need God when we’re feeling low.  We can’t need him just when we get stuck or sick or find ourselves in the midst of suffering.  And it’s not enough to go to him only in thanksgiving.  We can’t call out to God simply to praise him for the blessings in our lives when they seem abundant.  

God wants ALL of us, ALL the time. 

He wants to hear from me when I’m low.  He wants to hear from me when I’m stuck or sick or suffering.  He wants to hear from me when all I can do is worship him for his glorious splendor and goodness and mercy and grace.  He even wants to hear from me when I’m asking him, AGAIN, for contentment in a home that doesn’t have the kitchen of my dreams.

When we go to God for daily renewal . . . when we let go of our pride and our busyness and our need to control . . . when we kneel before Him and fully surrender. . . that’s when we share with him our desire to let him work in our lives.  To change our hearts.  To transform us into the people we are meant to be.  People who choose peace and radiate joy.  People who serve others and create love.  

People who reflect Him.

Every day.

 

Romans 12:2

. . . be transformed by the renewing of your mind . . .

Off to Camp

It certainly wasn’t his typical stomping grounds.  In fact, it wasn’t typical stomping grounds for any of the over-privileged children that fill my life, and his.  Like most of the mothers I know, I’m doing my best to help my son understand just how blessed we are, but that doesn’t make him any less over-privileged.  The wealth of suburban America surrounds the child in every direction – at the private school he attends, in his upper middle class neighborhood where all the kitchens have been updated and every two-car garage is filled to capacity, at the country club where he sits in a chair beside an Olympic sized pool and complains because there isn’t anyone to play with.  The majority of Charlie’s life experiences have taken place among well-manicured lawns and people with full bellies and fuller pocketbooks.  This is neither responsible nor right, but it is reality.  So, as I said, this wasn’t his typical stomping grounds.

There was more dirt than grass, and weeds . . . lots of them.  There was a faded tennis court with a rusty fence.  There was a lake with leaves littering its surface.  There were cracked sidewalks, worn out buildings, and a dining hall in serious need of a paint job.  And in his cabin, the one with the bathroom that hadn’t seen a can of Lysol in months and the mattresses that might actually have been purchased before my own mother was born, there was a hole at least the size of a small raccoon in the window (aka screen).

This was camp.  And I was leaving him there for a week.

Letting go isn’t one of my strengths.  People with OCD like to have control of everything, especially our children.  I realize I’m losing control at a rapid pace as my son ages, and honestly, I’ve never really had the control I deem so vital in our parent-child relationship.  It’s been an illusion from the start and continues to fade with every act of independence he takes.  Still, Charlie is over ten years old and I’ve never spent an entire week away from him.  And while I understand it’s not a loss of control that makes each day he’s gone feel so bizarre, the not knowing is still wreaking havoc on my heart.   Seven days of not knowing what he’s doing or eating or saying.  Seven days of not knowing what time he went to sleep and woke up, whether he was polite to adults, if he wore sunscreen, washed his hands, brushed his teeth. 

He didn’t look back when we left him.  I did, over and over, wishing I could hear what he was saying to his friend as they walked towards cabin number six.  There was no reason for him to turn around.  We had said our good-byes, given our hugs, declared our love, offered our reminders.

He was ready, excited.  He was the one who had initiated this life event after all, two years in the making since the first time he asked to attend sleep away camp.  I declined then, immediately, silently making ridiculous promises to God if he would just make sure my child never asked to leave again.  God denied my request.  He knew I could never keep the promises.  He also knew that even if I could, it wasn’t what he wanted for me anyway.  What he wanted was to provide a lesson in letting go. 

There have been many such lessons along the way.  There will be many more ahead.  They are the hardest lessons I’ve ever had to learn.

He didn’t look back when we left him.  He smiled and gestured, not the least bit disillusioned by the weeds, the cracks, the holes.  I held back tears as the space between us grew, have every day since, especially at night, when the house feels all wrong because one family member is missing from under its roof.

He will walk away again.  He is much better at this letting go thing than I am, and while it pricks my heart with the knowledge that his leaving has forever been inevitable, I am thankful.  Because although it’s a difficult prayer to lift up to the only One who is in control, I know it’s the right prayer for a mother . . . and I will continue to say it every time my child leaves.

May the Lord be with you as you go, my sweet son.  May you go with a smile.  May you go with a friend.  And may you go with complete certainty that the path you are on is the right one, so that you never, ever have to look back.
 

1 Thessalonians 5:17  Pray without ceasing.

It's one of the shortest verses in the entire Bible.   And despite my inability to fully comprehend many of the things in the Bible, this one's about as straight forward as it gets.  Still, all I can say about it is . . . you can NOT be serious.

Pray without ceasing.  Are you kidding me?  Do you know how many things I cease to do each day?  The list is long, my friends, I assure you.  And I’m not all that great at praying.  I do it frequently, as in many times a day, but no one would ever classify me as a prayer warrior.  Those people can pray.  They can recite Bible verses like I can recite old Madonna songs.  They can sit with their heads bowed interceding on behalf of others for hours.  They know exactly which name of God to call on for every situation.  Their words are flowing and beautiful and Spirit-filled. 

My prayers, while numerous, are a lot less meaningful.  My prayers go something like this:

“Lord, please let Charlie score a basket in the second half.”

“Lord, please help Libby do her own hair in a way that convinces people she really does have an adult living in the home with her .”

“Lord, please turn me into a C cup.” 

Just kidding with that last one.  I gave up on the God of chest size a long time ago.

I’m a bit more intentional when I pray at night, lying in bed next to my husband who has fallen asleep exactly 3.2 seconds after putting his head on the pillow.  I pray for the safety and health of my family and friends.  I pray for people I know who are sick and hurting.  I pray for my husband’s career.  I pray Charlie and Libby will be good friends and make good friends.  I pray for their future college roommates and their future spouses and their future children and grandchildren. 

These are all good prayers, I guess, and they're important to me, so I know without a doubt they are important to God.  But what if I’m not taking this whole prayer thing seriously?  What if my inability to call myself a prayer warrior is really evidence that I doubt God’s ability to truly move in people’s hearts?  To change me?  To transform the world?  Our God is a God of miracles, after all.  Yet, I’m not asking for miracles.  I’m so focused on my own little life and the lives of the people in my immediate circle that I never stop to ask for the REALLY big things. 

In Ephesians 3:20, it says, "To Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think . . ."

How incredibly beautiful is that verse.  

Why do I so often forget the power of God and his infinite capability?  God can do ANYTHING.  He can do the most amazing things . . . things I never even dreamed of asking Him to do.

Wow. 

The new year has begun, and like most people, I have a lengthy list of resolutions for 2013.  I want to relax more.  I want to read more.  I want to smile more and serve more and save more and I want to provide my husband with more meals that don't involve a blender (I'm afraid smoothies have become a frequent dinner choice around these parts lately).  I also want to pray with more purpose.  I want to remember what God can do, and pray with a more far-reaching mentality.  Because there are a whole lot of people in this great big world who need God's awesomeness and power.  There are a whole lot of communities and countries and continents that need me to remember just how much God can do. 

In Matthew 19:26, Jesus said, " . . . with God all things are possible."

This year, I want to remember the possibilities. 

This year, I want my prayers to go from "Lord, please let me make this green light" to "Lord, I could really go for some world peace."   

It’s worth a try . . . don’t ya think?

James 1:6   But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.

I recognized the emotion instantly, but it didn’t signal the typical dropping of shoulders and continuation of breath.  Instead, it coursed through my veins like a poison, making me twist in shame at my own ugliness.

There were other emotions mixed in.  Deep sadness.  Grave concern.  An intense desire to do something that might help.  Still, the most intense feeling wasn’t despair or worry or the need to assist.  My strongest emotion was the worst one imaginable.  It was relief.

Relief.

A mother announces to the world that her child has cancer.  The child is about the same age as my oldest child.  The relief was overwhelming.  It disgusts me to recall the way it poured over and into and through me like a wave.  I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat as I’m reminded just how flawed I truly am.

I know the mother of this child with cancer, not well, but we would likely hug one another if we happened to be in the same place at the same time.   We would chat about our lives and our kids and our plans.  Three months ago, those plans involved tennis lessons and swim meets and summer vacations.  Today, my plans remain unchanged.  For the other mother, nothing is the same.  She’s no longer filling out camp applications and buying endless amounts of sunscreen for the hot, humid weeks ahead.  Today, that mother’s world revolves around chemotherapy and impossible decisions and life-changing surgery.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can almost understand why this family has been chosen to walk such a difficult road.  They are shining lights in a dim world.  They are amazing examples of what it means to believe in God, to lean on Christ, to spread the truth.  I have no doubt this family’s story will make a positive impact for months and years and generations to come.  Of course, I imagine this family can’t see things from my perspective. They are staggering through this deep, treacherous valley, while I stand securely on top of a hill.

When the announcement came, I wept.  I wept for the ten-year-old child whose world had been shattered into a million unknown pieces.  I wept for her father and her little brothers and sister.  I wept for other children like her who, at this very moment, are experiencing fear and pain and grief no child should ever know.  Most of all, I wept for her mother, who would have to try and pick up the pieces of a life drastically altered, and slowly put them back together in some way that might make sense.    

I’ve prayed for the ten-year-old child.  I’ve prayed for her father and her siblings.  I’ve prayed for healing and health and comfort and encouragement for the months and years of adjustment that lie ahead.  I’ve prayed this child and her family will never have to walk through such a terrifying valley again.  Most of all, I’ve prayed for the child’s mother.  I’ve prayed that one day, when the chemotherapy is over and the surgery is long past, she will wake up one morning and find peace restored in her heart . . .  and she will see the transformed dreams as a perfect plan meant to be fulfilled from the very beginning.  

And after I pray each day for this precious family in the midst of this dreadful battle, I pray for forgiveness.  I pray that God will take my damaged soul and turn it into something good . . . something not so broken . . . something more like Him.  I pray that God will help me become a person who isn’t so selfish, who doesn’t always think of herself first, who loves others as He did. I pray that the next time I hear of a child suffering, the first thing I think won’t be, thank God it’s not my child.

Acts 3:19 "Repent therefore and return, that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord;

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.

It was one of those mornings. You know the kind. Before the clock had even struck seven, I was already cursing motherhood.

It should have been a great morning. We love Wednesdays in our house. The kids have what they call "late arrival" at their school, which means they have to be there at 9 am instead of 8 am. If your school doesn't know about this late arrival idea, I encourage you to bring it up. You might even want to start a petition or, honestly, a picket line. Late arrival is that good. I don't know how to explain the greatness of a sixty-minute schedule adjustment other than to say that is's a perfectly timed change of pace, a blissful way to reach the middle of the week. I'm sure it's even more blissful in some homes because there are probably children in the world who are capable of sleeping past 6:45 in the morning. Unfortunately, I don't live with such children. Still, our family looks forward to late arrival Wednesdays.

Why? 

One word . . .

Breakfast.

On Wednesdays, mommy bakes.
I try to feed my kids healthy foods like the rest of you well-meaning parents out there. They eat a lot of high fiber cereal in the mornings, with almond milk for the protein, of course. Sometimes they have Greek yogurt and bagels. My daughter has even been known to go for a cheese stick and some applesauce before school.

But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we have an extra hour of prep time on account of the fact that my kids get up at the same time every morning regardless of their school's schedule, or their parents' for that matter. On Wednesdays, we can make waffles and pancakes and blueberry muffins and, if daddy is up for it, his famous French toast. I even throw a little flax seed and protein powder in whatever we make just to ease the guilt over the amount of sugar I'm allowing my children to consume before they begin their day.

So this Wednesday started out like the others, with plans for baked goods. Only mama had an inspiration. You see, the night before, when daddy was putting Charlie to bed, he issued his usual Tuesday evening reminder.

"Now remember son, tomorrow is late arrival so you can sleep late."

Hey, you can't blame us for trying, can you?

Charlie's response, however, had nothing to do with sleep.

"Yay! I love late arrival. What is mommy going to bake for us?"

Well . . . when my husband told me what Charlie had said, my chest got all puffy with mama pride. You know that feeling too, don't you? It makes your heart swell and sing and feel as if it's lifting right out of your chest with unbridled happiness. As my heart lifted, I decided I would make something extra special for my kids the following morning. Forget the waffles. I would surprise my children with something new, something exciting, something they would swoon over. And so I jumped out of bed on Wednesday morning and headed straight for the oven to begin preheating.

The kids came downstairs a few minutes later and did what they always do. They headed straight for our bed and climbed in to snuggle with their dad so I could go through my morning routine - turning on the coffee maker, emptying the dishwasher, transferring laundry. But this morning, I put the routine on hold and got right to work on my baked goods.

My plan wasn't unique, I assure you. I just rolled out some canned biscuits, coated them with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and topped each one with a chocolate chip. I popped them in the oven before the kids emerged from their snuggling session (which, as usual, had turned into a wrestling session) and eagerly anticipated the smiles on the faces of my kids when they discovered what chef mom had made for breakfast on this late arrival Wednesday.

And then, in all it's impossible glory, motherhood came calling.

"What's for breakfast mama?" He grinned as he walked towards the kitchen and saw the oven light shining like a sweet beacon.

"How about we have muffins, mom?" Her grin was just as wide, right before she put her thumb back in her mouth.
"Well kids, we're going to have something different today."

As I turned to face my offspring, the smile on my face was, by far, the biggest of all. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

The grumbling was both immediate and intense. It sounded a lot like this, only in stereo because the words were tumbling out of the mouths of BOTH my children at the same time.

"I don't want anything new because I wan't waffles or blueberry muffins because it's Wednesday and we always have something good and I don't want something I've never tried before and it's probably something I won't even like because it's not waffles or blueberry muffins and why can't we just have something we love like waffles or muffins because it's Wednesday."

The heart that had been raised in gratitude for almost twelve hours sunk like lead in my chest.

They presisted with the complaints and I decided to go the ignoring route. It seemed my only option as I knew I couldn't convince my kids that the baked goods in the oven were sure to knock their socks off. They did, in fact, knock their socks off. They ate all but two. Still, the tone of the morning had been set. My kids were ungrateful and I was pissed off about it.

We made it through the extra hour that late arrival Wednesday, but only by the grace of the God whose wisdom I was secretly questioning the entire time. And the moment I dropped my kids off in the carpool line at a quarter to nine, the tears began to fall. My mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy.

How can I be doing such a terrible job? What kind of mother raises kids who are so rude? How can I be such a failure when I'm trying so hard?

I didn't say anything to the kids that afternoon or evening about how tough my day had been because of their bad attitudes that morning. I wasn't quite ready to have those conversations about being open to new experiences and treating people with respect and being thankful to have food on their plates every day when millions of people all over the world do not. Those are big conversations. Conversations I've already had with my children on numerous occasions. Conversations I'll likely need to have with them a dozen more times . . . this month alone. I just couldn't muster up the strength that afternoon. I was spent. I was hurt. I was defeated. I was sure it wouldn't matter anyway.

I put them to bed the way I always do. With books and prayers and cuddles and the phrase I say a dozen times a day but which seemed to come out a little less smoothly that particular night.

"I love you."

And when I got into my own bed a short while later, the prayers poured.

Dear God, please help me. Please help me love my children when they act unlovable. Please help me have patience with my children when they try my patience. Please help me know what to say when my children say things they shouldn't. Please help me model the attitudes and actions I want my children to emulate when their attitudes and actions upset me.

I could feel my anger dissolving, my sadness dissipating with each whispered prayer.

After the events of the day, I was certain of two things . . .

My children weren't always listening.

God was.

I slept well that night. And the next Wednesday . . . I made waffles.