Sign Me Up For Next Summer

There were years of my life when I looked forward to summer.  Decades, in fact.  I attended elementary school, middle school, high school, and college, and then taught kindergarten for seven years.  Summer?  Yes, please. 

Now, I have two children, and in the name of brutal honesty . . . summer isn’t what it used to be folks.

When my kids were in preschool, summer lasted almost half the year.  The kids got out of preschool in May and went back in September, and all those months in between - the ones where it’s too hot to go outside unless you’re within ten steps of a large body of water – well, they grew and stretched and became so daunting to fill that making it to nap time every day felt like a major life accomplishment.  The days were never ending and the hours spent in a constant re-creation of those that came previously.  I can distinctly remember staring down at a particular puzzle one steamy July day (a cute and very educational puzzle in fact), and wanting nothing more than to tear every piece of it into ten zillion shreds, each one representing the number of days left until I could drop both of my children off at the same place for three whole hours and do WHATEVER I WANTED.  We still have that puzzle.  I fully intend to put it together with my grandchildren one day.  And by one day, I mean ONE day.  Not every day, ten times a day, while the sun beats down and the temperatures rise and the preschool doors remain locked and bolted with a sign screaming “HA, now see what a good mom you are lady!”

Our family enjoyed some great summers in more recent years.  Ones I even called ‘relaxing.’  The kids were no longer preschoolers and had learned (on occasion) to do the one thing preschoolers won’t – entertain themselves.  Of course, that usually meant a lot of clean-up for mom, but hey, washing a dozen towels that were used to make a fort in the basement was a small price to pay for an entire sixty minutes of uninterrupted quiet. Charlie and Libby played well together, and the days didn’t drag on as they once had.  They could swim by themselves and read books in their rooms and watch educational television shows when it rained.  The three of us could do fun activities together – play board games and bake bread and hike through the woods in our backyard.  We could even tackle the everyday tasks of living - taking two children to run errands was no longer a chore – we could have interesting chats in the car and the kids were helpful at the grocery store.  We all enjoyed the down time summer provided.  My son and daughter found refuge in lazy mornings spent lounging in pajamas, and I found the absence of structure a lovely change from the busy pace of the school year.

This summer, however, we’ve turned a corner, and the road we’re currently meandering down . . . it has not a relaxing thing about it.  

There are many little reasons this summer will not rank up there with my favorites - I've been sick, Libby's been sick, we've had some extended family issues, we didn't go on vacation, our dryer had to be replaced, our undermount sink is falling out of the granite (????) -  but there are several big ones that have really had an impact.  The first . . . the ten year-old boy and the seven year-old girl I live with?  Yea, they don’t have much in common these days.  Charlie has clearly decided his masculinity can no longer tolerate playing baby dolls and Libby has zero interest in learning to catch a lacrosse ball.  There is a HUGE difference of opinion on what constitutes fun around here this summer, and it translates into lots of “Moooommmmmm, there’s nothing to doooooooooo.”  I came up with what seemed like a great solution - I had both kids make a list of all the fun things they could choose to do when they couldn’t find anything to do.  Y’all, they spent more time making their lists than they have doing ANYTHING on them.

The second reason our summer is creeping by has to do with the fact that my children no longer consider hanging with mom a desirable activity.  When I ask my kids to go to the grocery store, it’s as though I’ve asked to give them a hundred shots in sixty seconds.  Their arms flail and their faces contort and the sounds that come out of their mouths as they contemplate a forty-five minute excursion to buy food they will eat for the next few days is nothing short of hilarious.  At least it would be if I didn’t have to then force them into the car to make that forty-five minute round trip because, hey, food is kind of a necessity.  I don’t know what is going on at my local Publix, but apparently, the employees are finding a way to torture my children behind my cart as I stroll through the aisles. Not to mention the fact that any and all car rides have become my own form of torture, and since passing the time with mom is no longer a valid option for my kids, I have spent the majority of this summer carting them around to the many places they want to go.  I drive all over town while they sit in the back seat and tell me the music I listen to is awful, I drive too slow, and my car is boring.  Good times, my friends . . . good times.    

The third reason summer sorta sucks (sorry, I said there would be brutal honesty), can be summed up in one word that has never been discussed so much by Atlanta residents as it has in the last few months.  WEATHER.  I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.  I got a puppy, and since then, it’s rained.  It’s rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and there are muddy paw prints all over my kitchen every day of every week and the backyard is like soup and the pool is always closed because of thunder and the fireworks on July 4^th had to be rescheduled for the first time in my entire life and for the love of all things hot and sunny WHEN IT IS EVER GOING TO STOP RAINING?????????????????

The fourth reason our summer has been a bust is also my fault.  My usually adept planning skills failed me this year.  My brain was not functioning properly as I prepared for the summer months, because I neglected to schedule even one day in which both my children would be occupied with activities that didn’t include me.  I wanted some one-on-one time with each child this summer.  “They’re just growing so fast,” I told my family and friends, “I don’t get enough time with them during the school year."  Yep.  I said that.  All my fault.  Both kids did attend camps in June.  They just never went at the same time.  NEVER.  One of my children has been with me almost every minute of the summer - talking, needing, begging at high decibels for me to fill his or her time with the most exciting activities ever created while avoiding any and all trips to the grocery store.  Trust me.  I will not let this happen again.  One-on-one time is overrated.

There is a final reason I’m not diggin’ the summer of 2013.  It is a device with a name.  The name starts with an ‘I’ and ends with a ‘Pad’ and I want to kill it.  I want to strangle it and mangle it and destroy it.  I literally daydream about running the thing down with my car – back and forth, over and over again like it’s a venomous five foot snake in the driveway threatening the existence of my offspring.

Parenting is hard, y’all.  My children are the greatest joys in my life, but they are also the greatest challenges.  They have brought more smiles than I will ever be able to count, but the tears they’ve brought are almost as plentiful.  There is only so much energy a mom has.  Only so much patience and enthusiasm and courage to do the right thing even when it’s not the easy thing.  And if there was ever an invention that has made parenting more difficult, it is the invention of the ‘I’ _____ (fill in the blank with whatever ‘I’ device your children constantly want to use no matter how many times you’ve told them no). 

Please don’t tell me about all the great educational games the IPad has to offer.  My kids don’t want to play those games.  They are old enough to know that math problems are not fun just because you can solve them on a touch screen.  And yes, I know all about the parental controls and firewalls you can set up on your ‘I’ devices - we’ve done that.  Our kids know our own rules as well, in case you were about to mention the idea of setting limits.  Basically, they’re only allowed to use the IPad to play useless games that interfere with quality family time and promote the need for instant gratification.  We don’t allow Charlie and Libby to use the IPad without asking or to take it to their rooms.  We don’t allow them to do searches of any kind or peruse UTube.  We don’t allow them to text their grandparents or cousins without permission, or have email or Instagram accounts.  They aren’t allowed to download games or music without talking to us about it first. 

But here's the thing . . . it doesn’t matter how many parameters we set or how diligent we are in monitoring our children, our attempt to control their exposure will never take away the fact that when you hand your child a machine that provides them with access to the entire world, you can never fully relax when they are holding it.  And you can count on their desire to hold it as often as possible.    

Well.  There you have it, friends.  The doom and gloom of my summer just came crashing down all over your lemonade stand.  Please forgive me.

Next year, summer will be different.  Next year, I will lower my expectations when it comes to sibling rivalry.  Next year, I will plan camps that coincide.  Next year, I will vacation in Seattle for the sunny weather, do all my grocery shopping on weekends, and secretly tamper with all ‘I’ chargers so the IPad hovers at 0% power.  Next year, summer will be absolutely amazing, and one month from now, when the alarm has to be set every morning, the homework has to be completed every night, and I miss my kids terribly because they are gone every day, I’ll be counting down the months until summer 2014 arrives. 

Until then, I'm going to rest on this verse from James 1: 

Consider it pure joy, brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know the testing of your faith produces perseverance.

 I look forward to having perseverance, Lord.  Thank you for testing my faith this summer.  Thank you for allowing me to be home with my children even when I'd rather be anywhere else.  Thank you for the life-giving rain.  Thank you for the incredible blessings of an automobile to get us where we want to go and the financial ability to purchase food.  Thank you, Lord for providing trials that might one day make me more like You.  I love you.

P.S.  If you could make all 'I' devices all over the planet simultaneously disintegrate today, that would be fabulous.:)  Amen.

Happy Independence Day

Freedom. 

It’s a word filled with meaning in a world with too little of what it means. It’s a word that conjures images of eagles soaring, soldiers standing at attention, the stars and stripes blowing in the breeze.  In America, ‘freedom’ is a word we claim to understand, actively acknowledge, and openly celebrate.  And yet, the freedom we enjoy, and so easily take for granted, is not true freedom.

The freedom we experience in the United States is awesome and grand and splendid and humbling.  It’s an honor and a privilege and has forever depended on the sacrifice of hundreds of thousands of men and women.  It springs from the undeniable bravery of human beings we will never meet wielding weapons we will never see.  And I am grateful.  I am grateful we can choose our spouses and our jobs and our homes and our lives.  I’m grateful we can say what we feel, vote for the leaders we deem worthy, decide what is best for our families, worship in safety.  I am grateful for the mother who leaves her young children to fight for me on the other side of the world.  I am grateful for the young man who leaves his parents and his college and his easy opportunities to battle with a nation who hates everything I love.  I am grateful for those who volunteer to labor in frightening, faraway lands so I may wake up each morning to peace.  I am grateful.

And yet, this freedom . . . it is not true freedom.  True freedom doesn’t come from the power and might and resolve and courage of a thousand armies of men willing to give up their lives in the name of patriotism and protection.  True freedom comes only from the One who gave up His life in my name, and in yours.

Thank you to those men and women, past and present, who provide me with the blessing of freedom on earth today.

And thank you, Jesus, for dying on the cross so I could be free forever.

My chains are gone,

I've been set free,

My God, my Savior,

Has ransomed me,

And like a flood,

His mercy reigns,

Unending love,

Amazing grace.

 

Happy 4th of July!!!

 

 

 

 

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.
 

Happy Mother's Day

It’s only been ten years since I became a mother, but in that most significant decade of my life – the one where every word and deed became about someone else – in that most demanding and magnificent and beautiful decade of my life, what I’ve learned is that motherhood is often about loss. 

You lose your body first.  It begins to feel all wrong and look completely different and defy everything you once believed about what it must mean to carry another human being inside of you.  You shop for maternity clothes and feel the flutters and you can’t imagine ever being happier, while deep within, things are changing that can never be reversed.  The miracle of life, of God creating a son or daughter who bears His very image, has taken over.  Your body has done just what God meant it to, and it will never be the same.

A pregnancy goes by and then, that very image of God, that precious son or daughter arrives in a rush of fear and pain and exhaustion and the most complete wonder and jubilation you’ve ever known.  And the loss continues.  He opens his eyes just for a moment and looks so intently into yours that you’re certain he sees all the way to your soul.  His tiny hand wraps around your finger and his lips meet your skin and your heart is lost forever.  It enters him and becomes him and you know without a doubt that it will never again beat without the knowledge that all is okay with him. 

Within days, your body and heart now wholly given over, you lose the rest of yourself.  You were once a daughter, a teacher, a wife, a friend.  Now, the days and nights run together with the relentless responsibilities and you don’t think you’ll ever be anything again except his mother.  The one who feeds him.  The one who holds him and rocks him and can’t stop staring at his precious, perfect face.  The one who gives up everything else to pour herself into the helpless image of God who never stops needing.

Days become weeks, and in the middle of a dark, endless night you realize not only have you lost yourself, you’ve lost your husband.  Not completely and not forever.  You simply understand there is another source of his adoration and his cup runs over with the joy of it, and you’re glad for that.  You’re grateful he has accepted the call of fatherhood with such enthusiasm.  Yet, you know a part of your husband now belongs to his son, and while you’re glad for that, you feel the loss, and it stings.

The loss doesn’t end there.  You lose sleep worrying about him.  You lose energy trying to keep up with him.  You lose confidence trying to understand him.  You lose patience trying to teach him.  You lose your faith when he’s sad or hurt or flailing in all his imperfections.  You lose your pride as you watch your own mistakes pile up so high you can’t see through them.  You lose your mind trying to make all his dreams come true.

The losses pile up one after the next as the weeks become months and years and all you can think about is how you keep losing time with him and conversations with him and opportunities to influence him and . . . him.

He’s meant to go. 

I’m meant to let him. 

There is so much delight and pleasure and enjoyment in the blessing of motherhood.  His voice, his smile, his laugh, the way he breaths when he’s sleeping.  The elation motherhood brings comes suddenly, and frequently, filling me with so much joy it’s hard to contain.  The happiness I receive from being a mother has existed as the focus of parenting from the very beginning, and I imagine it always will.  Still . . . underneath that constant joy, the loss remains.  

Motherhood is often about loss.  

Motherhood is mostly . . . about love.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there – may the love of watching them grow always overshadow the loss of watching them go.

I’ve been feeding people lately.  Lots of people.  They were good people I was feeding, no doubt.  Artists and volunteers working together to provide beautiful things for a privileged community.  I fed approximately 150 people for breakfast, lunch, and heavy snacks for three days straight.  Oh, I had tons of help.  In fact, I didn’t have to cook or bake a thing myself – it was all done by a mass of amazing volunteers who showed up with the items I requested at regular intervals, and then assisted me in distributing those items.  I am beyond grateful for their support.  I'm also tired, sore, sick at the idea of setting foot anywhere near a grocery store, and, quite honestly, a bit disgusted with myself.  

Because here’s what happens when a mind is trying to lean into God, and that’s what I’m doing, right?  That’s what I want to do.  I want to become more like my creator, which means I should think like him and act like him and want with everything I am to serve like him.  And so, when I’m feeding hundreds of people a day, and watching them enjoy the delicious coffee and salads and breads and appetizers and desserts and . . . the list goes on and on and is filled with all those yummy things you crave when trying to lose a few pounds . . . when I’m feeding all those people all those things, I can’t help but think of the people I’m not feeding.  The ones who don’t need to lose a few pounds.  The ones who haven’t eaten in days, whose bellies are round and swollen from malnutrition, whose legs are deformed from a lack of the minerals and vitamins essential for human existence.

The ones who need me to feed them.    

The Bible defines injustice as the abuse of power – when a stronger person abuses his or her power by taking from a weaker person what God alone has given the weaker person (life, liberty, dignity, fruits from love and labor).  That's easy to understand.  Of course, the Bible is even clearer on how we should be responding to injustice.  God calls us to love those who suffer injustice (Hebrews 13:3).  He commands us to “seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”   

I recently read a book by Gary Haugen called Just Courage. Haugen claims that at the center of almost all suffering in the world is the problem of violence.  We can provide food, shelter, schools, and medicine to people who are hungry, homeless, uneducated, and sick, but those things won’t meet the needs created by the root cause of all their problems – violence.  Someone has violently taken their businesses, their homes, their freedom, their dignity, their livelihood.  Someone has been purposely unjust, and those suffering from the injustice don't need our charity.  It's wonderful to provide them with a meal or a pair of shoes, but we will not permanently change their lives unless we assist them in providing those things for themselves.  What they need is for the violence being committed against them to stop.  They need justice to be served. 

We’ve all heard that saying, “One doesn’t believe something by saying it is true or even by really believing it is true.  One believes something when they act as if it is true.” 

Why do I fail to act on what I claim is true?  I announce to the world what I believe, and then behave differently.  I want to follow Jesus.  I want my life to mean something, to make a difference in this broken world.  Yet, most of the time, I live as if I'm scared of where Jesus might lead me to actually make that difference.  Or I convince myself there is simply too much injustice in the world, that I can’t possibly make a dent in it, so why bother?  I use my fears and inadequacies to stop me dead in my tracks. 

Nothing stopped Jesus.

He did just what God sent him to do.  He paid the price for me, for us.  But make no mistake friends.  There is still a price to pay.  We are not being honest with people if we don’t make sure they understand there is a price to pay for following Christ.  Because there are battles left to fight - against hunger, against suffering, against evil, against sin, against injustice.  I can’t sit back and rest in the joy that comes from knowing I’ve been rescued.  I must now become a rescuer of others.       

Facing injustice is scary.  It’s overwhelming.  I don’t want to see the hunger and the poverty.  I don't want to see the swollen bellies.  I don’t want to see the deformed limbs.  I don’t want to see the sex trafficking and the slavery and the brutality inflicted on men and women and children.  But He has asked me to. 

Edmund Burke said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing."

Lord, help me lean into you, hold onto you, trust unto you.

Lord, don’t let me be a good woman who does nothing.

Forgiveness is not my strong suit.  When someone hurts my feelings, it takes me a while to get over it.  I’ve heard dozens of people talk about the importance of married couples resolving issues before going to sleep at night.  “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger,” is the common statement, right?

WRONG.

If my husband ticks me off at six o’clock in the evening, there is no way I’m snuggling up with him at ten o’clock that night.  Eventually, I will forgive him, and most of the time he won’t even have to apologize, but I need at least a few hours to stew first.  And depending on the infraction, I might never forget.

Forgiveness doesn’t come easily for me.  It can be even tougher when I need to forgive myself.

A wise woman once told me I needed to move from a life of guilt to a life of grace.  Guilt to grace.  It does sound lovely, doesn’t it?   Of course, the concept of grace makes me think of one thing.  Yep, grab those palm branches folks - here we go with that Jesus fellow again! 

There are many definitions of ‘grace.’  Mercy or pardon.  Divine love and protection bestowed freely on people.  An excellence or power granted by God.  The state of being protected or sanctified.  Immunity or exemption; a reprieve. 

Ephesians 2: 4-5 says: God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved . . .

I once heard grace described in this simplistic, yet achingly beautiful way:  Mercy is not receiving that which we deserve.  Grace is receiving that which we do not deserve.

I do not deserve grace.  I do not deserve to be forgiven.  I’m like that child who apologizes over and over again for hitting his little brother – looks that little fella right in the eyes and says he’s sorry – then turns around and belts him again when he thinks no one is looking.   I confess my sins to God, I pray for his forgiveness, and then, even though I KNOW he’s looking, I turn around and commit the same sins all over again.  Greed, envy, idolatry, pride, lust (have you seen that Calvin Klein cologne ad with Matthew McConaughey in the Nordstrom at . . . never mind). 

Still, God forgives me.  He forgives me for everything I’ve ever done or said or imagined that wasn’t good or glorifying to Him.  He forgives me for all those things I’m going to do or say or imagine in the future that aren’t good or glorifying to Him.  I don’t have to feel guilty about my millions of past or future mistakes.  They are forgiven.  My debt has been paid.  I can live in freedom because of the grace God freely gives.

Yet, most of the time, I choose not to. 

I choose to ignore grace.  I choose to live in guilt instead.  I beat myself up and toss myself out and despise myself because I am . . . human.

I feel guilty because I went out to dinner with a friend and didn’t get to read to my daughter.  I feel guilty because I had a prior commitment and missed my son’s first goal in lacrosse.  I feel guilty because I complain to my husband about the problems with our house instead of expressing gratitude for having one.  I feel guilty because I don’t spend enough time with my extended family. 

What a slap in the face to the Lord of all.  He sent his son to become my salvation, and I fail to acknowledge it in my life at the times it matters most?  

Jesus gave his back to those who beat him, his cheeks to those who tore out his beard, his face he did not hide from insults and spitting (Isaiah 50:6) to secure my forgiveness.  Jesus, died on the cross, showing me the full extent of his love (John 13:1) to secure my forgiveness.  And in his last moments on earth, as he hung on the cross to secure my forgiveness, Jesus did just what I must do.  He went directly to the source of forgiveness, and he asked for it. 

“Father, forgive them . . .” Luke 23:34

Father, forgive them.

And Father, please forgive me. 

Well, I certainly didn’t think taking my seven year old to her very first concert was going to ignite such emotion, but hey, after the week we’ve had in America, I think it was inevitable.  And the concert was Taylor Swift.  If anyone knows writing about emotions, it’s that girl.  

Chick’s making millions off her emotions.  Oh yes, I’m sure it also has a little something to do with her talent, ambition, and well, the fact that she’s 5 feet 11 inches tall and strikingly beautiful.  Those legs of hers can’t hurt either – I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those things.  It doesn’t matter how much money you have and who your plastic surgeon is, there’s nobody on earth you can pay to get legs like that.  I’ve mentioned this before, but its people like Taylor Swift who inspire the question I’m certain will be my first to God when I make it to heaven. 

“Lord, don’t you think you could have divvied things up a bit more evenly when you were handing out gifts?  Does it really seem fair for one person to have the ability to sing, play multiple instruments, AND look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine?  Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘equal opportunity’?”

Despite the fact that she’s easy to envy and idolize, both of which we are specifically instructed NOT to do by the same God dolling out gifts rather haphazardly, I am now quite a fan of Miss Swift.  I didn’t know many of her songs, I had no idea what a production a girl in her early 20’s could put on, and I honestly believe I have permanent hearing damage after the concert, but I’m smitten nonetheless.  The child is precious.  She seems genuinely thankful for her life and offers some quality messages to her admirers.  She knows who her audience is and remains true to them for an entire sixty-minute show.  Her outfits were appropriate, as were her lyrics, language, and dancing.  The two drinks I had before the show to keep me from panicking about what I was about to expose my daughter to . . . they weren’t even necessary.  And hey, although that seven year old I kept up long past bedtime was still asleep at 8:00 the morning after the concert, by that time I had already downloaded the entire Red album, which I will happily listen to now that I know how many catchy songs are on it.

Still, there is a downside to attending a Taylor Swift concert, and it has nothing to do with the hearing aids guaranteed to be in your future.  The downside is that while you bop your head and clap your hands to music that can’t help but make you smile, you look around and realize it’s all moving way too fast.  Because in every direction, all you see are little girls – young, sweet, adorable little girls – who have the whole world at their fingertips and don’t even know it.  My heart catches in my throat as I picture them now, dancing and screaming and singing with all the naiveté childhood offers.  The endless possibilities, the decades of opportunity, the unidentified dreams destined for discovery.  Those girls dancing and screaming and singing? They have an entire lifetime ahead of them, while I . . . I have already lived much of mine. 

The problem with a week in which bombs explode and workplaces crumble and you find yourself surrounded by the youth you can never again attain is that it forces you to confront your own mortality.  And when I face my own mortality, it isn’t simply the thoughts of a shortened future I find upsetting.  It’s the thoughts of the past, and how much of it I’ve wasted. 

How much time have I squandered in anger?  How many nights have I spent crying over circumstances beyond my control?  How many people have I judged without knowing their story?  How many minutes and hours and days have I spent worrying about my finances or my appearance or my reputation? 

I’ve had so much time to do the good things, the right things, and yet, I’ve wasted countless moments doing everything wrong.  I could have been dancing and screaming and singing and praying and laughing and snuggling and smiling and helping and serving and hugging and kissing and giggling and teaching and worshiping and learning and living and . . .

I can hardly catch my breath as I think about what I’ve done instead. 

So much wasted time. Why didn’t I make better choices?  Why didn’t I do the good things, the right things?  Looking back puts a vice grip on my heart, squeezing regret from every cell as I view my life as a montage of misused opportunities. 

There is really only one way to live the gift of each day, and that is to live it in love.  Yet, many times . . . most times if I’m truly honest with myself . . . I make other choices.  I choose to fold laundry instead of reading a book with my daughter.  I choose to unload the dishwasher instead of playing catch with my son.  I choose to watch a mindless television show about a dream kitchen I’ll never have instead of talking to my husband.  I choose to serve myself instead of serving others.  I choose all the insignificant things instead of making the most of every moment. 

Of course, I realize the laundry has to be folded.  I know the dishwasher must be filled and emptied on a regular basis.  The toilets have to be cleaned and the email must be checked and the groceries need to be purchased.  But how much of my time is spent on these mundane activities?  Am I filling up my life with duties that can’t possibly have a lasting impact on anyone or anything?  Am I going about the minutes of each day in an effort to check off items on my to-do list, while hopes and dreams and opportunities to love slip by unnoticed?

Time is not limitless.  Charlie is halfway to gone and Libby’s feet are almost the same size as mine.  I’ll be forty in less than three years, which means if I’m lucky, I’ve probably reached the middle of my life.  Time is fleeting.  It’s speeding and racing and . . . winning.  

I’m running out of time. 

I’m running out of time to do the right things.  To make good choices.  To spend each day hoping and dreaming and, most importantly, loving.

This week reminded me of that.  Sporting events turned deadly reminded me of that.  Fellow citizens losing their lives on the job reminded me of that.  Taylor Swift, and her audience of girls, most anticipating 22 while I recollect it, reminded me of that.  And while the reminders hold a thousand heartaches of moments forever lost, they hold endless promise as well.  They hold the hope of a future filled with blessings, as long as I cherish each day for the gift of time it is, and keep my focus on the one thing that matters most . . . the thing even an inexperienced yet extremely famous singer writes about in every one of her songs.  I will not waste even a second of the time I have left, as long as I make sure each of my seconds revolves around love.

Ephesians 3:20   To Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine . . .

Do it.  Please.  Do more.  Do immeasurably more, Lord.  We are asking.  We are imagining.  We are wailing and kicking and thrashing and begging. 

This can’t go on.  It’s too much, too many, too often.  The bleeding continues and it’s all just too much.  The bleeding and the screaming and the death.  Bodies altered.  Children murdered.  Hearts and minds and lives scared . . . scarred . . . forever.

How many more times can we witness joy turned tragic, celebration made wretched?  How many more people must suffer at the hands of sin?  How much fear, how much pain, how much grief can we take?

Do more. 

And then . . . I see Jesus hanging on that cross, and I realize, He’s already done it all. 

Maybe . . . it’s our turn.  Maybe, we have to do more . . . help more and teach more and sacrifice more and love more.  Because if we can ask and imagine and cry and plead and beg, we can also DO.  We were made to DO.  Love is an action, and we are called to it.  Not just when bombs detonate in our city streets with every intent to kill.  Not just in Boston, or New York, or Oklahoma, or in our own backyards. 

John 16:33  “In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.” 

He did it with love. 

Somehow, so must we.

I hope you will join me in praying for the people of Boston today, and for people all over the world who are asking God to do more.

Proverbs 17:17  A friend loves at all times.

I think one of the greatest joys I find in womanhood is in my friendships.  My husband has some wonderful friends – men he has known for years and who now live all over the country, some of whom he speaks to almost daily.  But Adam’s conversations with his friends are like a morning radio show on ESPN. They rehash athletes and sporting events as though being paid to do so, and then hang up abruptly, never once having inquired about one another’s wives, children, jobs, lives, souls.

Lord, how I thank you for making me a female.  I don’t ever have to talk about Tiger Woods with my girlfriends.  I can, of course, because my friends and I can talk about anything.  Yet the majority of my conversations with other women consist of meaningful discussion that truly has the potential to affect my life.

It wasn’t always that way.  The richness that exists in my friendships is not there just because I’m a woman – it’s also there because I’m an adult and a mother.  I was fortunate to have great friends throughout my childhood, and many of those friendships will, I believe, last for the rest of my life.  Still, young girls can’t possibly grasp the depth of importance their friends will have in their adult lives – when the jealousy is either completely gone or easily shared, and the focus is on love and loyalty rather than on social status and survival.  We’re in this game of life together now, as companions instead of competitors.  We want the best for each other, we help each other, sacrifice for each other.

Yes, I think the sincerity in my adult friendships with other mothers comes from the maturity only age and experience can provide.  I also believe it comes from the One who designed friendship from the beginning, He who created us to be in fellowship with others so we could learn what it means to truly love your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31).  You see, I treasure my friends because I see Christ in them, and because, I want to be Christ for them.   

I spent a weekend with some of my favorite women recently – a girls getaway as we like to call such outings.  And while we didn’t go far, we didn’t stay long, and we didn’t do anything particularly special, the weekend . . . the women . . . touched my life, and I wasn’t at all surprised.

I see love notes from God all around me this time of year.  In the warmth of the spring sun on my back, in the dogwoods peeking through the pines, in the yellow tulips smiling at me from just beyond my front door.  But I see God most in other women.  When they laugh with me, and sometimes, at me.  When they challenge me to be myself, only better.  When they are honest about my flaws, and accept me anyway.  When they send me a thoughtful text message at just the right time.  When they lift me up with kind words and gestures.  When they encourage me to look beyond my circumstances.  When they affirm my worth in their caring.  When they nurture me . . . educate me . . . inspire me . . . forgive me.

I am so grateful to God for the amazing women he has put in my life.  They are beautiful and bold.  They are dynamic and daring.  They are smart and sweet and silly and soulful.  They are His daughters, spirit-filled and spirit-led, and they are my friends.  I pray I can love them as well as they love me.   

 “Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”  Psalm 8:9

Our family went to Colorado for spring break – our first ski trip ever, and it was truly an unbelievable week.  The views, the sunshine, the snow, the fresh air, the new experiences . . . we all enjoyed ourselves so much I’ve recently been online looking at time-share condos in the Vail Valley.  After I win the lottery, I’m totally buying one.  

The thing about doing something you’ve never done is that it requires some faith.  It’s not cheap to fly a family of four three-quarters of the way across the country, and we won’t even talk about the prices of ski rentals and lift tickets and a salad the size of way too small when it’s served twenty feet from a gondola. Not to mention the fact that we chose to do all of this with a ten year old who doesn’t like to be cold and a seven year old who can’t stand to wear long sleeves and socks.  Like I said, it required some faith.  Not surprisingly, God was faithful right back, as he always is. 

I’ll never forget the looks on their sun-kissed faces after our first day on the slopes – pure joy is easy to spot on your children and it makes your heart soar in ways you’d forgotten it could.  There was joy for me as well.  Downhill skiing is both amazingly thrilling and ridiculously challenging – there’s something quite remarkable about gliding down a snow-covered hill with “things” attached to your feet that simply don’t belong there. Still, I quickly realized my thirty-seven year old body and mind could not let go of the fear of falling, of injury, of sailing off the mountain into one of the deep ravines scattered with rocks the size of small cars.  It was obvious my fear would hold me back forever, because you can’t get over fear like that when you are in your late 30’s, or at least I can’t. 

Since I knew my fear would likely keep me from ever making enough progress to enjoy a run down the blues with my kids (which they accomplished after one day of lessons), I decided to try a new winter activity on the third day of spring break. Turns out, I’m a Nordic girl at heart, and it was cross-country skiing that got my heart pumping and won me back my confidence in myself.  Who would have thought this lifetime Southerner could excel at a sport created in Norway?!?

Yet it was our last day in Colorado that I will remember long after my children stop teasing me about my ability to remain in a permanent snowplow position.  Since everyone had passed me by on the Alpine areas of the mountain, I was on my own that final morning in Colorado.  I trekked back to my new home away from home, The Nordic Center, rented a pair of snowshoes, took the chair lift to the very top of the mountain, and spent two hours entranced by Earth’s bounty.  It was just me and my God, roaming together through some of His most splendid works - pristine forests filled with alpine trees and sweeping views, miles of untouched land, snow falling, quiet enveloping, peace pervading.  It was nothing short of glorious.

And so, after our brief yet memorable time in Colorado, here’s what I know for sure . . .  

God’s providence = God has guardianship over all his creations.

God’s sovereignty = God is in control of all things.

God’s mercy = God withholds that which we deserve.

God’s grace = God’s gift of salvation granted to sinners through Christ.

God’s wisdom = God’s infinite knowledge of everything.

God’s power = God’s ability and strength to bring to pass what His infinite wisdom directs.

God’s dominion = God’s complete ownership and supremacy over everything in the entire universe.

God’s righteousness = God’s actions aligning perfectly with his holy nature.

God’s love = the primary reason for human creation and the primary purpose of life.

God’s holiness = God’s complete absence of sin.

God’s goodness = the sum total of all of God’s attributes.

And God’s majesty . . . well, that’s easy . . .

God’s majesty = Beaver Creek, where no one seems to have any idea there’s a recession going on, but where smiles prevail, souls overflow, and the incredible creations of God take center stage, as they always should.

Disclosure: The above opinions may or may not have been influenced by the warm chocolate chip cookies freely handed out all over the mountain in Beaver Creek every afternoon at precisely 3:00.

It’s one day past Easter.  As my dad would often say, I'm a day late and a dollar short.  Forgive me.  We’ve been busy traveling for both spring and Easter break, and my writing time has been hijacked by airport security lines and way too much turbulence.  Still, the most Holy day of the year has been on my mind constantly for the past few weeks.  It still is in fact, because this year, more than ever before, I see the discrepancy in Easter.

Everywhere I look lately, I see bunnies.  Chocolate bunnies.  Ceramic bunnies.  Glass bunnies.  Bunnies holding baskets. Bunnies holding eggs.  Bunnies holding jellybeans. They’re in Pottery Barn and Target and Homegoods and Publix.  Bunnies are everywhere right now, and I get it.  Bunnies are a symbol of Easter, and I’m fine with that.  Bunnies are cute and soft and cuddly. (I’ve also heard they poop more than any creature on earth, but we’ll just overlook that for the sake of tradition.)  

The funny thing is . . . Easter isn’t about a bunny.  Easter is about a lamb.  Easter is about the lamb.

Back in Old Testament days, lambs were used for sacrificial purposes.  People came to the temple with their very best lambs, ones that were perfect, unblemished, and they presented their flawless specimens to the high priests to atone for their sins.  You can blame the whole thing on Adam and Eve if you’d like – remember they were the ones that fell first – they were disobedient to God and the next thing ya know, their friends in the garden, those helpless little lambs were in serious trouble.  They became a creature man handed over to show his need for repentance.  The lambs were slaughtered, their blood shed to remind man that the consequence of sin is death. 

“without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins” (Hebrews 9:22, 26)

Of course, because we were blessed to be born A.D. (can I get a hallelujah for that?), we know that this old testament law of sacrifices was a mere hint of what was to come.  It reminded humans that sin separates us from God, and at the same time, it planted the seed of a bold new idea – that there must be another way . . . a better way.

That way is Jesus.

And he did the unthinkable. 

No, I’m not talking about giving sight to the blind or healing the lame or feeding thousands with food meant for one.  I’m not even talking about raising the dead, though he did that too.  Jesus loved so many people while he walked on earth - -people no one else thought to love.  People considered unlovable.  Jesus sat with them and taught them and broke bread with them and changed them.  Back then . . . still now . . . the way Jesus loved was unthinkable. 

There’s more.

Jesus spoke the unthinkable too.  He challenged the old rules and laws and mentalities.  He turned authority upside down with his radicalism.  He preached love, peace, forgiveness, unity, sacrifice.  His ideas were preposterous to many, exciting to some, and far-reaching even in a time when the spreading of the word came only through the mouths of wanderers.  No phones.  No email.  No newspapers or television or text messaging.  Yet all over the land, they heard about this man and his crazy ideas from those with feet willing to go and share.

At the end, even those who believed began to question.  His followers, the ones he hand-picked and diligently prepared – they didn’t understand.  Jesus can’t die, they said.  That’s simply unthinkable.  He is God’s only Son, Lord over all.  He can do whatever he wants.  He can save himself if it comes down to the brutality he suggests.  

Their unthinkable happened anyway, and it was even more brutal than they could have imagined.  It was savage and horrid and painful and bloody and tortuous and it was exactly what he said he had come to do.  When Jesus breathed his last on that cross at Calvary, naked and beaten, he accomplished his mission.  He did the will of the Father.  He established the new covenant, just as God planned from the very beginning.  His sinners . . . all sinners . . . had a Savior.  Lambs would never again need to be sacrificed.  Jesus was the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrificial Lamb of God. 

He lived an unthinkable life.  He died an unthinkable death.  And yet, the most unthinkable thing about it all is that Jesus lived this life, and died this death . . . for me.

You see that is the discrepancy in Easter.  It’s not the bunnies taking center stage when it’s all about a lamb.  The discrepancy is in the fact that the lamb hung on that cross to save me.  And when everything I’ve done and said and not done and not said screams that I’m not worth it, the lamb on that cross says otherwise.  He says my debts are paid.  He says I’m forgiven and free.  He says I’m a beloved daughter of God forever and ever and ever and ever.

Me . . . beloved?

Unthinkable. 

Except there’s Easter.  And there's Jesus.  And with Jesus, the unthinkable becomes truth.  With Jesus, the unthinkable becomes God's greatest gifts.  The gifts of redemption . . . of salvation . . . of grace . . . of eternal life. 

For me. 

For you. 

For the entire world. 

Happy Easter.