26,280 Hours

I heard an interesting statement a few weeks ago, and . . . yep, you guessed it . . . it got me thinking.  Aren’t you glad you don’t live in my brain?  It’s like the world’s largest bumper car rink in there – a whole lot of bad ideas racing around in every direction, slamming into each other for no reason, accomplishing absolutely nothing except for causing a terrible headache.

Still, I simply have to share.

There are a TON of words in the Bible.  It’s incredibly thick and the pages are ridiculously thin and impossibly hard to turn.  Aren’t you just dying to read it now?  I should probably work on my sales pitch for God’s word, huh?

Where were we?  Oh yes, a TON of words.  Now the Old Testament doesn’t tell you about Jesus’ life.  Notice I didn’t say it doesn’t tell you about Jesus, because I assure you, the Old Testament is entirely about Jesus – every page foreshadows his very name.  It just doesn’t use his actual name.  

The name ‘Jesus’ isn’t mentioned in the Bible until the New Testament begins with the book of Matthew, and we hear the Christmas story.  You know the one . . . Mary, a virgin engaged to be married to Joseph, receives a visit from an angel.  This angel (Gabriel) tells the young girl she is pregnant with God’s own son and she is to call him Jesus.  Sure enough, about nine months later Mary gives birth to a king, in a barn, and names him Jesus, as instructed. 

The book of Matthew is the first of four books, also known as the gospels, which recount the events of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.  All four of them, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, tell the Christmas story in some fashion.  Matthew is the only gospel that also tells us about the three kings visiting their messiah and showering him with gifts, which most Biblical scholars believe occurred not at the time of Jesus’ birth, but more than a year later.  Luke is the only gospel that mentions anything about Jesus during his adolescence.  This happens in the second chapter of Luke when we read the story of Jesus traveling eighty miles from Nazareth to Jerusalem to visit the temple for Passover – an excursion that might not sound like much, until you remember that such journeys were made on foot during Jesus’ time.  So basically, a four day walk to church. 

Although there are four gospels, we don’t learn anything else about Jesus’ life as an infant, child, teenager, or young man from any of them, except that he grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men (Luke 1:80, 2:40).  Instead, the gospels pick up when Jesus is about thirty years old, and all four tell of the final three years of his life on earth. 

There is much to tell. 

There are encounters with a prostitute by a well, a tax collector in a tree, a leper, a bleeding woman, a blind man, and a lady with some very expensive perfume.  There are little children on the lap of a king.  There is a boy with a basket of food that feeds thousands.  There is a walk across water, the calming of a storm, overturned tables in a temple, and a once empty net overflowing with fish.  There are healings and miracles and palm branches and many references to yeast.  There are disciples, friends, family, strangers, traitors, and a donkey.  There are men and women, Jews and Gentiles, and a Roman governor named Pontius Pilate who has not even the hint of a backbone.  There is the last supper, the washing of feet, the prayer in the garden, and the kiss of death.  There is an arrest, a trial, a mob, and utter brutality.  There is a crown of thorns, a cross to bear, a final breath, a veil torn.  There is sorrow and suspense, beauty and betrayal, happiness and heartbreak, torment and truth.  There is loss and life and the single most incredible love of all time.

In three years.

Three years.

Thirty-six months.  One hundred fifty-six weeks.  One thousand ninety-five days. 

Jesus changed the entire world and all of its inhabitants forever and ever and ever for all of eternity . . . in three years.

That just blows the bumper cars right out of my mind.  And I can’t help but wonder . . .

What could I do in three years?

What could you do in three years?

What could we do in three years, in the name of the One who did it all for us? 

How many people could we tell? 

How many lives could we change? 

How many souls could we save?

How many hands could we hold and mouths could we feed and hearts could we heal?  How many of the hurting could we serve and touch and help because we choose to follow the One who showed us exactly how to do it?

Jesus’ life on earth ended before he reached his thirty-fifth birthday.  I don’t know how much time I have left to live on earth – it might be days or decades – but either way, I want to live it well. I want to live it in a way that honors the sacrifice He made for me.  I want to embrace the peace and grace and comfort and freedom His life and death offered to all of humanity.  I want to live each day with my focus on truth and my confidence in the fact that with God, all things are possible. 

Because with God . . .  

A baby born in a barn

To a carpenter and a virgin 

Grew up to be a man

And in only three years 

Became a Savior.

Bella Amare

Have you ever read Romans?  It’s . . .WOW.   I’m not even half way through it, but . . . just . . . WOW.

Romans is a letter to, yep, you got it, the Romans.  It was written by Paul, and can I just say . . . that dude means business.  You want a speaker at your next meeting who is sure to get everyone’s attention?  Paul’s your guy.  You want someone explaining things to potential clients?  Paul’s the fella for the job.  You want a person who can straighten out your employees?  Go with Paul.  Never underestimate a man who spent much of his life on the dark side, only to become a major player in the greatest story of all time.  Man can tell it like it is.

The first few chapters of Romans are a bit of a wake-up call.  Actually, ‘wake-up call’ is far too trivial a comparison.  This isn’t a Bose radio playing your current favorite Christian song as the sun rises, the notes slowly increasing in volume with each minute you choose to cozy deeper under the covers.  It’s more like Paul shows up beside your bed at three am, when you’re still deliriously asleep, and just as you float into a glorious dream about winning a $50,000 kitchen renovation from HGTV that will be completed by Ryan Gosling, Paul begins slapping you in the face.  Over and over he swings, stopping just long enough to let you take a breath and try to shield yourself with your hands, but you’re too slow, and WHACK, he hits you again.  Hard.  It stings, pulsing with heat that seems to come from deep under your skin, burning in a way that lets you know the pain won’t end anytime soon.  Your brain throbs with the knowledge that you can’t fight back, and your heart breaks as you realize you lost this battle before it even began.  You’re fully awake now.  You can never enter that state of idyllic dreaminess again.

YOU. ARE. A. SINNER.  

Paul makes no bones about the truth.  He is clear about the spiritual state of humans, and it is ugly my friends.  Very ugly. 

‘Godless and wicked’ are two terms Paul uses to describe mankind in the first chapter of Romans.  He also uses words like futile, foolish, shameful, insolent, arrogant, boastful, and evil. 

Feeling the sting right about now? 

I’m afraid it gets worse. 

Paul says human beings are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit, and malice.  He claims we are gossipers and slanderers who suppress the truth and have no understanding, no fidelity, no love, no mercy.

Need a tissue . . . or perhaps an entire box of them?

The thing is - I don’t think Paul is trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. His goal is not to simply ignite emotion in his audience.  Paul just wants to be sure we completely understand the depth of our sinful nature, and he wants us to realize he is speaking about everyone.  We are all on the same playing field.  We are all on level ground.  There is no need to compare ourselves to anyone else – we are all counted guilty.  You can thank Adam for that.  Just as we inherit traits from our ancestors, we inherited Adam’s sin nature.  We are fallen to our very DNA, people.  Every single one of us has witnessed the irrefutable evidence of God’s existence and goodness, and we have all chosen to deny it when we live our lives in ways that do not glorify Him. 

“For His invisible attributes, namely, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.  So they are without excuse.”  Romans 1:20

We are without excuse.

Paul goes on to speak of God’s wrath, and after what we’ve just heard, we know without a doubt it is justified.  We deserve it.  But here’s where Romans starts to get interesting.  At first, the idea of God being intensely angry - having wrath, if you will - makes me squirm a little bit.  My God?  Furious?  At me?  Nah, that doesn’t sound like MY God.  My God is a peaceful God.  My God is healer and comforter and redeemer.  My God doesn’t get mad at me . . . right?

Wrong.

The truth is, God’s wrath is nothing like human wrath.  God’s wrath is neither irrational nor vindictive, because God’s wrath comes from his holiness.  Because God is holy, he must have hostility towards sin, and we must understand this fact if we want to be in a relationship with him, because it is such an important part of who he is. 

There’s more.  And this is where Romans isn’t just interesting.  It’s good.

You see, Paul refuses to let us remain in the sin of Adam’s mistakes . . . in the sin we are born with and which follows us all the days of our lives.  After he’s beat us down with the truth of who we are as human beings, of why we are sinners to the core, and how we are wholly responsible for the wrath of God . . . Paul tells the rest of the story . . .   

The gospel is the power of salvation for all who believe.  Romans 1:16

The gospel is the power of salvation for ALL WHO BELIEVE!     

This is the message of Romans.  This is Paul’s message of victory. He has knocked us to the ground and it hurts all over – we are bruised and battered and burning with the knowledge that we are sinners and God hates sin.  But we don’t have to stay there, defeated and damned.  Yes, we are sinners.  Yes, we totally suck sometimes. 

But there is good news! 

We don’t have to give up because God didn’t give up on us. Instead, he sent his one and only son to die on a cross so we could be his forever.  Christ’s power and grace are greater than our sin . . . greater than ALL sin. 

We can’t claim to be a follower of Jesus and only speak of God’s love and grace – that will never be the complete picture of who he truly is.  To comprehend God’s unbelievable love for us, we must first comprehend how much he despises our sin.  The perfect fullness of God only makes sense when we see both sides of the picture.  God fully hates our sin, yet fully loves us. 

Now I need a tissue. 

God fully hates my sin, yet fully loves me. 

Like I said . . . WOW.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be writing about Paul, and Romans, again.   Every chapter I read gets under my skin and remains there, taunting me with new information and more conviction and the hint of an idea that what is coming next might not just challenge me, but instead . . . change me?

Stay tuned, and in the meantime, I hope you’ll remember something . . .

God hates every bit of your sin, because he has to.

God loves every bit of you, because he chose to.

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Barnes and Noble,

One day, she will need a bra.  One day, she will ask me to buy tampons and Advil on a monthly basis.  One day, she will have her first crush and her first date and her first kiss and the first stirrings of something in her heart that she can’t explain.  One day, she will have a boyfriend, and a fiancé, and a husband, and one day, she might hold a tiny bundle of love in her arms until all hours of the night and wonder if she’ll ever be able to let go.

I’m not trying to stop her from growing up.  One day, I want her to become a tween and a teenager and a young woman and an adult and a wife and a mother.  I held that tiny bundle of love in my arms until all hours of the night and thought I’d never be able to let her go, but eight years have gone by and slowly, surely, I am letting go.  I have to. 

My jobs have been many as I live out the gift of being her mother – I’ve held and hugged, rocked and read to, kissed and soothed, fed and bathed, led and observed, corrected and cheered, pushed and pled and prayed and prayed and prayed.  But mostly, I’ve loved and protected.  These are the two most important responsibilities I have as her mom.  To love her . . . to protect her.  One day, she will have left my home, but she will forever occupy my heart, and so I’m trying to do these things right for this one and only daughter of mine.  I’m trying to love and protect her to the very best of my ability. 

The loving part is easy.  There was never a doubt, never a question, never a moment when I couldn’t find endless love for her, despite her insistence on testing the depths of my adoration.  There is always the love – in the middle of a night, in the middle of a mess, in the middle of a meltdown.  It fuels every action I make on her behalf, and it’s why I’m writing this letter.  Because, you see, loving my daughter isn’t enough.  Plenty of well-meaning parents love their children.  It’s simply not enough.   I must also protect her, and that’s where parenting gets difficult.   And so I can't let another day go by without telling you . . .

Barnes and Noble, YOU are one of the reasons parenting is so difficult.

Oh, you aren’t the only one.  I heard a completely ridiculous song playing in Gap Kids last week.  Gap KIDS, as in, there will most likely be children in the store every single day it is open.  Still, someone found it perfectly okay to play a song about casual sex in Gap KIDS. 

Yes, you are one of many.  I’ve seen at least a dozen cars driving around my native Atlanta with the words “Sexy Senior” written across the windows.  I wonder . . . do the little girls driving those cars have mamas?  Where are their daddies?   And why oh why haven’t they told their precious daughters that when someone says you are “sexy,” it’s because they are looking only at your outward appearance, and not at what really matters . . . your heart.

There are others just like you.  Victoria’s Secret decided it was a good idea to put words on the backside of shorts and pants for young girls, so anyone behind them will be encouraged to look at their bottoms.  Never mind who is looking, or why.  Never mind prostitution and child predators and the pornography industry and sex trafficking and . . . never mind.

No, it isn’t just you, Barnes and Noble, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you think you’re doing everything right.  You offer an enormous children’s section in all of your stores – even a wall of Christian books I’ve frequently perused while shopping for gifts.  You have story time on Saturdays and invite Girl Scouts to sell cookies on your doorstep and provide discounts for educators.  Yet every time I walk to your checkout counter with my daughter, there are dozens of magazines placed directly in front of her eyes that undermine everything I’m trying to do as her mother.

She started reading at the age of five, and overnight, my job as protector grew in leaps and bounds.  No longer could I feel certain I wasn’t exposing her to things she wasn’t ready to understand.  I did everything I was supposed to do – refrained from talking about inappropriate subjects in her presence, permitted only ‘G’ rated movies and television suitable for young children, provided only Christian music and kid-friendly classics in the car and at home.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  Except for one thing.  I took my daughter to buy a children’s book at Barnes and Noble, and suddenly, my five year-old child wanted to know about mind-blowing sex.

I’m fully prepared for the reality that is having a daughter.  One day, someone will call my little girl “sexy.”  One day, my little girl will want to be sexy for someone.  One day, my daughter will be a
grown woman, and she will have sex with someone she loves.  One day. 

But not today. 

She is not ready to hear about sex.  She is not ready to think about sex.  She is not ready to learn about sex.  In a world that seems to have made sex its number one priority, a mother’s job has to include keeping her children’s innocence intact as long as possible.  Yet you, Barnes and Noble, expose every child that enters your store and walks through the checkout line to sex, regardless of their age or maturity level. 

Are you contributing to teenage pregnancy?  I don’t know.  Are you contributing to the growing number of young girls in America with low self-esteem and eating disorders and anxiety and depression?  I don’t know.  But you are knowingly exposing very young children to topics they aren’t ready to understand, and it is infuriating.

Am I picking on you, Barnes and Noble?  Maybe.  Like I said, there are many other culprits.  There are nationally recognized and widely respected businesses contributing to the sleepless nights of mothers all over this county, and I imagine, all over the world.  There are magazines my daughter shouldn’t have to see in the checkout lines at Publix and Target too.  There are billboards on every interstate that encourage my child to ask me what adult toys are, or how a doctor gives a woman implants, or what the word  ‘abortion’ means.  When I try to find my daughter an appropriate children’s movie to watch using the On Demand feature on our television, there is a completely inappropriate movie playing in the upper right hand corner that she shouldn’t have to see.

Why? 

Why is this happening?  Why is anyone okay with this?  Why are YOU okay with it?

Have you read the statistics on teenage pregnancy?  Have your read the statistics on eating disorders and anxiety and depression in young children?  Have you read the statistics on prostitution and pedophiles and pornography and sex trafficking?

HAVE YOU READ THEM?

I am incredibly blessed to be a mother . . . to be her mother.  I am so grateful to have been entrusted by God with the extraordinary duty of raising a daughter, of protecting the child in my care for as long as she needs me, and I fully accept the responsibilities that go along with my title of 'mom.'   My responsibilities include guiding her and leading her and teaching her the things she needs to know about the world when she is ready to comprehend such worldly things. 

When she is ready to comprehend such worldly things. 

As her mother, when she is ready should be my choice.  I should be the one who gets to decide when my daughter learns about sex.  The world wants to throw sex at her from every direction and I have done my best to intersect it before it reaches her every time.  But I cannot protect her alone.

Help me.

Please, Barnes and Noble . . . Gap Kids . . . Victoria’s Secret . . . Publix and Target and mothers who let your little girls drive around with the word “sexy” written on their car for an entire city to see . . .

Please . . . I beg you . . . help me.

Let’s work together to protect the children of the world.  Who knows, maybe we’ll see a decrease in teenage pregnancy.  Maybe we’ll see fewer children with eating disorders and anxiety and depression.  Maybe we’ll make an impact on the tragedies of prostitution and pornography and sex trafficking.  Maybe.  But only when we work together to make a positive difference.

And so Barnes and Noble, I ask you . . . will you do the right thing? 

Will you realize that there are good mothers all over the country who want to shop in your stores, but who want to protect their children even more?

Will you remember that just because sex sells doesn’t mean it is okay to sell it to five year-old girls? 

Will you remove the magazines placed at eye level for young children from your check out lines?

Sincerely,
ABW

 

BOO!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll see.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You might change your mind.”

“There are lots of options.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Halloween!!!

EWWWWWW . . . Gross!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s totally disgusting.

Ready for more gross? 

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

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

So gross.

There’s more grossness, if you dare.

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

Did I mention I don’t skip meals?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A River Runs Through It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have come to take you home.”

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

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