“The world is made up of two kinds of people. The ones who

think they’re normal and the ones who know there’s no such

thing.” - Will McAvoy on The Newsroom

 

Our Charlie is the best little boy ever. I love that kid so much I think I might actually die the day he leaves the nest. I honestly don't believe I can survive more than a few days without him.  He's smart and funny and adorable and determined and, mostly . . . he's comfort. Life is just right when he's sitting next to me, drawing or reading or breathing.

 Still, sometimes I feel so bad for my little guy, because he totally reminds me about that whole apple falling from the tree thing.  Yea. It doesn’t fall far folks. It doesn’t fall far at all.

Poor kid.

My mother gave Charlie a snowman to put on his nightstand on Thanksgiving Day. It’s only a few inches tall, but it has those LED lights inside, so Mr. Snowman glows all sorts of fun colors when you turn him on. Now, before I continue, I need to tell you that we left to go out of town on the day after Thanksgiving and we returned home on Sunday afternoon. If you do the math, you will realize that as of bedtime on Sunday, Charlie had slept with the light-up snowman beside his bed for exactly ONE night.  And yet, just after he crawled into his bed to go to sleep for only the second night with his new snowman friend glowing cheerfully beside him, my poor little apple son had this to say:

“I love this snowman. It turns red, green, purple, yellow, blue and pink. That's the order every time. And it stays red, green, purple, yellow, and blue for four seconds each. Then the pink stays on for eleven seconds. And then it starts over with red again.”

I should probably also mention that right before Charlie quoted the above statistics, he patted the “special place” on his pillowcase two times.  He does that every night, right before he puts his head on it. 

Like I said . . . poor kid.

One day, I’ll have to explain to Charlie that apples don’t far fall from their trees.  And then, I’ll have to tell him what OCD is.:)  For now, however, I’m going to lie next to him in bed and watch the snowman change colors. 

Well, the leftovers have been put away, the guests have gone home, and football has become the main event.  I thought about venturing out to hit the post-feast sales, but my feet begged me not to, and apparently my feet are psychic, because - stop the presses – I’m sitting on the couch right now while my nine year old son rubs them. 

It was my first foray into hosting Thanksgiving and I’m quite pleased to tell you it was a rousing success.  After much debate over the menu, I think our feast was delicious.  People with anxiety spend way too many hours trying to decide between turkey tenderloins and an attempt at the whole bird, but in the end, my husband convinced me if we were going to do this hosting thing, we needed to do it right, and out he went to buy an entire turkey.  When he returned home with it, I convinced him that since he was so sure a thirteen pounder was the way to go, he could be in charge of said fowl. 

He grilled it, because how in the world would I cook the fixins if a turkey occupied my oven all day?  I admit I was skeptical (hey, even people without anxiety worry about the main course when they are hosting their family for Thanksgiving for the very first time), but my husband came through with flying feathers . . . I mean colors.  Even my children asked for seconds of turkey, and they are borderline vegetarians they eat so little meat.  The fixins were not bad either, if I do say so myself.

And now, with my crew safely gathered around, I can count my blessings.

I’m pretty good at remembering to be thankful for the big things - you know, those REALLY important blessings – the ones I thank God for every night because I know I could never live without them.  Adam, Charlie, Libby.  My family.  My friends.  Health.  Our home and food and freedom and Jesus.

But what about the little things?  What about all those precious moments in my life that I let pass me by without an ounce of gratitude for what they mean? 

What about the way Libby looks when she’s sleeping.  What about the way Charlie asks me to crawl under the covers with him at bedtime and then leans his head against my shoulder while we talk.  What about the way Adam’s eyes meet mine when one of our children does something cute and an unspoken understanding passes between us that no one else in the entire world could possibly grasp. 

What about hot chocolate that’s overflowing with marshmallows, the smell of burning leaves in the fall, water that becomes warm with the twist of a knob.  What about a sky glowing pink at sunrise, a text message from a friend at just the right time, a hug from someone you haven’t seen in ages.  What about a soft robe, new shoes, clean sheets.  What about electricity and pillows and dishwashers and toothpaste.

 
And what about the things that are harder to be thankful for?  What if I could find gratitude when I'm feeling anything but grateful.  What if, when my children are arguing, I could remember it's because God answered my prayers about becoming a mother . . . twice.  What if, when I'm stuck in traffic, I could remember it's because I'm lucky enough to live in a thriving city.  What if, when the laundry is piled so high I think I'll never get to the bottom, I could remember it's because I'm blessed to have plenty of clothing for every member of my family. 

I have so much to be thankful for.  Today and every day.  I don't have to look hard to find the many blessings in my life, because there are too many to count.   They are all around me, all the time.  I simply have to accept them as gifts, even when my first instinct is to think of them as burdens.  I have to choose to be thankful, and not just for the big things . . . the easy things.  I have to be thankful for everything, because every encounter, every circumstance, every day . . . is a blessing.    

May you and yours find much to be thankful for today, and every day after.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

 

     

“I like your Christ.  I don't like your Christians.  Your Christians look nothing like your Christ.” - Ghandi

Dang y'all.  That's harsh.  It kind of makes me want to put on my boxing gloves, you know?  Get out there and rough someone up in defense of Christianity.  Quote some scripture, point out some awesomeness, hollar a few statistics. 

Ephesians 2:10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ for good works.  BING.

The Salvation Army provides aid to over thirty million people a year.  BANG.

Samaritan's Purse has sent thousands of doctors to help meet the physical and spiritual needs of people in impoverished nations.  BAM.

Ninety-one percent of Christians donate to charities.  BOOM.

There. 

Hook. Jab. Cross. Uppercut. 

Take that sucker.  Uhhh, I mean, Mr. Ghandi. 

Then . . .

I read his words again.

"Your Christians look nothing like your Christ."

And you know what?  My boxing gloves fall to the ground as I realize . . . Ghandi's right.

When have I ever looked like Christ?

Colossians 3:12-15  Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Bear with each other and forgive one another.  And over all these virtues, put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

If I want to look like Christ, Colossians 3 tells me exactly which traits I have to exhibit.  I can go to weekly Bible studies and offer to pray for friends and wear a cross around my neck.  I can announce to everyone I meet that I'm a Christian.  But those displays will never mean anything if I don’t show people Christ. 

I have to be compassionate.  I have to be kind.  I have to be humble and gentle and patient and forgiving.  And more than anything, I have to love.  If I want to live like Jesus, I have to love like he did, and Jesus loved BIG. 

He loved so big he fed thousands of people with a single basket of bread and fish.  He loved so big he calmed a stormy sea.  He loved so big he healed a blind man, and a deaf man, and a paralyzed man, and a mute man, and a leper, and a bleeding woman, and a demon-possessed girl.  He loved so big he brought dead people back to life.  He loved so big, he suffered . . . and he bled . . . and he hung naked and nailed to a cross . . . just so I would know how wide and long and high and deep his love really is.

 

Such BIG love.

I wonder how many people I've come across in my life who have never had the opportunity to glimpse Christ.  I bet hundreds of people have crossed my path who have never seen Jesus in a church or in a Bible or, sadly, in a Christian.  What if . . . I shudder to think of the missed opportunities . . . what if people could glimpse Jesus in me?  What if I lived and loved in such a way that I consistently showed others what Christ looks like?

Christians have the power to change the world.  I believe that.  But we'll never do it thinking about Jesus or reading about Jesus or preaching about Jesus.  We can study Jesus all our lives, but if we never serve like he did, if we never live and love like he did, all our knowledge is wasted. 

Jesus died on the cross for our sins, and that's amazing and wonderful and extraordinary.  It means we're forgiven and free.  What a blessing and an honor. 

But it's not enough to accept Jesus as just our savior.  We also have to allow him to be our example.  Yes, Jesus redeemed the world on the cross. Yes, the grace he provided is the most beautiful gift we can ever receive.  But the cross is only one part of a bigger story.  The life Jesus lived is just as important as the death he died.  We can't only look at the cross if we want to follow Jesus.  We have to live our lives the way he lived his. We have to be compassionate.  We have to be kind.  We have to be humble, patient, gentle and forgiving. And above all, we have to love.  We have to love BIG.  So big that when people see us . . . they can't help but see Jesus too.

We have to prove Ghandi wrong.

1 John 2:6  Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.

There’s just something about election day in America. 

I woke up to much colder than normal temperatures and lots of rain in suburban Atlanta this morning.  Not a great day to get out and place a vote, in my extremely warm-blooded opinion. There had been much talk in recent weeks about hours of waiting, so anticipating the worst, I bundled up in my finest winter gear and begrudgingly headed to my local elementary school, prepared for a long and frustrating morning.  I found a parking space more easily than I expected, and headed towards the door holding my broken umbrella at just the right angle to ward off the rain. 

What a pain, I thought, I could be sipping a warm cup of coffee in my coziest robe right now.

Only minutes later, I was surrounded by strangers turned friends, smiling and chatting as we prepared to exercise our right . . . our privilege . . . to participate in choosing the next leader of our great nation.  No one complained about the rain.  No one fussed about standing for an hour in a long line.  We weren’t male or female, old or young, rich or poor, white or black.   It didn’t matter who was voting for Obama and who was voting for Romney, and honestly, it shouldn’t.  God knows exactly who will win the election today.  He wrote it as part of that man’s story and as part of the greater story – His story.  The man who is named our next President will simply play a role in fulfilling God’s plan for the United States, whatever that may be.

Hopefulness abounded in the precinct I visited this morning.  It was palpable. I could feel the patriotism running through my veins.  I actually had goose bumps as I walked forward to make my selections in my personal voting booth, coat in hand, rain boots clunking on the cafeteria floor.  And to think I allowed a little bad weather to make me consider skipping this remarkable event? 

Shame on me. 

I am proud to be an American.  I am grateful to live in a country where the citizens have an opportunity to make their voices known.  I am thankful there are two men who want the incredible responsibility of leading over three-hundred million people for the next four years – what a daunting desire.  

Whoever wins the election of 2012, I will celebrate the fact that I had the chance to choose his name.  Because I know the next President of the United States of America, whether his name is Obama or Romney, wants only what is best for our country.  Lest I forget . . . it’s his country too.  Our next President is a husband and a father and an American.  I will agree with some of his ideas and disagree with others.  Some of his policies will make me smile and some will make me cringe.  He will do many good things and make many mistakes.  I will love him or hate him, but above all, I will respect him.  And tomorrow . . . and every day after . . . I will pray for him and for our country.  

1 Timothy 2:1-2  First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people,  for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way.

You all know Ebenezer Scrooge, right?  Well, come about the middle of October, that’s me.  I’m him.  Basically, we’re kindred spirits, only with a different holiday pissing us off.

I.  Hate.  Halloween.

There.  I said it.  Or wrote it, actually, but I’d be happy to announce it with a loud booming voice to anyone willing to listen.  For years, I tried to deny my true feelings about October 31^st, but I’m all about the love yourself as you are thing these days and what I love about myself is that I HATE HALLOWEEN.

As a child, I liked Halloween.  I mean, I liked chocolate.  A LOT.  Therefore, I liked Halloween.  When the gathering free chocolate part of Halloween faded, however, and the holiday became strictly about dressing up, my inner Scrooge began to develop. 

In college, there were Halloween socials.  Really?  That’s what you want to do to try and meet cute boys – put on a costume and face paint and a wig and be all “It’s so nice to meet you but let me offer you a quick disclaimer and let you know I’m only dressed up as Dolly Parton and when I take off this costume I don’t look quite so Dolly and by the way who exactly are you supposed to be and before this goes any further, are those your real eyebrows?” 

Really?

Once I became a parent, the Scrooge in me disappeared for a few years.  When my kids were young, I looked forward to celebrating Halloween with them each fall.  Halloween meant reading books about pumpkins and parties and trick-or-treating.  It meant putting gourds in a pretty bowl on the dining room table as a centerpiece.  It meant filling a vase with candy corn and sticking a candle in the middle of it to put on the kitchen counter.  It meant taking a family trip to the pumpkin patch and carving Jack-o-lanterns on the deck while pumpkin seeds roasted in the oven and dressing my toddlers in matching costumes to take pictures by the mums on our front porch.  

Now, I’m the parent of a seven and a nine year old, and you can just call me Ebenezer. 

My kids don’t want me to read Pumpkin Soup to them anymore.  They don’t care about gourds, they want to eat the candy corn on the kitchen counter for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and they think a jack-o-lantern can only be carved from the biggest, most expensive pumpkin in the patch.  Now, before we’ve even flipped the calendar from September to October, the first thing I hear every morning is, “Mom, we have to go get our costumes today because if we don’t get them today they will all be completely gone and there won’t be any left and we won’t get what we want and Halloween will be ruined and no one will give us candy because we won’t have costumes so can we please go costume shopping right this very minute because I’m dying to put on some cheap polyester and see how amazing I look?”

Could the ghost of Halloween past please appear and take me back to 2008, because my kids were the cutest little Mickey and Minnie Mouse you’ve ever seen that year, and not only were they absolutely adorable, they were perfectly content with one lollipop and a Hershey bar in their trick-or-treat bags.

I took my kids costume shopping early this month, because I certainly didn’t want their lack of the perfect costume to be my fault, and what I need to know is . . .

What in the name of normal has happened to Halloween?

Everywhere I looked, I saw blood and guts and gore and chainsaws.  There were freaky masks and headless creatures and hairy spiders the size of my refrigerator.  There were warts and claws and fangs and amputations.  And the icing on the cake . . . the best decoration of them all . . . well, it was at the very front of the store.  No way you could miss it.  It was a little girl, wearing a dress, who started to move when you got close to her.  She had a disturbing stance and ruthless eyes, and, I kid you not, the child was eating a brain.  A BRAIN people. 

Really?

Of course, my children wanted to buy it.  They thought it would be great to have a little girl munching on a brain on our front porch this Halloween.  To replace the mums, no doubt.  And I have exactly one thing to say about that. 

Bah humbug. 

My first child was born with a bit of an old soul.  It isn’t that he’s especially wise or mature.  He just doesn’t often have that childlike fascination with the little things that’s usually so common in youngsters his age.  I wouldn’t necessarily call him pessimistic.  He’s not a “the glass is half-empty” kind of person.  He’s more like a “the glass is definitely half-full, but still, there’s not nearly enough lemonade in there for me.” 

My second child, on the other hand, replaced her glass with a sparkly pink plastic cup that has a rhinestone peace sign on it.  Then, she shoved the cup deep under her bed, along with all the other things she’s currently hoarding.  If she ever does fish that cup out, she will probably decide to fill it with a dozen filthy rocks or a hundred tiny buttons or, most likely, as many rainbow Skittles as she can find, which she will refuse to share or throw away for the next eleven months. 

Now my husband . . . his glass is eternally full.  His glass is filled to the brim with the mouthwatering beverage of his choice, and nothing is going to stand in his way of enjoying every last drop.  In fact, even if the glass isn’t filled with his favorite beverage, he will still find it satisfying.  He will smile when he’s finished drinking as if all is right in the world, the way it usually is and will continue to be.  (Lest you be tempted to think my husband is utterly perfect, please note that nine times out of ten he will leave his glass sitting on the kitchen table for someone else, aka his wife, to deal with.)

As for me?  Well, my main concern with any glass is drinking whatever liquid is inside of it as quickly as possible so I can put said glass in the dishwasher, where it can no longer clutter my kitchen, my mind, and my life. People don’t usually call me a “glass half-empty” or a “glass half-full” kind of person.  They typically just call me crazy. 

It’s strange . . . when I read what I’ve written about my daughter and husband, I can’t help but smile.  It’s so clear that there is great beauty and worth and uniqueness in each of them. 

Adam is wonderful and I couldn’t possibly live without him.  He doesn’t worry nearly enough about anything and I could do without the middle of the night snoring, but I find it rather obvious that God provided exactly what I needed in a life partner when he brought Adam and I together. 

And Libby . . .  well, she’s nothing like I expected my daughter to be.  She’s strong and stubborn and sure of herself and very, very messy.   She has the worst taste on the planet when it comes to clothing and accessories and I’m quite worried she won’t grow out of it, but she’s bold and funny and extremely decisive.  She has qualities I know will serve her well down the road, even if she never does grasp the concept of color coordination. 

When I read what I’ve written about my son, however, my heart aches just a little.  You see, for so long, I only appreciated my son’s qualities, probably because they made life easier for me.  A mother values self-control and following rules and perfectionism and a desire to please others when she has young children.  Trust me, I was all about Charlie being who he was created to be when he was sitting silently in a grocery cart at the age of three while the toddler one aisle over was throwing boxes of hamburger helper on the floor and screaming at the top of his lungs.  As Charlie gets older, however, sometimes I find myself wishing he was . . . different. 

Ugh.  You know that awful feeling you have when you walk into an enormous spider web? Your whole body starts doing the convulsion dance as you try to wiggle off the disbelief and disgust.  Yep.  I’m boogying right now.  Uncontrollable shaking from head to toe as I cringe at my own words – blatant evidence that I want my child to be someone he isn’t.

We’re not supposed to do that.  Parents, I mean.  We aren’t supposed to want our children to be different.  Deep down in my heart, where decency and loyalty lie buried under all my wayward desires, I’m aware of the fact that God created my son to be exactly who he is.  I shouldn’t want him to change, and yet, sometimes I do.  Those wayward desires remain right there at the surface, driving relentless thoughts of alteration where there should be acceptance.

As a mother, I believe my job has always involved a great deal of guidance when it comes to behavior.  From the beginning, my role demanded I lead my children towards positive change on many occasions.  When seven month old Charlie was still waking up in the middle of the night to nurse, I had to initiate change, so I sent his father to help him back to sleep (no mom = no milk).  When toddler Charlie wanted to run across a busy parking lot by himself, I had to initiate change, so I took his little hand in mine and explained why we must walk together.  Even now, Charlie is halfway to college, and I still attempt to influence his behavior on a daily basis. 

“Please change your tone of voice.”

“Please change your attitude.”

“PLEASE CHANGE OUT OF THOSE DIRTY BASEBALL PANTS BEFORE YOU EVEN THINK OF GOING NEAR THAT BRAND NEW COUCH YOUNG MAN!”

Ewwww, yuck.  I think I just walked through another spider web.

Although I frequently encourage my son to change his clothes, his manners, his choice of words, and his actions, I’m not actually trying to transform the very core of who he is . . .

Am I? 

When Charlie tells me that he doesn’t want to do something, and I say, “Of course you do.  Come on, you’ll love it,” am I not telling him he can’t make his own decisions?  When he informs me he doesn’t like something and I say, “But it’s so much fun,” am I not telling him his opinions aren’t valid?   When Charlie tells me he spent recess talking about video games with a friend, and I say, “Wouldn’t you rather play basketball?” am I not telling him he makes poor choices?  When he requests a specific item at the store and I say, “I think you should get this instead,” am I not telling him he shouldn’t trust his own instincts?  And when I voice concerns that Charlie is too serious, too cautious, too hard on himself, too concerned with outcomes, am I not telling my son he isn’t right?  That he’s not what I wanted?  Am I not suggesting that God must have gotten it all wrong?

Remarkable, isn’t it.  Little ole’ me doubting the creator of the universe.  How bold.  How brazen.  How preposterous.

Seriously, would I question the amount of purple paint Van Gogh used to create his 'Irises' painting in 1889? 

Would I question the way Gehry designed the Guggenheim Museum? 

How about Beethoven – would I question his decision to create the ninth symphony with Ode to Joy as the finale instead of just stopping at eight?

Charlie is a serious kid.  He's cautious.  He’s extremely hard on himself.  He worries a lot about outcomes.  Sometimes, he wants to do things I don’t think he should.  Sometimes, he doesn’t want to do things I highly recommend.  Sometimes, do you believe the nerve of this kid, he even has the audacity to complain that there is not enough lemonade in his glass.

When Charlie is so serious and so cautious and so hard on himself and such a worrier, I shake my head, and I sigh a sad little sigh, and a silent voice inside my head says, “I wish my son was silly and spontaneous and giggly.  I wish he would throw himself in the mix and act a little nuts and be more aggressive.  I wish he would break a few rules and care less about what others think and enjoy the ride instead of obsessing over the finished product. I wish he would throw a few boxes of hamburger helper on the floor and scream at the top of his lungs in the middle of Publix."  Wait, I take that back – I’m SO glad he never did that.  Still, I can’t deny it.  Sometimes, that voice in my head speaks the ultimate betrayal. 

“I wish my son was different.”

And then, from out of the blue, the voice of truth whispers back. 

“I made Charlie in my image.  He is mine and he is perfect.”  

Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’ is valued at over one hundred million dollars.  The Guggenheim Museum is considered the most significant work of architecture from the last three decades.  Beethoven is known as one of the most influential composers in the history of the world. 

And God . . .

GOD DOES NOT MAKE MISTAKES.  He is never wrong.  So how can I possibly argue with him in such a way to suggest that my own son needs a personality adjustment?  Charlie is exactly who he’s supposed to be.  Sure, I’ll have to encourage him to change his behaviors now and again.  Of course he’ll change in size and stature and intelligence.  He’ll change friends and jobs and locations through the years.  His hair will change and his clothes will change and his voice will change and he will change his mind about everything under the sun.  But I cannot change who God created him to be.  Charlie is anxious and cautious and serious and hard on himself and a worrier and too much like me and . . . he is perfect.

God does not make mistakes.   

This has nothing to do with anything, but I have to share it anyway because hey, not every post can be well thought-out and incredibly insightful and . . . oh, yea, those are the other blogs you read.  Okay.  That’s great then.  This post fits in just fine.

Our Libby has done and said some funny things in her seven years.  My personal favorite . . .

Several years ago, Adam’s cousin asked us if Libby could be the flower girl in her wedding.  When we told our daughter she was going to be a flower girl, she promptly responded by grinning from ear to ear and asking the most precious question any four year old child has ever asked.

“What kind of flower will I be?”

Now I’m grinning from ear to ear remembering that moment, as I will long after Libby has her own wedding and, possibly, her own flower girl.

So.  My kids love playing the Brain Teasers game on the Ipad.  It’s a game of riddles . . . questions that make you think, like this one:

What can be swallowed, but can also swallow you?

???

Your pride.

Oooo.   Good one, don’t ya think?

Here’s another:

The more you have of it, the less you see.  What is it?

???

Darkness.

Cool, huh?

Some are a bit goofy:

What can go up a chimney down but can’t go down a chimney up?

???

An umbrella.

Yea.  I didn’t really need to know that, but you get the drift.  The brain teasers game is interesting and entertaining, and since Libby and I have been stuck at home for five days now (she had bronchitis which turned into pneumonia), we’ve had a LOT of time to play it.  As it turns out, I’m pretty good at the Ipad brain teasers game.  I’ve been answering riddles left and right with clever responses that seem to shock my only daughter.  I’m still not sure why she has such a surprised look on her face every time I get one right.  I mean, honestly, where does she think she inherited all of her amazing intelligence from anyway?  At one point, she actually came right out and voiced her skepticism.

“How do you know all the answers, mama?”

To which I responded in the most humble manner possible,

“I’m smarter than the average bear, honey.”

Now here’s where the story gets good, even if not particularly insightful.

Last night, Adam and I were working out with our personal trainer, Tony Horton, who shows up in our basement six days a week as long as we keep pressing play.  Libby decided it was time to give Adam a turn with the Ipad brain teaser game.  As it turns out, he’s easily stumped.  And since it’s especially hard to answer riddles while curling dumbbells, my husband was quickly frustrated enough to bark at his sick, pneumonia ridden daughter . . .

“Why are you asking me all these questions anyway, Libby?”

To which my brilliant and loyal daughter confidently responded,

“Because you’re the average bear, Daddy.”

And now, the flower girl thing comes in at a close second on my list of favorite funny lines from Libby. 

Happy Sunday, friends!  Hug your bears tightly today.  Even the average ones.:)

The last time I wrote about our puppy, I should have promised it would be the final time.  I didn’t, and here we go again.  Of course, the last time I wrote about our puppy, she had just ventured back from the brink of death.  Dramatic, I know, but very much true. 
 
Today, though alive and well, Macie’s days are no less numbered, mainly because her newest trick involves barking her head off at the deer behind our house EVERY SINGLE TIME SHE SEES ONE.  Friends, the autobahn for deer is two hundred feet out my back door. I don’t know where they’re heading, but apparently, every deer in the metro Atlanta area has to walk through my backyard to get there.  What this means for me is every time I sit down at the kitchen table to enjoy a few minutes of quiet and a warm cup of decaf with enough vanilla creamer to make it taste like desssert, my lovely reprieve from the busyness of life is broken by the sound of an ear-piercing bark from a twenty pound dog who wants to tackle a hundred pound deer. Needless to say, several of my robes now have coffee stains down the front of them, and I almost fell off a chair while changing a lightbulb last week.

Despite Macie’s obvious desire to be featured on Craig’s List, she remains a permanent fixture in my nightmares home.  And between the frequent episodes of incessant barking, she continues to teach me.

Macie is fully aware she is not allowed to chew on the dining room rug.  If a human is within her line of sight, she will stroll into the dining room, lie down calmly on the rug, and pretend to be preparing herself for a nap.  When Macie thinks no one is looking, however, she’ll race right into that dining room and take a big ole' bite.  Of course, our brilliant little puppy hasn’t yet realized there is more than one entrance to the dining room and I can sneak up behind her and see exactly what’s she’s up to at any time and just what kind of fool does she think I am anyway?  I am ALWAYS looking. 

The fascinating thing about dogs is they are more like humans than we’d like to admit.  Macie knows the rules.  She simply breaks them anyway.  

Hmmm.  Sound like anyone you know?  I’d like to say it sounds like my nine-year-old son and my seven-year-old daughter, and frankly, it often does.  You know who else it sounds like? 

Me.

I know the difference between right and wrong.  I choose wrong anyway.  I know the difference between judging and empathizing.  I judge anyway.  I know the difference between serving others and serving myself.  I serve myself anyway.  I know the difference between coveting and loving.  I covet anyway.  I know the difference between God’s way and my way.  And still, over and over and over again . . . I do it my way.  I should be taking a nap, and instead, I’m gnawing on the damn rug.

Like Macie, I know the rules.  I know what I’m supposed to do – with my time, with my talents, with my treasures.  I simply choose to do what I want to do instead, and many times, there is a big difference. 

I’d like to blame it on Satan.  He was the pesky apple pusher, wasn’t he?   I’d like to blame it on Adam and Eve.  They ate the forbidden apple, right?  We are fallen because they fell.  But really, I shouldn’t blame anyone.  Instead, I should express thanks.  I should drop to my knees, grateful and appreciative and forever indebted, because no matter how many times I break the rules . . . no matter how many times I make the wrong choice . . . no matter how many times I do what I want to do instead of what I know I should do, He forgives me.  

Personally, I’m not the best at forgiveness.  I remember.  I stew.  I dwell.  Most of all, I harbor unrealistic expectations.  I believe I will only have to forgive once, because how in the world could anyone who has sinned against me have the nerve to do it again. 

Oh. 

But wait. 

We sin.  That’s what we do. 

We know the rules.  We break them anyway.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, generation after generation.  And because He forgave, so must we.  Not just once, but every time.  Everyone. 

Even if it means giving a belly rub to the puppy who barks like a maniac at the deer . . . and then eats your dining room rug.

Matthew 6:14  For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.

Ahhhhhhhh.  I do believe Fall has arrived.

WOOHOO!!! Fall is finally here!

Hallelujah and praise the Lord.  It's Fall.

Hot dog, dem leaves isa changin!  I reckon it's 'bout time to say 'Happy Fall Y'all'!!!

However you want to announce it, there is some serious rejoicing going on in my hometown this month, and I'm proud to be among the revelers.

In Atlanta, Fall doesn't ever creep in through the backdoor and take residents by surprise.  In Atlanta, the arrival of Fall is a long awaited, much anticipated transformation.  After months of temperatures frequently beginning with the number '9,' Fall is a welcome reprieve that comes just in the nick of time, and makes Georgia residents forget the August humidity so fast they've bought a new pair of boots in every color less than a month after Labor Day.  

The change of seasons is truly one of the best assets of my hometown.  Sure, we might have the longest rush hours in the country and pictures of Atlanta could be featured next to the words "urban sprawl" on Wikipedia, but we have Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall people, and if ever there were four blessings to be counted, those four are certainly at the top of my list.

Each of our distinct seasons has its advantages.  A winter snow day in Atlanta is nothing short of magical - there is a peace that descends on the city when the Georgia pines are coated in ice that makes you believe all is right in the world.  In the Spring, the blooming daffodils are followed by the red buds are followed by the dogwoods are followed by the cherry trees are followed by the azaelas are followed by the tulips, and now the world isn't just right, it's full of possibility.   Next comes summer, and though the steering wheel in your car can give you second degree burns, school is out and the pools are open and everyone runs around in flip flops eating popsicles and ice cream.   And then, just when you don't think you can handle one more day of the oppressive heat, you step outside in late September, and your breath catches in your throat as you feel it against your skin - that unmistakable crispness in the air.

Fall.

It's my favorite season.  Life is truly lovely in September, October, and November.  And December. Because, hey, that's the beauty of living in northeastern Georgia. The last few weeks have had people planting mums and buying gourds, and I wake up each day craving a pumpkin spice latte and an afternoon spent watching college football.  There is the anticipation of the rapidly approaching holidays and the smell of apple cider and the opportunity to wrap up in a cozy fleece blanket in the evenings.  And the leaves . . .the colors are so spectacular, so stunningly vibrant they could never be duplicated by a human hand. 

In Matthew 6:30 it says . . . If God pays that much attention to the appearance of what he creates in nature, don't you think he'll do his best for you? 
 
When something comes along in the next few months to bring me down . . . to make me doubt my beauty . . . to make me doubt my worth . . . to make me doubt God . . . 

I'm going to walk outside . . .

And I'm going to see the pumpkins and the mums . . .

And I'm going to feel the cool breeze brush my face . . .

And I'm going to stare at the glorious burgundies and oranges and yellows filling my backyard where there once was only green . . .

And I will remember why I love Fall.  I will remember why it's my favorite season.  Because Fall feeds my faith. I hope and pray it feeds yours as well. 

HAPPY FALL FRIENDS!!!

 

Isn’t it intriguing the way God puts people in your life for specific reasons?  Sometimes he sends a caregiver – someone who is giving and thoughtful and makes you feel better when the skies look gray.  Sometimes he sends a friend – someone relatable who you can connect with and talk to about anything.   Sometimes he sends a teacher – someone who shares stories and experiences that provide valuable life lessons.  And sometimes, well, sometimes God sends a hit man – someone who will slap you upside the head, thrust his finger into your chest, and rattle off the kind of truth that makes you realize you’re totally NOT getting it. 

There’s this nasty little sin God warns us about that goes by the name of pride, and boy, have I got a handle on that one.  I’m about as familiar with pride as I am with bleach, and as you well know, that’s some big-time familiarity.

I’m proud people.  I'm proud of all kinds of things I have no business taking pride in.

I’m proud of my biceps.  Two and a half years of P90X and Insanity will do that to a woman approaching forty.  Seriously, come on over for a visit.  I’ll let you feel them. 

I’m proud of my children.  They’re cute and they’re doing well in school and they almost always remember to use their manners in public. 

I’m proud of my home.  It’s nothing fancy and I have a list a mile long of things I’d like to renovate and redecorate when I win the lottery, but it’s organized and clean and if you do come over to feel my biceps, you’ll probably think I’ve got it all together.

A while back, I was even proud of my parenting.  Sure, I let my kids have donuts on Saturday mornings and I make them take showers every night, even in the winter, but in general, I thought I had this mama thing pretty well covered.  And then, out of nowhere, God sent that mean ol’ hit man to knock me right into the middle of next week. 

You see, I've always had a plan regarding the whole eating, self-confidence, body image thing when it came to my children.  I don’t want Charlie and Libby to be anything like me in those departments, so before I even had kids, I decided exactly how I was going to make sure that didn’t happen.  I admit it wasn’t a well-researched strategy.  I simply intended to do things completely differently from the way my parents did them.  I know, I know.  I can’t blame my mother and father for all my issues.  Like most, my parents are good people with good intentions.  Still, I firmly believe they made mistakes in this arena, and I’m determined not to repeat them. 

Without going into great amounts of detail, here’s what my instruction on eating and body image entailed.  My mom made a LOT of chocolate chip cookies while I was growing up.  The only thing she made more of were comments on how she needed to go on a diet to lose weight from all the cookies she’d been eating.  My dad . . . well, after I gained some weight in high school (they should never allow seventeen-year-old cheerleaders to sell candy as a fundraiser.  I consumed way more boxes of peanut M&M’s than I sold), he told me I needed to drop a few pounds so I wouldn’t get my feelings hurt when I went away to college the next year.  Quality teaching?   I think not.  The ramifications exist to this day, and likely, for the rest of my life this side of heaven.

So.  Like I said, I had a plan when it came to educating my own children in the areas of eating and body image.  My plan involved lots of discussion about healthy choices and moderation and staying active and loving yourself for who you are.  Before my kids could even talk, I was telling them about things like calcium and fiber and vitamins and the importance of raising one’s heart rate.  Omega 3's is a regular phrase used in our house, my kids could name the superfoods when they started preschool, and to this day, I’ve never used the word ‘diet’ in front of Charlie and Libby.  

My intentions as a parent have been to keep the focus on food as fuel for the body and to demonstrate a lifestyle that includes plenty of exercise.  For years, I concentrated on pointing out why certain foods and staying active make me feel good and what effects such choices have on the human body.  Essentially, my goal has been to be a positive example for Charlie and Libby, and, quite frankly, I thought I was doing a good job.  Of course, that was before the hit man appeared.

I should probably tell you that the hit man is actually a woman.  She’s also well versed in dealing with people’s issues.  And this is how our recent conversation went about my valiant efforts in promoting healthy eating habits and high self-confidence in my children.

“So, Alison, tell me . . . when you sit down to eat meals with your kids, do you eat the same things they’re eating?”

“Are you kidding?  I haven’t had a sandwich or a plate of pasta in over two years.  I eat salads.  Big, healthy bowls full of heart-healthy greens loaded with non-dairy goat cheese and fiber-filled raw almonds topped with sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil."

“Mm hmm.  I see.  And when you allow your kids to indulge in sweets, what does that look like?”

“It looks like me reminding them that sweets are a special treat which should only be eaten in moderation and boy I sure used to love eating those pumpkin muffins myself.”

“Okay.  Now, what about when your kids go to school.  Do you pack their lunches?”

“No, lunches are “included” in tuition, so they aren’t permitted to take their own lunches.  But trust me, Charlie and Libby know they are only allowed to get chocolate milk once a week and I encourage them to visit the salad bar for fruits and veggies.  And, of course, I ask them every day when they get in the car after school what exactly they had for lunch.”

“Of course.  So, tell me this, Alison, how often would you say you eat for joy?”

“What?  I’m sorry.  I must have misunderstood your question.  Did you just say eating and joy . . .  in the same sentence?  That makes absolutely no sense to me.  I mean, what on earth could you possibly be speaking of with this eating for joy insanity?  I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life.”

“Right.  Well, I have just one more question for you then.”

“Okay.  Go for it.  I’m going to knock this one out of the park just like the others.  Bring it on, lady.”

“You’ve just told me you don’t eat the same things your kids eat.  You constantly remind them what’s healthy and what isn’t.  You attempt to control their food choices even when they are not with you.  And you need to know what they are eating for every meal of the day.  Correct?”

I nod in agreement here, but I’ve got a bad feeling about where this is going and I’m pretty sure I won't like what she’s going to say next.  Sure enough, the hit man (woman) breaks out her finger, shoves it against my chest, and crushes my every last parental objective with a dose of reality that will reverberate in my heart and mind for the rest of time.

“And you think your kids aren’t going to have the same issues you have?”

At that moment, all the air left the room, and I actually had to remind myself how to stay alive. 

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  Okay.  Okay.  I think my heart is still beating, though just barely.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

I’m rarely speechless, but there were simply no words.  As the rush of comprehension consumed my every thought, destroying my pride and replacing it with shame, the tears spilled forth.  Dark, heavy, loathsome tears.  Tears of guilt and regret and despair.  Tears filled with an intense desire to turn back time, to do it all again, to give it another shot so I could please for the love of all things healthy have the chance to get it right.

God allows people to come into our lives for a purpose.  Some for a second, some for a season, some for a lifetime.  I have no doubt the hit woman’s purpose in my life was at least partially fulfilled during our conversation that day.  She opened my eyes when they were tightly shut, illuminating my mistakes while I still  have time to make ammends, and I'm grateful for her willingness to be brutally honest with me.  

Several days after that conversation, our family went out for pizza. 

I had two slices.