One Particular Morning

It was one of those mornings that came too quickly on the heels of one of those nights. One of those nights that the baby needed to be held the whole night long, and the burning weight of my eyelids was begging the morning to hold off for just another moment or two.  Sun streaming in, quieted baby tucked into elbow crook, I had barely given in to the fog of sleep when the alarm clock went off at a fog-clearing volume.

"AAAARRRRGGHHHHH, MATEY!!!", the alarm rang out loud and clear, just as the first droplet of saliva was threatening to spill onto my pillow.  "AAARRRGGGHHHH, MATEY!!" came the alarm's echo.

My alarm clock just turned four at the beginning of February.  He's a very immature, impulsive four, and so very not ready to be labelled a preschooler, so I shall refer to him as Alarm Clock Toddler. 

Alarm Clock Toddler is a spirited concoction that God purposefully designed with beautiful, big blue eyes trimmed in gorgeous lashes.  He was then gifted an impish sparkle with which to light up those baby blues, and an equally impish grin (a "naughty grin" per se), to take the sting out of many of his unwelcome antics.  In short, God made Alarm Clock Toddler adorable so he's far less likely to be throttled.

And then there is darling Echo Toddler, barely two.  Short, bespectacled, and beyond-belief adorably dimpled and pudgy, Echo Toddler has vocabulary skills equal to the Alarm, but with perfect baby pronunciation.  He spends his days (and early mornings) trying to duplicate whatever Alarm Clock Toddler does...and attempting to not be bowled over, squished, trampled, or otherwise maimed by him.

This particular morning was nothing out of the ordinary for Alarm Clock and Echo, or for me.  Nor was it out of the ordinary to hear an urgent tap-tap at my door, followed by the muffled voice of a certain seven-year-old big brother, who we'll call The Informant.  Wiping the nearly-escaped spittle from my mouth, I shook the cobwebs from my brain and trudged to the door to hear a first-hand account of what Alarm Clock and Echo were up to.

So you know that little kit with the strap and screws that you get when you buy a new dresser?  Kinda wishing I hadn't tossed it aside and ignored the subsequent step in the instructions that boldly stated "Affix dresser to wall."  Let's just say that Alarm Clock Toddler learned the hard way that dresser drawers don't make good stairs.  Thankfully, the only casualty was Alarm's doggy bank, but as I struggled to lift the dresser and clear away decapitated doggy-bank pieces to the tune of a screaming newborn, I could tell it was going to be "one of those days."

It was.  The morning was full of clutter, hyperactivity, arguments, rolling eyes, unfolded laundry, spilled milk, sticky hands, runny noses and poo.  Miss Tween (shockingly) was in a foul mood, The Informant was playing with Legos during chore time, and the Sparkly-Unicorn Girl was doing ballet during math time.  Alarm Clock Toddler, who is really a nudist at heart, was seen streaking naked through the parlor on more than one occasion, and Echo Toddler screeched every time he came near, afraid (with good reason) that Alarm was going to rip his toy out of his hands.  And the baby cried.  And cried.  And cried.  And cried. 

Just as my calm façade was beginning to crack, Alarm Clock Toddler pinched Echo's fingers in the piano, and with a wailing Echo on one knee and a wailing newborn on the other, I sat cross-legged on the parlor floor, staring into space, wishing I had the energy to wail along with them. 

Here is the truth of my life:

I am not enough.

The world is constantly telling people "You can do it! You're good enough! You can do whatever you want to do. You're strong enough! You've got this! You can do anything you put your mind to. You are enough!"  But if there's one thing I've learned in this adventure of parenthood - in this adventure of life - it's that all these things are lies.  I will never be enough.

I wasn't enough when I brought my first little darling home from the hospital.

I wasn't enough when I signed my name and promised to love two hurting children through whatever came.

I wasn't enough when I brought home that second little bundle, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth.

And now, as the Mama to seven of the most precious people to ever grace this planet, wonderful little people who bring so much joy and insanity and heartache and wonder and exhaustion,

I am completely, totally and definitely not enough.


On this one particular morning, sitting criss-cross applesauce in the chaos of my everyday life, God gave to me the most beautiful thought:

I am not enough.  But Jesus is.

He makes my life beautiful. 
And He makes me beautiful.
He takes what little I have to offer, and He makes it enough.

"I think your fingers are okay, Bubby. Let's go get you some milks."
"My fingers are otay," said Echo. "Let's go get me some miwks."

Echo

Super Powers

A few weeks ago, I had the unusual privilege of spending some time with my niece and nephew, who are ten and fifteen.  Their parents were attending a conference in our city, so for two days in a row, the kids came over and hung out with us.  They did a little school with us, learned how to make maple syrup, and occupied their littlest cousins while I helped the older ones with their schoolwork.  While they were here, I never once had to stop a lesson to praise a Duplo masterpiece, wipe a nose, or remove a toddler from the table.  It was a good couple of days.

We've been studying penguins, so on the second day, we brought them with us to observe the penguins at the zoo.  Because of my no-electronic-devices-in-the-car policy, I had the chance for some good conversation with my nephew, too, which was wonderful, although it made me miss my own teenage son more than ever.

Anyway, after the zoo, I found myself in a circular McDonald's booth, in a sea of chicken nuggets and burgers and fries, surrounded by seven chattering children.

"Hey, Aunt Lisa," my nephew asked, "if you could have any three super powers, what would they be?"

Good question, I thought, but a bit of a no-brainer for me. 

"I would want to be able to be Christ-like in every situation." 

The kids pondered my answer, agreed that it could be considered a super power, and then quickly moved on to choosing their own.  As the talking frenzy turned to invisibility and elasticity and the ability to shoot fire from fingertips or turn objects into gold, I sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking about what it would actually be like to be sinless.  To flawlessly live out "Jesus" in every situation. 

Wow. 

The true desire of my heart is to be like Jesus, and yet I fall incredibly short of His compassion, grace, mercy, patience, self-control, love and kindness.  I wish it were as easy as rubbing a lamp and choosing my three wishes.  I wish I could have my super-powers.  But I've learned that the path to Christ-likeness is long and winding, full of trials and mistakes and heartache and pain.  And then...a bit of ground gained.  A bit of progress along the way, and indescribable beauty because of the sacrifices that progress required of me.
     
I will never be Christ-like in every situation, but I'm more Christ-like than I used to be.  And each year, little by little and only by the grace of God, perhaps I'll gain a bit more ground.  Perhaps I'll become just a bit more like Him.

"Aunt Lisa, what's your second super power?" 

This one was tougher.  "I think I'd like to be able to fly."

"Then maybe we could be on time for church!" one of my kids piped in.

"Ha, ha...very funny." 

In all honesty, I doubt anything will ever make us on time for church, although I'm sure Jesus would be able to do it...and the ability to fly couldn't hurt.

_______________________________________________________________________

In writing this, I'm realizing I got gypped out of my third super power!  Without a doubt, I want the power to be able to convert calories eaten into exercise.  Like eating a bowl of ice cream would count as running a mile, or something along those lines.  Yes.  That would be heavenly.  What would your super powers be?

Naughty

You know that child your mother cursed you with when you were younger? 

You know the one I'm talking about; the one God, with shaking head and knowing smile, set aside for you in heaven on the day your finally-ran-out-of-patience mom first spouted the words: "Someday, I hope you have a child who does _________, just like you've done _________to me all these years!"

Yeah.  That child.  He just turned three.

Until I had this child, I thought the one before him was like me.  And he is.  Kinda.  That little boy has a big personality and has emotions (and an occasional temper) as deep and torrential as oceans, just like his Mama.  But this little boy is something else entirely. 

My three-year-old son is me in a small male body.

Decisive. Argumentative.
Creative. Musical. Entertaining.
Rarely afraid of conflict, self-assured.
Daring. Boundary-pushing. 
Happy, content.
Joyful.

We are strong personalities,
my little clone and I.

A few months ago, this little bundle of personality went through a rough patch with his behavior.  Unfortunately for him, after mothering RAD kids, there is virtually nothing he can do that will phase his Mama, even when he really, really wants to.  Believe me...he's tried, but I've pretty much seen it all and am alarmed by very few "normal" child behaviors.  Sometimes I feel bad for the poor little guy; he gives it his best, but when even the most impressive of toddler tantrums earns a cheerful "Let me know when you're done!" from the one person you're trying to get a rise out of, it puts an oppositional toddler in a tough spot.

So Mr. K started getting naughtier, and naughtier and naughtier.  

And I made a big mistake.  I started telling him he was naughty.

I may have said: 
                                 "Don't be naughty."    "You're being naughty."   
          "That's naughty!"  "Don't be a naughty boy!"


But he heard:
                 "I'm naughty."  "I'm naughty."   "I'm naughty."
                                "I'm naughty."   "I'm naughty."

It's been my experience that a child will meet your expectations.  They internalize the things you say about them, and then rise or fall to that standard.  I know this.  I've learned this in the past.  And yet, I still spent weeks unintentionally programming my little son to think of himself as "naughty."  And guess what?  He kept getting naughtier.

One day in January, I picked Mr. K up when he was misbehaving, and I said something like "Don't do that, you're a nice boy."  He looked me right in the eye and said, "No, I'm not!  I'm a naughty boy!"  He insisted he was naughty so many times in the following days that I couldn't overlook the fact that he was using my words to describe himself.  He was becoming who I told him he was!

I've made a few changes in how I discipline my son.  I don't allow his "naughtiness" to go unnoticed (or unpunished, when needed), but I've changed my words and softened them with hugs.  For example, when Mr. K grabs his toy out of the baby's hands, making him cry, I don't tell him he's being naughty.  Instead, I say something like "Oh! Poor baby, he wants to play with your toys, too!  What can you find to share with him?  You're a good sharer."  Admittedly, my obstinate toddler stared at me peculiarly when I first tried this, but he's starting to internalize that he's a "good sharer", and has started sharing on his own.  Now, when he tries to take something from the baby, I just remind him what a good sharer he is, and he usually gives it right back.  His behavior has changed by leaps and bounds, and while he's still a handful, it's obvious he feels better about himself because he's learning he's a "nice boy", a "sweet boy", and a "good sharer."  He's a different child than he was when he thought he was "naughty."

We have a tough job, us parents.  The words we choose are the words that our children will use to define themselves, and when I think of all the words I use with my own kids in an average day, it terrifies me.  Who do they believe they are, deep down?  Lazy?  Unmotivated?  Mean?  Messy?  Argumentative?  Irresponsible?  What do they hear me saying when I tell them they asked a silly question, or point out that they're being irrational?  When I tell them to act their age?

I don't want my thoughtless words to dictate who my children will be; I want my kids to believe that they are capable, fun, helpful, nice, intelligent, motivated, responsible, empowered children of God. 

I have some work to do.


With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.  Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be.  James 3:9-10

Beauty

There is beauty in having a big family.

Beauty that I never knew was possible before, when I was caught up in how many children I thought I wanted, or how much money I thought I needed, or how many fashionable clothes hung on hangers in my closet, each outfit with a pair of shoes to match.

Yes, there is beauty.  Unimaginable beauty in having no spare time to do what I want to do, no spare money to buy what I want to buy, and almost no idea of what I even would buy if I was given the chance because I'm so totally wrapped up in living for other people instead of myself.

I have always been a selfish person.

I've done what I wanted to do.
I haven't done what I haven't felt like doing.
I've said what I wanted to say.
I've gone where I wanted to go, and bought what I wanted to buy.

I've lived my life how I felt like living it, and not for other people.

Yes, I've been selfish.  It's easy when you have no children, or only a few children, or when your children aren't with you for much of the time.  When there's time to think about the things you want, which are so often the things that you really don't need; when there are hours and hours of your day that are not devoted to meeting the needs and desires of precious little people that are with you constantly and always seem to want your attention.

I am rarely given the chance to be selfish anymore.

And this is beautiful.

Don't look down on me because I have a big family.

I am blessed more abundantly than anyone I know.

Don't pity me because I'm overrun night and day by people who need me, or because I rarely have a few moments off.

I have grown more from serving my children than I ever could have grown from "me-time".

Don't judge me poorly because I've chosen to give up my freedom for these children, some broken, some healing, and some totally naïve about the pains of the world.

There is beauty in giving up your dreams, your desires, your freedom, your fancy vacations, your extra spending money, whatever it may be, and in living your life daily for others who depend on you.

There is beauty in waking up one day and realizing that their dreams and desires have become your dreams and desires, too.

And then it hits you. 
You're not nearly as selfish as you used to be.

Beautiful.

I have a beautiful life.

  


photography by Andrew Bowser


 

Mama and Miss M

My blog has been hijacked this past year by often-dreary accounts of Mr. J and his attachment-influenced journey into adolescence.  I'm kind of an emotional writer, and, especially when I don't have a ton of spare time (any homeschooling mamas with five kids at home want to vouch for me?), I tend to sit down to write only when the emotions are high and I feel like I'll burst if I don't get them out.

Which is why my fourteen-year-old son, who has frequently dominated my emotions, has also dominated my posts for a long while.

In my preoccupation with Mr. J, though, I'm afraid I've neglected to update on something miraculous and incredibly important:

My daughter, Miss M, is doing really, really well.

Actually, if I'm being completely honest, Miss M and I are doing really well.

This fall, I began my third year of homeschooling Miss M.  This means that she and I have been predominantly together since June of 2011, when she finished second grade. 

It's been two years and five months. 
That is a  l o n g ,  l o n g   t i m e .

In the beginning, I wondered how I would ever survive being with my daughter nearly every waking moment.  If you recall, she was an extremely difficult child to be around.  I'll leave it at that, but if you look up any posts about Miss M from a few years ago, you'll get the picture. (Look under the RAD posts tab at the top of the page if you need a refresher).

On top of that, at the time that God asked me to homeschool, I was a frustrated, hurt, angry, bitter, traumatized and (more than I care to admit) unforgiving Mama. 

No one likes to talk about it, but parenting RAD kids often brings out the worst in us.  The beautiful intentions of helping and healing and loving that hurt child get pushed to the back burner as each day - day after day, year after year - becomes a matter of survival.  You become a control freak, because all a RAD child wants (every waking moment) is to control you, and you start to become paranoid about the motives behind every little thing your child says.  On top of that, even "good days" are not good days, because of the anticipation of them becoming "bad days" in a moment or less. 

There are no easy, relaxing days in a family with traumatized children; RAD parents are constantly on edge.

So, needless to say, after she finished second grade, I felt like I needed to - even deserved to continue to send Miss M to school, even though it was a toxic environment for her. 

But God had other plans for us.

Miss M is reaching for healing!

Two years and five months into this journey of forced togetherness, my daughter and I are (for the most part...tween drama aside) peacefully building a mother/daughter relationship.  Things aren't perfect: Miss M still has goals to accomplish on the path to her healing, although she's come remarkably far, and I definitely have a ways to go on my journey to become like Christ, but we are both moving forward.  Together.

In the beginning, I doubted that it could ever be true, but I'm a better person for having spent these last twenty-nine months with my little Miss M, and she's a much healthier and happier girl for having spent it with me.  I thought God was crazy when He asked me to give up my life, in a sense, for this child.  I understand now that the best place to be is always inside of God's will.  Follow His leading, trust Him, and the rest will somehow fall into place. 

I'm very proud of my daughter; of the vibrant, empathetic young lady I've seen emerging from the broken shell of RAD in recent months.

And I'm very thankful to God for using Miss M and her struggles to overcome some of the worst in myself.

I'm beyond excited to see where He takes us next.

One Year Ago Today

It's been a year. 
One year ago today was the last day our son set foot in this home, the last day he woke up under our roof, the last day he was so close that I could touch him...

...and yet my touch could do nothing to soothe the long-buried rage that erupted from deep within.

One year ago today was the last day these walls...and our little children's eyes...lay witness to the violence that had become almost commonplace in the months before. 

Violent rage had become the routine.

So sad, looking back.  Sad that our little ones knew what to do when he flew out of control.

Go to the school room.
Close the door.
Strap the baby into his booster seat.
Pick out a movie.
Turn it up loud.
Wait for Grandma to get here.

My parents, ten minutes away, had been "on-call" for much of the summer.  One year ago today, Grandma was here, in the room with the kids.  Papa was upstairs helping Scott with Mr. J. 

Angry and frightened and more traumatized than I realized at the time, I had been firmly instructed to get away, go downstairs.  I was pregnant, and he had already threatened to kick me in the stomach more than once.  It would be months before I would stop involuntarily jumping at the slightest sound.

Trauma goes both ways, you see. 
The traumatized child becomes the traumatizer. 
The victim becomes the aggressor.
And the family that refuses to give up on love will come out on the other side with the battle scars to show for it.

We will never be the same.

Some changes have been good, have taught us to be more like Christ...
...to rely more fully on Him. 
But other changes are just layer upon layer of hurt and fear and pain and uncertainty...

...making me long for Heaven. 

One year ago today, we called the police, and they came. 
When they left, they took our son with them.

A difficult day, to be sure, but also a day of relief.

It's been a year of peace and healing. 
Of letting our guard down and actually living again.
We've been able to reflect, reevaluate, and gain new perspective on the events of last summer.
We've been able to breathe.

Our son is not grown up yet.  He's not secure and healthy and happy. 
He still needs us.

May this time of refreshment prepare us for whatever lies ahead.

Fruit

This time last year, I had a really awesome vegetable garden.  It was so awesome, in fact, that my little kids had to exercise teamwork just to get a single cucumber across the yard and into the house.  (I kid you not. Those suckers were HUGE).  The tomatoes were so plentiful, I began experimenting with fresh salsa recipes, heading up to the garden to pick a basket brimming with 'matoes each time I felt the urge.  And still, their remaining kin were left to rot on the bushes or, better yet, to provide the local mammalian with delicious, juicy red snacks.  Apparently, our furry neighbors enjoy tomatoes a heap of a lot more than my mom-in-law, who can barely look one in the eye.

Anyway, I didn't mind sharing our garden with the animals last year, although I admit there were a few hard feelings toward the deer or whatever-it-may-have-been that chewed all the leaves off my acorn squash vines, resulting in an entirely acorn-squashless fall.  I'm still a bit bitter.  However, squash aside, there were plenty of fresh veggies to go around.  I would've been happy to have sent Mom home with her own brimming basket of tomatoes if I'd thought for a moment she'd have taken them.

Being our first garden, we kept the variety to a minimum last summer. Cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, corn, peas.  Every seed that we planted seemed to sprout forth from the earth with a sense of pride in its purpose.  Each plant bore its fruit with gusto; except those blasted deer-eaten acorn squashes (see? still bitter) and the peas, which withered and croaked under the scorching sun of the hottest summer I can remember in Michigan.  In spite of the horrible heat, the rest of our garden grew and thrived and yielded well into the fall.

And then there were the pumpkins.... 

Pumpkins!

Last fall's bountiful harvest

We had oodles and oodles of pumpkins; a whole jolly-orange pumpkin patch sprouting up from our field in which we had simply dropped and covered a few handfuls of seeds.  The pumpkins grew proudly in such aggressive numbers that we were able to have our entire Sunday school class over for a pumpkin picking party (a PPP?) in October.  Each child in every family went home with a pumpkin, and my kids were still able to make a handful of cash at their little roadside pumpkin stand. 

We made such great plans for the next summer's garden. 
Bigger. 
Better.
New and different varieties. 
More pumpkins,
more people over to pick them,
more money made at the little roadside stand.

Lots and lots and lots of plans.

And that's where my happy little tale ends.  With plans and good intentions.  If you only like stories with rainbows and unicorns and lovely fairy-tale endings, then stop reading.....NOW.

Because this summer,
I discovered that I'm a really crappy farmer.

True story.  Cocky and confident from our garden success last year, we just threw some seeds in the ground again this spring and expected great things.  Never mind that we planted everything about a month later than planned (this happened last year, too!).  Never mind that we really never researched what we were doing.  Never mind that LAST year, the actual farmer that "for-real" farms the acres around our property had mistakenly treated, plowed and fertilized our entire little piece of earth on which our inexperienced hands then threw their handfuls of seeds. 

Hmmmm. 
Could well-prepared soil have had something to do with the success of last year's garden?

Sometime this summer, I was standing forlornly in the overgrown weed-patch that had, a year ago, been our thriving garden.  I was sad and frustrated.  We had spent days planting this garden.  We'd worked hard.  We'd doubled our pumpkin patch space in anticipation of using it to bless more families in the fall.  I had been so excited to see everything begin to grow, and the kids had been looking forward to setting up their little produce stand.  I'd even planted several extra squash plants to share with the deer.

What really got me, though, was that I had prayed over this garden.  I'd asked God to bless the fruits of our labor so that we could share them with others.  We'd watered and weeded and watched, but the weeds grew in by the hundreds, faster than we could pick them.  The seedlings didn't grow as quickly as they had before; they couldn't keep up with the weeds and got choked out.  For the most part, our garden has been a disaster. 

All because we didn't first prepare the soil.

Why did I think I could skip such a crucial step?  Do I really think that farmers spend all that time and energy preparing their fields for nothing?!  Did I think I was above the dirty work and that God would bless my work and desire to serve Him when I wasn't even willing to put in the effort to prepare the soil?

I have a lot to learn about farming and gardening.  Over the winter, there will be some serious research going on in this house in preparation of spring.  What's funny, though, is that what I actually learned this summer has a lot more to do with myself than with gardening.

Last year's pumpkin patch.

You see, I'm not just a crappy farmer.
Sometimes, I'm a really crappy follower of Christ. 

So often, I've barreled into my life saying "Lord, today I am going to serve you!  These are my plans.  Please bless the fruits of my labor even though I refuse to or forget to or neglect to prepare the soil of my life by reading Your Word and by spending significant time with You today."

How can I possibly expect to yield a bountiful harvest in my life if I haven't first prepared the soil?

I'm committing to change.  To never again waste my seeds of faith and service in unprepared soil.  I want the fruit that my life produces to be God-honoring, God-blessed, and accomplished with my eyes firmly fixed on Him.  From now on, I begin each day with Him.  Only then can I give the fruit of my life...my marriage, kids, babies, homeschooling, friendships, music, writing, and anything else He puts in my path...only then can I give it the best chance to flourish.

And if this change in me and in the fruit that I bear is the result of the complete and utter failure of the garden I asked God to bless, then I guess He answered that prayer more beautifully and fully than I ever could have imagined.

Maybe next year?

Labor of Love

It's starting to hurt again.

The bad days, the bad behavior, the bad attitude.
The disrespect, the lying, the words spoken out in absolute unreasonable anger.

It's hurting like crazy again, which means I've allowed the walls around my heart to crumble.  Crack.  Crash down to the ground, which scares the heck out of me.

My heart is unprotected.

I've done it again.  I've allowed the love I have for this hurt little girl to get the best of me, and it makes the good days oh so much better...beautiful, really.  It makes my heart soar.  It makes me happy, and my daughter happy, and it breathes a spark of life into the precious bond that's blossoming before my eyes.

The good days are so good right now.
But the bad days are so bad, and I can't even explain how much it hurts.

It sounds cruel, perhaps.  It isn't purposeful.  When someone hurts you day after day after day for years on end, rejects you, spews hate at you, I suppose it's human nature to protect your heart.  To not allow yourself to get too close or to care too much.  To become almost hard-hearted and indifferent, building walls sky-high, for then you aren't caught off-guard when the inevitable happens again.

A sturdy wall never leaves you shattered and broken, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your heart. 

But a sturdy wall never leaves room to build a bridge between two wounded hearts, either. 

My pain is necessary for my daughter to heal.  

Like the birthing of a baby, when the labor pains are so excruciating you feel you can't possibly go on for one more fraction of a moment, and then somehow you endure, and you persevere, and you set all the determination of your spirit on the one thing you know you must do.  At the end of all that pain, there's the unspeakable joy of having brought a whole new child into the world, and you know you would go through all that pain again and again for the miracle of that child.

I didn't birth this daughter, but I'm laboring for her all the same.   

At the end of all this pain, this labor of love, I believe I'll have the unspeakable joy of having brought a whole new child into the world.  A whole, happy, healthy, loved and loving, securely attached child. 

And I know I'd go through it all again for the miracle of that child.
___________________________________________________________________


I cried out today: "God, help me to love her whole-heartedly, with everything in me.  I can't do it on my own.  No matter how much it hurts, Lord, help me love her with my whole heart."

Softly, He spoke to my soul:  "You already do."

My Father is so good to me, He's with me on my way.
He watches every step I take, He hears each word I say.
Sometimes He smiles at my attempts, sometimes He hangs His head,
Sometimes His strong arms hold me up when I've left myself for dead.
No matter all the ugliness that's left my sinful tongue,
No matter all my gross misdeeds, the sorry tunes I've sung,
My Father has not left my side, not even for a day.
He'll walk with me through this dark night. Oh, Father, lead the way.

A Christian Controversy

***Note: this entry is intended for Christians.  If you are not a believer and follower of Jesus Christ, this issue most likely does not pertain to you, as God is far more concerned with your heart and soul than with your choices of entertainment.  Please email me at mamaandmissm@hotmail.com if you are unsure of what I mean and would like to discuss it*** 

I'm going to be courageous enough to address an issue that is mostly ignored within Christian circles.  I've touched on the issue of television and movies before, but in the past year (on several different occasions), I've been saddened by sisters in Christ who have recommended shows to me (which I have sometimes looked up on Netflix or online as a result...hoping to find something wholesome and entertaining), only to discover sexual content, homosexual relationships, inappropriate dress, blatant disregard for Christ and foul language, among other things. 

It seems that many Christians have become desensitized to the filth intertwined with their entertainment and don't even think twice about it.  They not only feel that it's acceptable to watch these things themselves, but also that it would be fine to suggest them to others.

Early on in our marriage, my husband and I were sucked into the same familiar routine of coming home from work, turning on the TV, and staring at it until bedtime.  We weren't overly selective about what we watched, as long as it was entertaining, and looking back, I'm ashamed of the blatantly immoral shows that we not only watched but also "couldn't miss". 

I understand the lure of television.  I understand the temptation to kick back and relax at the end of the day, or to zone out while folding laundry or while the kids are napping.  I totally remember the feeling of justifying a little sin for the sake of a favorite show, and then slowly justifying more and more sin as the show became more and more captivating.  It's a slippery slope, and once I justified the sin, the next step was ignoring it altogether.  Eventually I didn't even notice it, and then one day (I don't even remember it happening) I was laughing at it.  Being entertained by it.  By my actions, approving of it.

Slowly, God began working on us to clean up our television viewing habits, but the last straw was when a woman had a heart attack at my work and died in my arms.  Once I had experienced the actual heartache of death, I could no longer turn a blind eye to the "entertainment" of death I saw on TV.  Death and human suffering are not entertaining!  Sin is not entertaining!  Watching unholy and vile things over and over and over does have an effect on your life and on your ability to have a deeper relationship with God, no matter how much you may think it isn't harmful. 

"I will be careful to lead a blameless life —
when will you come to me?

I will conduct the affairs of my house
with a blameless heart.
I will not look with approval
on anything that is vile."

Psalm 101:2-3a 

God spoke to us through so many situations during that one year in our lives, including a new-found desire in my husband to keep his eyes and heart pure...and we've been television-programming-free for almost eight years now.  We play games, talk, and have fun together way more than when we were TV watchers; we get a lot more done, and we enjoy each other's company.  To unwind at the end of the day, we do watch movies together as a couple on occasion, but have set strict guidelines for ourselves there as well.  We read detailed reviews on anything we watch beforehand, and have discovered that (with a few exceptions) PG movies are the most we can handle.  Why?  Because if we wouldn't invite Jesus over personally to watch something with us, then we shouldn't be watching it. 

In reality, Jesus is there watching everything with us anyway.

So, we have more time for each other, a closer relationship with God, and we get more accomplished than we used to.  Are there any other benefits to turning off the television?  Definitely.  All five (soon to be six) of our children have incredible imaginations.  They play, read, craft, and never whine about watching TV because it isn't a part of their lives.  They don't see commercials, so they never beg for certain toys or cereals or experiences; they are content with what they're given for gifts, and ask for the types of things that interest them, not the latest "fad".  Family movie night is a treat for them, and they associate movies with togetherness and special occasions. 

The best part?  When they have seen TV shows (mostly at relatives' homes), they've noticed the temptations and sins we've talked to them about...prepared them for...and they've pointed them out to us themselves.  They recognize sin for what it is and are not fooled by the coating of entertainment.  Their innocence and perception is truly a gift, and we pray they will never become desensitized as we once were.

If you're on the fence, I would encourage you to try turning off the TV.  It certainly can't hurt anything.  Yes, it was incredibly hard at first, but as with all obedience, it has reaped such joy and spiritual growth into our family.  We still use wholesome movies/Netflix as an educational tool and as an occasional family treat, but getting rid of the constant bombardment of violence, impure images, immorality, greed and worldliness, along with the temptation to be lazy, has been the best thing we ever could have done for our family.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.  Philippians 4:8

Whatever convictions God lays on your heart in regard to keeping your eyes, minds, and hearts free from vile things, I wish His blessing on all of you as together we walk this journey of life.  And since I've shared something that God has been working on in my family, if anyone would like to share how He's cured you of anger, tardiness or facebook addiction (to name a few), I would be eager to hear you out!

Keeping the Focus

Several years ago, I came across an envelope of letters that I'd written to my parents from camp.  I spent my first (and only) week of horse camp, the summer after fifth grade, learning to ride and care for horses; yet judging from these letters that I found, I spent far more time at camp being prideful and appallingly self-centered than actually learning about horses. 

You see, I'm a pretty good singer.  I've come to a point in my walk with God that I can accept the talents He's given me without being prideful, because I know that I'm only good at anything because He allows me to be.  All of my talents as well as all of my weaknesses have been offered up to Him to use as He pleases.  For His glory.  And this has freed me to embrace them, without guilt, for what they are.

But I did not feel the same way in fifth grade.

What happened at camp was this: I took every opportunity that I could find for other people to hear me sing.  I always got recognized and applauded when people, both adults and peers, listened to me;  it was where my self-esteem came from back then, and it felt good.  My goal at camp quickly shifted from horseback-riding to ego-stroking, as I was repeatedly asked to sing throughout the week, ending with a solo of "Wind Beneath my Wings" at the closing ceremony. 

And while life could have just moved on with no mention of my youthful egocentricity, I chose to document each and every prideful thought in letter form.  To my parents.  In scrupulous detail.

I was appalled when I found them years later, once I had turned the corner of self-centeredness and had entered the next phase: talent denial.  During these years, in my early twenties, I was so fearful of relapsing in my tendency toward sinful pride that I stopped singing publicly altogether.  I spent years sitting in the sanctuary fighting with myself, knowing that I had something to offer the worship service, something to offer to God, and yet not feeling able to do so.  It was only when I surrendered my talents completely to Him that I was able to discover His plan for the talents He'd chosen for me.

God pursued me for a solid year before I finally relented and turned in my application to the worship office.  With the constant nudging from the Holy Spirit, I assumed that He must have had some big plans for me, but God didn't ask me to be a soloist or a worship leader...He asked me to join the praise team.  I must admit, I was surprised.  You can't even hear the praise team at our church unless you're listening online, I thought.  This is how God wants me to use my talents?

Within a few months of singing on the praise team, however, it became really obvious what God was doing.  There I was, belting out these songs, microphone in hand, knowing that hardly anyone in the service could actually hear me.  I was singing for God alone.  He was teaching me to sing for Him, not for other people, and before long the strangest thing happened:  I began to love singing on the praise team.  I was free from the pressure of my youth, the constant wondering of what other people were thinking, and I could just sing for Jesus.

Since my praise team days, God is now entrusting me to sing for Him in front of other people in several different capacities.  I feel so incredibly blessed to be allowed to serve Him in this way, in a way that I love, and yet I have to be very careful to keep my focus on Him.  Singing is one of those areas of service where people don't hesitate to give glowing compliments, shifting the focus from Christ back to the individual.  The best compliment you can give someone who is serving God - whether delivering a sermon, scrubbing a toilet, singing, or rocking a screaming baby in the nursery - is to thank them for allowing God to use their gifts!  Tell them that God has blessed you through their service.  Keep the focus on Him.

I refuse to sing for myself or for others in an attempt to find my self-worth in this world.  My self-worth was established when I was fearfully and wonderfully made in God's image, when He sent His Son to die in my place, and as He continues to love and guide me every day of my life. 

I only ever want to sing for Him.


The pathway of pride is dangerous, but equally sinful is the refusal to use the gifts God has given you. He's given us talents to use for His glory, not to hide away and not to use for our own gain.  Is there something that God is asking you to surrender to Him?

Thankful for Grace

I'm nice most of the time. 
I'm happy most of the time. 
I'm striving to follow Christ most of the time.

But when my guard is down, I can be evil.

In the moments after my anger is provoked, I can turn into something far less flattering than what I want to be.  Like a doctor-jekyl-and-mister-hyde type monster that impulsively says or does the first thing it's capable of doing.  Like I've lost all control for those few seconds...or minutes...until I remember who I am in Christ and surrender my emotions to Him.

I've said some pretty awful things to those I love in those blinded seconds.  I've been mean, ridiculous, unforgiving, hurtful, hateful, spiteful, revengeful, and worse.

UnChristlike. 

My husband is used to my periodic short angry outbursts, the stupid things I say when I'm frustrated, the ones that I don't really mean at all once my emotions switch from anger to sadness to remorse to shame, when I hang my head and cry.  Honestly, I don't think he takes me very seriously anymore, which maybe I've used as an excuse not to change.  After all, he knows I don't really mean it.  And it's over so fast that I'm the same happy, funny person in no time...sometimes before he even realizes what's going on.

In a strange parallel, I awoke this morning to a tattling 6-year-old whose sister had just told her that all her stuffed animals were dumb and that she wouldn't play with her for a year.  Pretty obviously ridiculous, right?  Wonderful Christian mom that I am, I had a discussion with my nine-year-old daughter about how her words and actions reveal what is truly in her heart.  If the things she chooses to say and do are mean, untrue, and serve no purpose except to hurt or control, then what does that say about her heart?  Is the desire of her heart to truly serve and follow Jesus?  If so, shouldn't the things she says to other people reflect that?

One of my better talks, if I do say so myself.

Feeling smug, I got breakfast ready and then went to check my email, finding a note that my husband had forwarded me concerning a scheduling conflict we're trying to resolve between a dress rehearsal for our church's childrens' choir (which he directs) and our daughters' ballet recital.  There was something in the email (it turned out to be an error) which I could have simply asked about, but instead I instantly jumped to the conclusion that he didn't care as much as I do that he attended the recital.  Within seconds, I had hammered out an impulsive, uncaring, and disrespectful comment.  I even had the thought while typing, "Well, this isn't very Christlike, Lisa.", to which I shot back "Oh, well!" and violently hit send.

It was then that I realized that I sent my reply to the church secretary instead of to my husband.

{insert crickets chirping} 
Did I really just do that? 
Yes, in fact, I did.
Oh. My. Goodness. 
HORROR.

As I found out this morning, emails, unlike words, can't be taken back.

Wait a minute.  Words can't be taken back either, can they?  I just think they can.  I think that when I've calmed down, apologized, and gone back to being the "Good Christian Girl", that my impulsive comments have left no mark on my marriage or my children. 

This simply isn't true.

And after the initial embarrassment of realizing I'd just sent a nasty reply to an innocent church secretary, I also had to humble myself and claim a few other blatant sins.

1. I did NOT control my tongue (or in this case my fingers).  Rather, I lashed out in anger.

2. This is definitely NOT the first time it's happened.  I'm a repeat offender.

3. I did NOT respect my husband by calmly questioning him and giving him the opportunity to clarify.

4. I am a great big hypocrite.

Ouch. 

I accept this humiliation as discipline from a loving God who finds me worthy of teaching and molding.  I am humbled, and I'm profoundly thankful for the grace of my Father, my husband, and a certain secretary.  I'm committed to working on it, taking the advice I gave to my daughter this morning and applying it more consistently to my own life...changing my heart from the inside out. 

I don't want to be a hypocrite; I don't want to teach my children one thing and practice another, nor do I want to misrepresent Christ with my actions.

But since I'm a work in progress and am bound to stumble on occasion, I ask one thing of you:

If you ever get a nasty email from me, please graciously disregard it...and then forward it to my husband.  There's a good chance it was meant for him.


Matthew 12:34 (ESV)

You brood of vipers! How can you speak good, when you are evil? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.

James 3:5-6 (NIV)
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. ⁶ The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

A Thousand Tomorrows

Feeling profoundly blessed today.  And reflective...and content with life...and also, even more significantly: protected.  Cradled gently and lovingly in the massive, capable hands of my Father.

And I know that whatever happens to me today or tomorrow or in a thousand tomorrows, everything will turn out okay in the end.

Because my Father knows the plans He has for me.  And today, with the sun of His design bathing the floor of my little man-made corner of the world, my spirit cannot deny that His ways are greater than my own.  His plans for my hope, my prosperity, my future.  His plans.  Not mine.

When I turn off myself, let go of my own designs, and whole-heartedly trust in the perfect goodness of His plans for me, I find that what I really want is what He wants, and my plans and His plans become inexplicably one and the same.  I can trust Him.  My Father knows what is best for me.  He knows what is best for me.  HE KNOWS WHAT IS BEST FOR ME. 

And if I truly love my Father, which I do...
And if I truly desire to follow His will, which I do...
And if I truly want to grow and become like my Savior, which I do...
Then I can truly find joy and contentment and peace in every situation, knowing that He has already written the ending to my life story.

And I end up with Him.

I attended a funeral yesterday for the dear father and grandfather of people I love;  people that are bound together more by the Spirit than by the common blood that flows through our veins.  And when the sun made its glorious appearance through my windows this morning, I felt a sudden surge of joy for this man...a lover of Jesus...who lived out the number of his days under this sun, but woke up this morning in the radiance of the one and only Son.  Wow.

Someday, when all my work is done, I'll wake up in His presence, too. 

God has already written my story for me.  I know where I came from, I know where I'll end up, and I know where my first thirty-two years have taken me.  I can even look back and see His workmanship along the way.  Many things, though, remain a mystery, and that's both scary and exciting. 

Whatever lies ahead, I'm choosing to trust Him just like I trust that the sun will rise for a thousand tomorrows.  I'm blessed and thankful to be held in His hands; I'm safe, I'm loved, and I'm protected...and I couldn't ask for anything more. 

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Jeremiah 29:11

So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
Isaiah 41:10

No Regrets

My first baby turned six last week.  Wow. 

I called her a baby until she turned two, and I stretched "toddler" until four.  When she turned five, I convinced myself that she was really just a big toddler, on the edge of becoming a little kid.  When she started kindergarten, she was still only five....hardly more than a baby, really.  My baby.

But now she's six, and I can no longer put off acknowledging what I know to be true.  I can't deny it, even though everything in my aching heart longs to hold onto her babyhood for a few years - or lifetimes - longer.

My little daughter is a child.

These six years have gone by so quickly, and my memories of them are a series of blurs tangled up in my already over-full mind.  Why can I no longer smell the clean, hot, soapy scent of my freshly bathed baby girl as I snuggled her up with her last bottle of the night?  Why can't my arms remember the weight of her cradled in them, fast asleep?  I can't hear her baby giggles and coos, her first words, or recall the feeling of watching her take her first steps, clap her chubby little hands or hold her sausage-arms out in a silent plea for me to hold her.

Those days are gone, as are the days when I taught her to write her name, when she drew me her first picture, when she sang her first song, when she lost her first tooth, when she learned to skip and do puzzles and decorate cookies and ride her bike and braid her hair and read a book by herself.

Time passes so quickly.

As I snuggled my little-but-getting-big baby girl this morning, I was flooded with these emotions, and simply had to pour them out.  I wish that I had all the time in the world to savor this sweet child....savor each of my children...and I will never regret giving up these years of my life....my career, extra money, a big house, nice cars, new clothes, fancy vacations, trips to the salon, my hobbies, my freedom, my social life, my very identity outside of being a mommy....to breathe myself and my faith into the very fabric of this child.

At the end of their lives, no one ever says that they wish they'd spent less time with their children when they were young.  I've never met a mother who, when her children were grown, wished she could go back and invest more of their childhoods working or building her own career, but I've heard from many who have said just the opposite.  This time is so short, they tell me.  Slow down.  Hold onto them.  Invest in them.  Enjoy them fully...the years and the children...before they're gone.  

Six years has passed in the blink of an eye, and will never be able to be grasped again, no matter how hard I try.  I'm so thankful that I'm not looking back on this time with regrets, that I figured this out at the beginning of those six years instead of when it was already too late.  The moment that beautiful, squalling baby was first placed on my heaving chest, I heard the voice loud and clear....the squalling voice, yes...but the still, small voice, too, whispering...

"This is what I have for you now.  This is what I made you for.  You will love her with a love like no other, with the kind of love I have for you.  You will breath into her all that you have learned, all that you know, all the beauty that you see.  You will sacrifice so much of your life for her, and in doing so, someday, she will be better able to see Me."

The Walk

I got in a  car accident  today.

                                                   Not a BIG one, just a teeny tiny one...

...but  t o t a l l y  my fault.

This morning was one of those mornings that refused to wake up and take the day by storm.  It wanted to meander and daydream and pause, all the while expecting the minute hand on the clock to follow suit.  It refused.  As the minutes sped by, the Queen of this humble green castle (myself) became restless and crabby.  Her demeanor reflected the panic of impending tardiness, and she began barking orders to her lowly (only because they're short) subjects, which didn't succeed in motivating the morning (or the subjects) one bit.

The morning did, at the very least, offer up sunshine and beautiful frosty blue skies, which were fully appreciated as we climbed into the Royal Minivan nearly an hour past the start of kindergarten.  Knowing that the morning's antagonism had already dampened the spirits of her subjects, the Queen spent several minutes entertaining them as a "fire-breathing" (or frost-breathing) dragon, restoring the laughter and smiles to her little kingdom.  Well worth being five minutes later, and after kisses and hugs, Princess J skipped happily into school.

Off we went to deliver shoebox gifts to our church, which were supposed to have been turned in yesterday, but were being loaded into shipping boxes this morning.  One shoebox filled by each of our children (and their queen)...full of toys and pencils and toothbrushes and trinkets of all sorts...and a sixth unexpected shoebox filled with the overflow of the other five.  Shoeboxes, full of the love of Jesus, sent to six children in third-world countries who are desperate to know of their treasure-status in heaven. 

The morning's lack of motivation nearly caused our shoeboxes to "miss the boat", so to speak, but also afforded us the special opportunity to pray over all the boxes stacked down the hallway (about seven hundred altogether) and ask God's blessing on the little lives that receive them for Christmas.

A few hours and a few errands later found Princess M, Sir C (my valiant knight), Baby K and the self-titled Queen all strapped into the Royal Minivan on our way home. 

Oh, impatient Queen. Will you never learn? 

The cars in front of us were stopped.  There was a long line of cars.  Far too long of a line of cars for me to wait through, I thought.  In the time it takes to act without thinking, I was swerving into the right lane, intent on going around them.

The problem was, there was another car already there. 

So often, I beat myself up for the bad example I set by not being perfect.  I'm horrible at being submissive.  I'm late for everything.  I say things without thinking.  I make mountains out of molehills.  I lose my temper.  I don't do the laundry when it needs to be done.  I don't clean the house when it needs to be cleaned.  I have trouble resisting anything loaded with carbohydrates. 

And even this morning:     no patience,     late for school,                     
                             nearly missed the shoebox shipment,        
frustrated by insignificant things,
                                                  drove into other peoples' cars.

Today, though, my kids also saw their mom (feeling less queenly than ever before) admitting her mistake, accepting complete responsibility for her actions, apologizing to an upset driver, humbly asking for forgiveness, praying to thank God for protecting us, respectfully talking to a police officer, telling the absolute truth regardless of consequences, and accepting those consequences without whining or grumbling.

And though I fail miserably every day to set a consistent Godly example, I know this one incident spoke volumes to the impressionable children that witnessed it....a lesson that is well worth the price of a ticket.

I don't want to be one of those Christians that talks a good talk, I want to be one that walks the good walk.  Today, in those moments, I actually did it.  I walked the good walk.

After the driving skills I exhibited today, maybe I should be walking more often anyway.

My Little Garden

People have often thought it a bit weird that my husband and I chose to adopt two older special-needs children when we were, at the same time, having babies the "old-fashioned" way.  In all honesty, it wasn't what we set out to do.  We were open to the thought of adoption, but figured that if we ever did, it would either be before (as in years before) we had biological kids, or long after we did (as in after our kids were grown up).

Well, God doesn't always ask us to do things that fit into our own plans.  Unfortunately, sometimes we're so wrapped up in those self-blueprinted plans that we fail to hear His voice...but on this occasion we listened, we heard, and we obeyed.  And we ended up acquiring our first four children (two babies, a four-year-old, and a seven-year-old) in just a shade over two years.  Yikes!

It's been difficult, to say the least, especially since our adopted kids (and our daughter especially) have struggled greatly with Reactive Attachment Disorder.  Sometimes I marvel at how God has kept each of our biological children safe from the often-ugly effects of RAD, not only protecting them from physical harm during violent outbursts, but also protecting them from emotional harm.  It's obvious to us that God hand-picked the personalities of the babies He gave us.  They (all three of them now) are resilient, secure, content, and thriving...in spite of the turmoil they have been witness to.  Granted, we've been vigilant in protecting them ourselves, removing them from sketchy situations whenever possible, but it still remains a miracle that none of our biological kids (now ages 5 1/2, 3 1/2, and 9 months) have ever for a moment imitated one RAD behavior or given us any reason to think they are scarred in any way.

(Having said that, I want to acknowledge that having young children (especially babies) in the home along with RAD kids can be extremely dangerous.  Kids with Attachment Disorders can be very violent and controlling, loving the feeling of power over "weaker" things (babies, toddlers, pets).  Children with severe cases of RAD should (for their own protection and the protection of the "weaker" things) be kept away from young kids and pets.  Our kids, while they do have control issues, vent them by being incredibly bossy with their siblings, not violent.)  

So in response to the question of "Why did you...?", the answer is "Because God asked us to."  But the other, even greater question for me has always been "Why did God ask us to?  Why now?"

Five years after obeying God's call to adopt, I think I'm finally seeing part of His purpose in giving us all these kids at the same time.  Since the day they came to us, my older, troubled kids have been learning to love and attach to the cutest things on Earth....babies.  The imprinted images of neglect from their early years are being replaced with images of Mom cradling babies, singing lullabies, of Daddy tossing them in the air, of happy, drooly laughs and chubby arms waving at them as they walk through the door.  They've seen first-hand what love and laughter and tenderness and care does for a baby.  They've seen each of their young siblings blossom into cute, entertaining, healthy little people...and at the same time, they themselves are blooming into something more beautiful than any of us ever imagined.

Watching my now nine-year-old daughter's face as she plays with the baby, seeing her glow with adoration as her three-year-old brother is learning to write his letters, hearing her say "He's so cute!" or "You're the best baby ever!" or "I like my little sister" absolutely melts my heart.  She is learning to love!  She's becoming compassionate!  Where these feelings were once foreign to her, she can now feel them and even express them, and I know that the babies have helped her in ways I couldn't. 

RAD kids often turn into RAD adults, and have trouble bonding with future spouses and children, thus spreading Attachment Disorder into the next generation.  Hopefully, my kids will be able to grow up, have secure relationships, and raise healthy, attached children because they've witnessed it being done.  God made them key players in a functional, happy, God-fearing (though incredibly imperfect) family.  It was His plan, and I firmly believe He will be glorified in their lives because of it.  God is so good!

I would never go around telling anybody they should adopt troubled kids while they're already raising a young family.  I know the risks, the heartache, and the sacrifices involved.  I would, however, strongly urge you to follow whatever it is that God is asking you to do.

His plans are always greater than our own. 

Living out a life of obedience to Him has been the hardest, most humbling, and most rewarding thing I have ever attempted to do, but my little garden of children is blooming and thriving and growing...all because we listened...and obeyed...and we continue to try to live in His light.   

 

More or Less

Once upon a time, over seven years ago...before children, before a renewed commitment to the Lord, before the discovery of my purpose on the Earth...I was gathering up my things at the end of a workday, moments away from heading home.  I was the manager of a small business, a portrait studio nestled inside a mostly-forgotten mall, and I was tying up a few loose ends at the front counter before leaving my studio in the hands of an employee.

It seems that mostly-forgotten malls are rarely forgotten by one group: the mall-walkers.  For years, when business was slow, I couldn't help but notice every person that walked by over and over again, and these people (whether I came to know them or not) became permanent fixtures of my workplace.  On this particular day, my attention was drawn by some commotion to the bit of mall outside my storefront, and I looked up in time to see a familiar middle-aged woman collapse to the ground.  She had been carrying a pair of crutches, and my first thought was that she had fallen while using them and needed some assistance to get up.

I ran out into the mall, as did a few people from a neighboring store.  When I got there, the woman was unresponsive, and it was evident that this was something far more serious than a fall.  I yelled to my employee, who was standing at the front counter, and she immediately dialed 911.

Life sped up and played in slow motion all at the same time.  No one knew what to do.  It seemed like the woman was gasping, we thought she was, and we assumed that she was breathing.  It was so hard to tell.  No one was doing anything...everyone there was so young and in disbelief.  I knelt down and I rubbed the woman's back, I whispered in her ear that Jesus loved her and that someone would be there to help her soon.  I think I was crying.  I felt totally helpless, but I just kept telling her that Jesus was with her and that everything would be okay. 

The paramedics were there in moments.  They took over.  Told us to leave.  Stunned, I went back to my studio.  But I didn't leave.  My heart...my soul...was still out in that mall with that poor woman lying on the ground, pleading with her to pull through as the paramedics pumped her chest with an almost violent urgency.

God and I didn't speak frequently enough back then, but He heard a lot from me that day.  I called my parents and asked them to pray.  I called my sister.  As an afterthought, I decided I should probably call my husband, too, although he wasn't much of a pray-er then, either.  Then I got down on my knees in Camera Room B and poured my heart out to God.  (In the years that followed, as my then-life was being reshaped into my now-life, Camera Room B became witness to many of these prayer sessions, but it can be certain that at the time, it was caught entirely off-guard.)

Eventually, after half an hour or more of constant resuscitation attempts, the paramedics lifted the woman onto a gurney, still pumping oxygen into her body with a plastic "balloon" over her mouth and nose.  I watched them wheel her away, and I knew.

The woman was dead. 

I went home that night limp with the fatigue that comes from having fought hard and lost.  I had spilled my emotions on the floor of Camera Room B, and yet I found that I had many more to spill in the days to come.  My beloved Grandma Mac had passed away just months previously, and this fresh encounter with death tore the scab from my heart as mercilessly as an eagle plucks a fish from the sea.

Just days later, I came home late after closing the studio.  As I walked through the door of my home, I witnessed yet another horrific death.  A man had been impaled with a fence post, and a grotesque, blood saturated wound consumed his entire upper body.  His chest heaved with the effort of each agonizing breath; the sounds of death gurgled from his throat.  And although my husband flipped the TV off the moment he saw the horror on my face, the image of this dying man is forever imprinted on my mind.

And very suddenly, my eyes were opened.

Death is not entertainment.

Death is real.  Pain and suffering are real.  And real people who suffer from real pain can't change the channel or forget about it at the commercial break.  Our culture would have us believe that we can, in our own lives, experience these "entertaining" things- death, tragedy, violence, divorce, casual sex- and go on living completely unscathed...unscarred...untouched. 

Our culture lies.

We were created in the image of God, with the ability to feel.  We were created to be in community, sharing in eachothers' joys, hurts and sorrows, full of compassion and sensitivity and love.  We were created to connect deeply.  We feel loss and horror and anger and betrayal and there are lasting scars when we make bad choices or when terrible things happen to us.  What our culture of entertainment wants us to believe is simply not true.

So where do we draw the line?  What's acceptable entertainment, and what isn't?  Are there times when it's alright to watch people being killed or living immorally on-screen?  What if it's obviously make-believe?  What if it serves a purpose, such as to educate or inform?  What if it isn't gratuitous?  Is it okay for adults to watch things that children shouldn't?  What if we're mature enough in our faith to truly not be influenced by what we watch?

I don't have this all figured out, so please don't assume that I think I do.  There is one thing that's clear to me, though...one thing that I am certain of. 

As our culture becomes more and more saturated with entertainment - movies, television, video games, internet - we are not becoming any more like Jesus.

We're becoming less like Him.   

The Living Dead

These days, I have a lot less free time than I used to, not that I ever had more than I knew what to do with.  The very nature of having five children, with most of them home with me all day, is physically and emotionally draining and entirely free-time sapping.  But I do have those moments.  Those few and far between moments when there is no one coming and no one in need of going and there are no questions to be asked or answered or directed. 

And then I have free time. 

Can it be called free time if I'm nursing the baby at the same time?  Perhaps not, but it's the best I can do.  We'll call it semi-free time, except for those rare occasions when the baby happens to be cooperatively napping during our daily quiet time (as he is now), and I'm actually totally alone.  Regardless, these are the moments that I get to sit and do (almost) nothing.  Or, from a different perspective, I get to sit and do (almost) anything.

The problem I'm having is that more and more often these days, I'm choosing to do "nothing" with my free time.  Nothing productive.  Nothing life-altering.  Nothing God-honoring.  Nothing...except numb my brain with useless computer games, while I could be reading a good book, writing about something worthwhile, sending encouraging notes to others, reading the Word of God or praying for those I love.  I could even be paying the bills or making lesson plans or scrapbooking or sorting family photos on my computer. 

And yet I continue to play the same computer games over and over again.  And what's really silly is at this point, there is absolutely no hope of getting any better at them.  I'm incredible.  I'm probably the best zombie killer on the planet, and yet I continue to shoot at them with a variety of dancing vegetables whenever I think I have five minutes to spare....or a half hour....or an hour and a half.  Where does the time go?!

And that's the other thing.  Slowly, I've been "finding" more and more time to dedicate to my obsession, when I really don't have any extra time.  So what's happening?  I'm neglecting the things that are my responsibility, like laundry and housecleaning and lesson planning, and I'm passively refusing to do the things that God has called me to do, like learning how to study the Bible, reading the book I've committed to reading for a church group, and writing about what God is doing in my life.  All as I stare blankly at a computer screen and devise the best plan to prevent the consumption of my brains.  Ironic, isn't it?  The more I protect my imaginary brains from the onslaught of animated zombies, the more I can feel my actual brains becoming more and more zombie-ish.

Seven years ago this coming January, my husband and I stopped watching all television.  It was hard.  Really hard.  We made the choice for a variety of reasons, but do you know what we discovered after it was gone? 

We had both been addicted to TV.

After the addiction was broken and we were free, we grew closer to each other and closer to God.  We wasted far less time.  We did things that were worthwhile.  And once the "withdrawal" from television was over, we emerged on the other side with a much purer and Godlier perspective on television.  It's mostly worthless.  It glorifies sin and materialism and violence and immodesty and human wisdom and greed.  Obsession with TV turns us into zombies.  Obsession with anything turns us into zombies.

I thought I was free from it.  I thought I had escaped.  But now I'm a zombie once more.

I'm through. 
Today I'm taking back my brain and I'm giving it back to God.

In the words of my pastor, I'm coming back from "the living dead". 

Anyone care to join me?

Like a Child

My mom's childhood friend, Joyce, went to be with Jesus this past weekend.  She wasn't old enough to die, not by the standards of our medically advanced society.  Just one day short of sixty-three.  Not old enough at all, especially when many of the most precious people in my life fall in the same age category.  Not young, not middle-aged, exactly...but definitely not "old".

And since I'm not in the center of the emotional fireball of loss (she was, after all, my mom's friend, not mine), I have a unique perspective on what is most definitely a tragedy for all those that loved Joyce.  I'm filled with, shall I say....a "reflective sorrow".  Not agony.  Not pain.  Just sadness for my mom, who lost a life-long friend, for Joyce's husband Tom, who lost a wife of forty years, and for Joyce's sons, their families, and her brothers and sisters and friends.

And because my emotions aren't overriding my every thought and action, I can see beneath the very real pain of the situation and find an overwhelming sense of joy and awe.

Because Joyce loved Jesus.  She believed in His death and resurrection, His atonement for her sins.  She professed Him as her Savior.  And since this past Saturday, she's been "reJOYCEing" in His presence in Heaven.  There is no place on Earth that could compare with the splendor that Joyce is living in at this moment.  She is wrapped in beauty and love and light and laughter and harmony and inexplicable joy.  And that leaves me in awe.

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Last night, on the way out to my parents' house, three-year-old Mr.C and I had a talk about Heaven:

"Someday, I'm gonna go to Heaven and live with Jesus, too.  But not yet.  Not till I'm really, really old.  Then we can go together, right, Mama?"

"Yep.  Mama loves Jesus.  Do you love Jesus, too?"

"Yep!  I love Jesus!"

"And you know that sometimes you do bad things and Jesus died for the bad things you do...so you can live with Him in Heaven someday.  Do you believe that Jesus died for you, buddy?"

"Yep!  I believe that!  And there are no bad guys in Heaven."

"Well...what if the bad guys changed their minds and decided to love Jesus?  Then they could go to Heaven, too."

"But they're BAD GUYS!!!"

"But sometimes we do bad things....and we still love Jesus.  Jesus died for everybody!  We want everybody...even bad guys...to learn about Jesus and to change their minds so they can come to Heaven, too.  Right?"

"Oh...okay.  They can come.  And they can still keep their swords, too."

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We spent the evening with my parents, hopefully providing a bit of a distraction for a while.  On the way home, little Mr. C said that it was sad that Joyce had passed away, and he thought we should pray for her.  I reminded him that Miss Joyce is in Heaven, and she doesn't need us to ask Jesus to help her because she's with Jesus!  But, I said, it was important to remember to pray for Mr. Tom.  Mr. Tom is very sad, and we should pray that he lets Jesus love him and help him feel better.  I told Mr. C that we should remember to pray for Mr. Tom at bedtime.

And do you know what he said?

"We should do it right now." 

Wow.  Humbled, I realized that he was exactly right.  What was I waiting for?  Right there in the car, at the urging of a three-year-old child, we prayed for Mr. Tom.

And I realized something else.  There's a lot of wisdom in a three-year-old.

He loves.

He believes.

He forgives. 

All without questioning. 


He asks for what he wants, and he has faith that he will receive it.

He doesn't put off until later things that are important enough to do now. 

More than many adults I know, Mr. C really gets it.


So...in the wake of an unexpected death, the home going of someone who was too young but who knew where her true home was, I feel compelled to ask you...where is your true home?

Like my little son, have you heard the Good News?  Have you accepted it at face value, not trying to use your own wisdom to figure things out by yourself?  Have you placed your faith in Christ Jesus?  Do you love Him? 

And if not, if you're waiting for some perfect opportunity or for everything to suddenly make sense to you, then why don't you just ask God to reveal the truth to you?  Earnestly ask (even if you're not sure that He exists) that He would make Himself known to you.  That He would prove Himself.  Humble yourself to the possibility that what that ancient book of fables says is true.  What could it hurt? 

You should do it right now.

Because whether you're sixty-three or thirty-three or even just three, you never know which day could be your last.


P.S. If you're a bad guy, don't worry.  I am, too.  And I'm bringing my sword with me. 

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And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."  Matthew 18:3

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.  Hebrews 11:1

And for Joyce:
Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!  Philippians 4:4 
See you in Heaven.