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

Dreary Days

It's been a dreary day today.

Fitting, I suppose, how the drops falling from the sky are mimicking the tears falling from my tired eyes, and the chilly gray of the out-of-doors is painting a picture of my heart for all to see.

I can no longer hide from the thoughts that until recently, my flit-from-this-to-that brain could turn loose...set free like little butterflies into the sky, never to be seen or dealt with again.  Those same thoughts press down on me now like the cold gray world, and today I just cannot send them away. 

I am weary.  Weary in my very bones, physically sore and emotionally spent.  Spiritually worn out from battles too numerous to mention, too daunting to even recall.  Exhausted to the point of aimless one-word prayers.

God?

Monday morning, our son was checked into a day hospitalization program at a mental health facility.  After nothing short of a miracle breakthrough with him in the wee hours of the morning, we brought to the hospital that first day a nearly cooperative child that seemed ready and almost willing to be helped.   We were hopeful.

Monday came and went.  He was compliant and pleasant in the evening, although we kept him separate from the other children.  It had only been a day, after all, since he had terrorized the entire family and inflicted harm on several of us both in word and action.

Tuesday came and went.  His team - doctor, therapist, social worker - believed he was doing well and was responding to therapy, opening up a bit.  He seemed to be trying.  Tuesday evening, we gave the other kids a say in whether he would be invited to dinner with the family.  Our four-year-old son didn't think it was a good idea "because he might hurt us."  He felt safer when his chair was moved between Mama and Daddy, who could protect him. 

The baby was not as easily won over.  He stopped smiling the moment his biggest brother came to the table, and was clearly unsettled at his presence for the rest of the evening.  The little boys' reactions and fear sparked the first glimmer of remorse we've seen this summer on the face of our oldest son.  Again, we were hopeful.

Wednesday came...and Wednesday never seemed to end. 

We picked him up, ran some errands as a family.  He was awkwardly, shamelessly trying to rebuild his little brothers' trust, which had been a therapy topic for the day.  When reminded that he wasn't yet trusted with the little ones, that rebuilding all the relationships he had crushed would take time, he became angry.

As the evening wore on, anger overtook him.  Turned to rage.  Turned to loss of any rational thought.  Turned to hatred and evil spewing forth from the child we had thought was trying.

There comes a time when enough is enough.

Last night, at eleven thirty, we admitted our son as a patient to the mental hospital.  He'll be there for about a week.  Longer, if needed.

The stress my husband and I are under has been causing stomachaches, knots in our chests, fatigue, sleeplessness and anxiety.  I can't begin to fathom the toll it's taken on our little ones, including the tiniest one that's supposed to be feeling nothing but safety and security within me.  We can't keep on this way, waiting for the next insignificant thing that will set him off, dreading the rage and fearing for the well-being of our family. 

Right now, our son needs more help than we can give him. 
And so we did what we thought we never would.

The rain and gloom of the day was a perfect background for this solemn, emotional first day without our son.  The entire day seemed dreary, and yet somehow the evening clouds knew to break rank in the west at the perfect moment to wreak pink and orange havoc across the sky.  An unexpected, beautiful sunset.

It was a glorious end to a dreary day. 

We hang on to hope.

We hang on to Jesus.   

We absolutely know that God is at work in this situation.

And we hang on to the knowledge that the most beautiful of things are often found at the end of the dreariest of days.
 



   

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?

Tiny Thoughts

Time for tiny thoughts today, not big ones.  But sometimes, I think the tiny ones are bigger than the big ones, anyway.

Busy morning.  Five kids up early, husband gone to class, Papa over to watch kids, Mr. C to eye doctor appointment.  I'm exhausted.  I'm late.  Before our eyes are usually opened for the day, Mr. C has his examined.  Three-year-olds and ophthalmologists don't necessarily mix, but Mr. C is a pro.  He gets a sticker and a Dum-Dum, and then we go to the store and buy him the big plastic shovel he's "always" wanted.

We drive.  I will myself to pass the Krispy Kreme.  Pass the Krispy Kreme.  Pass the Krispy Kreme.  Drat that red donut light.  I can resist a donut for a dollar, but I'm too frugal (is that an excuse?) to resist a free one.  And then I don't resist the one for a dollar, either.  Mr. C is delighted by a donut date, but I'm stuck on the fact that I fell to temptation.  Again.

We drive.  Straight down 28th street.  I'm disgusted by some of the businesses we pass.  They remind me of the fallen world I live in, one in which selfish pleasure is valued more highly than love and trust and Godliness, and I long for Home.  For perfection.  I'm worn down, and my enemy attacks.  Sadness and despair fill me.

Buying flowers, I see them as tasks to be fulfilled, items to be planted.  Front yard.  Back yard.  Patio.  Planters.  Coordinating colors.  I fail to see them for what they truly are; tiny expressions of God's creativity.  His love.  Miniature blessings to brighten my life on this earth.  And for the moment, because I'm wrapped up in myself, they're lost on me.  And I wonder.  How many blessings pass me by?  How many do I miss while I'm fixed on despair?

The baby screams.  And he screams.  And he screams.  And he will not stop.  He's hungry.  He's tired.  He's hot and sweaty.   He longs to be freed from his trials of heat and hunger and exhaustion.  But more than that, he longs to be comforted and protected and cared for.  And while I don't instantly care for all his needs, don't in that moment remove all the trials from his life, I offer him my hand.  He grabs it with two little fists, one claiming pinkie, one claiming thumb, and holds on for dear life.  And he is comforted. 

Holding my hand is all it takes for my baby to be comforted.

And the tiny thought I had, the tiny yet enormous thought that sent rays of sun shining into my darkness, was this:

What if I held onto God's hand as if my very life depended on it?  What if I clung to Him, with my two little fists claiming pinkie and thumb?  My trials would not disappear, my disappointments would not vanish, but if I always held His hand, I would always be comforted.

Holding His hand is all it's ever taken for me to be comforted.  

So when did I let go and start screaming again?  When did I lose my grip and slip away?  His hand is always there, offering comfort, offering help, so why did I stop holding on?  Why, when I need Him so badly?  Why?

I don't know.  I just don't know.  But right now I'm choosing again to grab His hand with my two little fists, claiming pinkie and thumb and every promise from His Word.  And this time I'm not letting go.  I'm through screaming.  I'm through with despair.  This time I'm holding on for dear life.

¹⁰ 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

Where is Jesus?

I'm headed out to the store in a few minutes to find something for my kids' Easter baskets, and maybe even some special Easter clothes for them to wear tomorrow.  Yes, I'm a procrastinator, but I'm going to completely set that topic aside until a later date and focus on what really bothers me. 

Every year, more than any other holiday, I struggle with what to do about Easter.  For months beforehand, we see bunnies and chicks, plastic eggs, jellybeans and brightly colored cellophane-wrapped baskets filled with Barbies and Hotwheels and every sort of pastel candy imaginable. The secular presentation of Easter is fabulous to behold.  But no matter how hard I look, something is always missing from those shelves.

Where is Jesus?

I should think it would go without saying that the VIP of Easter would deserve a front-row seat to the celebration of His own holiday.  That He should outrank a teenager in a bunny suit, or at the very least earn a spot on the shelf next to the Cadbury eggs.  But Jesus seems to have been evicted from His own celebration, and that leaves me with a dilemma.

How do we celebrate as a family and still impress upon our children the truth of Easter?  The gravity of their sins?  The reality that if Easter had never happened, they would all be damned to Hell for all eternity?  How do we get them to understand the enormous price that Jesus paid?  The grace they have received?  The vast love of God?  How do we do this without embittering them by depriving them of the fun and tradition of Easter? 

We spent the morning decorating foam Easter eggs with crosses and good wishes, which we will hand-deliver to nursing home residents tomorrow.  We'll hunt for our 'resurrection' eggs tomorrow morning along with our candy, and my three-year-old has been repeating his memory verse all week ('Jesus died and was raised to life again.' 1 Thessalonians 4:14).

But is it enough?

Well, I must be off.  I don't even know what I'm looking for.  A chocolate Jesus?  A stuffed lamb?  Jewelry with a cross on it, maybe...I've done that before.  Anything to remind them of  what Jesus has done for each of them.  And for each of us.

I wish you all a blessed and Christ-filled Easter.