Faithfulness

Every Sunday afternoon, I would rush into church, typically with one child hanging off of me, another sprinting ahead, and one more holding my hand, trying to break free. I’d rush over to the computers to print my children’s name tags, hating that I was always late, trying to contain the three that wanted to take off as soon as I let go.

Mr. Michael witnessed this routine every week, and, eventually, he began to look for us. As Caleb walked with me hand-in-hand to the four-year-old room, Mr. Michael would open the door to take him from me before I even had him signed in. And when I’d pick up the pen to write Caleb’s name, it was already there.

Every week, like clockwork.

When Matt stepped down from leading the tech team so that I could try going to church without arriving in a bad mood, we decided to go to the 9:00 service instead of the one I had been attending at 12:30 (and, yes, I was still late every week when I went at 12:30). When we first made the decision, I was reluctant to give up the afternoon service. After all, Caleb wouldn’t have Mr. Michael as a teacher, anymore.

Normally, Caleb looked forward to church, but there were those occasions when he cried. But Mr. Michael had the key to Caleb’s heart–he’d whip out his phone and let Caleb play games until it was time for the kids to put away the toys and learn the lesson. Caleb expected Mr. Michael every week, and I took comfort in the fact that every week at least one of the volunteers was the same, someone who was actually growing to love and care for my son.

And then my admiration for Mr. Michael grew. That first Sunday that we attended the 9:00 service and walked up to the four-year-old class, who was there to meet us? None other but Mr. Michael.

Yes, there are many individuals who volunteer every Sunday, giving their hearts and time to our precious children. For all of them, I am so thankful. Crouching down on the floor with a bunch of preschoolers every week, dealing with crying and elusive attention spans from toddlers, changing poopie diapers so that Daddy and Mommy can attend church–these men and women truly are special people.

Yes, there are many individuals who volunteer every Sunday…

…but not many are only 17.

I remember when I was 17. I was a good kid, and I loved to help others, but you wouldn’t find me arriving early for a 9:00 service so that I could care for kids every week. And you definitely wouldn’t find me spending my entire Sunday at church, volunteering for two services and attending a third. I wasn’t immune to the narcissism that tends to run through the veins of many teenagers.

But, apparently, Mr. Michael is.

The other day, as I was rounding the corner of the Chick-Fil-A drive thru, I saw a young man coming out the back doors with a huge trash can heading for the dumpster. It was Michael.

“Hi, Michael!” I yelled through my open window. “I didn’t realize you worked here!”

“Hi! Who else do you have in there?” he asked smiling, trying to peer through the windows to see what kids filled the car seats.

“Just Chloe. Caleb and Hannah Grace are in preschool.” “You know,” I went on to add, “Caleb is really going to miss you. We just started attending the Saturday night service.”

Michael went on to explain that he actually wasn’t helping anymore. He had started working with another church plant in the community. But he promised he’d visit one Saturday night to see Caleb.

As a teenager, Michael had probably spent more hours volunteering in church, sharing his time, effort, and heart for the glory of God, than most adults. And now he was helping with a church-plant in the hopes of teaching another community about the love of Jesus.

I’m so proud of him, but, selfishly, I wish I were going to see him every weekend, walking alongside us as we teach Caleb our faith. But I realize that just as I’m watching my own son grow, over the past two or so years I’ve watched Michael grow from a teenage boy of 17 into a young man. And this young man’s path is taking him in another direction.

As I’ve walked my own journey, I’ve learned that many people have great intentions but few follow through. Witnessing the faithful example of Michael has been refreshing, and he’s shown me that when a heart is turned toward God and filled with His love, commitment to His work is a natural result.

Michael-blog post — Michael during Superhero Sunday

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine

What examples of faithfulness have you witnessed in others? How have you seen the Spirit of God working in young people in your own church?

I’d love for you to join me in this week’s journey on ‘faithfulness.’ If you have a post that relates to this topic, enter the link below. Thanks for joining me this week!

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Medicine Cocktails

In one of the small compartments tucked away in the corner of my brain, there is a memory that I can pull out and access clearly. In this memory, two little kids are coming down the stairs, laughing, each with a little medicine cup in hand, my son with a bottle of Motrin. A new bottle that is now more than half finished. My children had been doing shots with a liquid fever reducer. I remember the panic I felt as I dialed Poison Control and the relief when I learned they would not overdose.

In another compartment, there is a memory involving an antibiotic. I can see myself measuring out the dose on the counter for my baby and then taking the dose to that baby who was sitting in her high chair. When I come back to the counter 31.3 seconds later, the bottle of antibiotics is empty, and I rush to dial the pediatrician. I know that children can’t overdose on antibiotics, so I leave Poison Control alone this time, but I now need another prescription.

These are two memories tucked away, the most vivid of a few. Given my children’s propensity for sneaking medicine, one could imagine my surprise when I’ve had to enlist every creative means possible to get my daughter to take her antibiotic this week, the same daughter who did shots with Motrin and downed a bottle of Amoxicillin.

We tried the normal way–give her the cup and drink. She refused. I then tried putting the antibiotic in a medicine syringe. She continued to turn her head. I next resorted to force. Caleb held down her arms while I tried to shoot the medicine down the back of her throat–I needed someone to hold her head, too, unfortunately.

After Hannah Grace losing her dose of medicine and my sweatshirt gaining it, I called the nurse:

“Can I mix the medicine with anything?”

“Yes, chocolate syrup.”

Darn me and my healthy eating.

Since I didn’t have any chocolate syrup, I resorted to syrup of the maple variety. After all, in another compartment of my brain, I have a memory of Hannah Grace standing with the refrigerator open, chugging a bottle of 100% pure maple syrup. This should’ve been a piece of (pan)cake.

It wasn’t.

Another dose of medicine lost, a new meaning to knots in the hair gained. I tried to brush Hannah Grace’s hair, but the brush couldn’t even move through the combination of sticky syrup and gooey medicine. I pleaded. I threatened:

“If you don’t let me brush these knots out, I’m going to have to get your hair cut really short like a little boy!”

“I want to look like a little boy!”

I had forgotten that she does, in fact, want to look like a little boy.

I tried applesauce. It hurt her tongue. I tried chocolate pudding. She finger-painted with it (No joke. She seriously got a piece of construction paper and made handprints with her chocolate-medicine-pudding while I was cleaning the toilet).

And then I gave up.

Except, I couldn’t really. The strep throat germ had to be killed. I called the pharmacy and filled the second prescription that the nurse had called in earlier for me that day when things weren’t looking too hot. But we added watermelon flavor this time, per Hannah Grace’s request. And I headed to Publix at 7 p.m. with a baby in her pajamas, a little boy with his hands in his pockets, and a little girl with severe knots in her hair.

And I type in fear this morning.

There are no more medicine cocktails that I can create. She must drink the watermelon-flavored medicine, the $3 more expensive watermelon-flavored medicine, this child of mine who used to do shots with Motrin and drink Amoxicillin like it was sweet tea.

Maybe I should make a pitcher of tea, just in case….

Parting the Red Sea

As our small group meeting was coming to a close, I debated whether or not to complete the thought that was already pouring out of my mouth:

“I’m not saying that I have greater faith than Moses, but I’d like to think that if I saw my hand turn white with leprosy and then return to normal or my staff turn into a snake and then a staff again, then I wouldn’t doubt that God was in control. But I hesitate to say what I’m thinking because I know I’m going to be tested now….”

And shortly after, the testing began.

To be fair, the testing actually began before small group, and I failed miserably. While sitting for three hours with my daughter in a medical clinic open on Sundays, I began to unhinge. I was supposed to be creating 16 Jedi robes for my son’s 5th birthday party. I was supposed to be looking over my notes for Bible study. I was supposed to be replying to comments and reading the other blogs that I had neglected last week. I was supposed to be enjoying a leisurely Sabbath–not waiting for a strep throat diagnosis (again).

And I definitely was not supposed to leave that clinic without an antibiotic in hand and a daughter on the path to recovery. The unhinging was near complete. I cried on the way home. I cried on the way to small group. And I cried on the way home after small group.

I didn’t want to face another week with a sick kid, especially since I now would have to make a doctor’s appointment in the morning. I didn’t want to deal with the chaos of planning a birthday party during the same week my husband was to have his own out-patient procedure on the same day my son was playing in his first Tee ball game. I felt overwhelmed before Monday morning hit.

So I’m not quite sure what changed between 8:30 p.m. Sunday night and 6:00 a.m. Monday morning. Perhaps I actually received the prayer I asked for last night. Perhaps I knew I would be tested and tried to mentally prepare. Perhaps I relaxed when I saw that my husband put away laundry and cleaned the mess that reminded me of what would happen if a mailbox threw up on my countertops. Most likely, it was a combination of all three, but whatever the reason, I woke up calm.

I woke up calm even though a second child had climbed into our bed in the middle of the night, hot with fever. I remained calm on the way to our doctor’s appointment and as we left with our prescriptions in hand. I remained calm when my sick boy threw up in the Publix parking lot, and I remained calm when my daughter spit her five-dose total medicine all over the two of us. And I even remained calm when another parent responded to the invitation, and I realized just how many Jedi robes and light sabers I had to make by this weekend.

I wasn’t going to come unhinged, and every time I felt like I could, I heard God whisper:

I didn’t ask you to part the Red Sea; I asked you to love and comfort your sick children. I didn’t ask you to take on Pharaoh; I asked you to support your husband and remain calm for him.

I didn’t ask you to throw a birthday party or create Jedi robes–that was your choice. I didn’t ask you to write on your blog four times a week or respond to every comment that comes your way–those were your goals.

And I didn’t ask you to have a spotless house; I asked that you not give in to idleness but give your best at whatever you do. And sometimes giving your best is letting go of those things that aren’t as important at the moment.

God didn’t ask me to part the Red Sea; He asked me to be a good mom today. And even though there are times when I might think parting the Red Sea would be easier, I have to remember that the God over Moses is the God over me. He’s in charge, and thank the Lord!

Because when I look at the Christmas outfit my daughter wore to the doctor’s today, I know clearly I’m not!

I’m linking up with Michelle today. If you haven’t before, head on over to her site. You won’t be disappointed! And if you’re interested in linking up with me, come back with your own post on Friday for this week’s journey on faithfulness.

²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

He’s Just That Good

While I typically can write a blog post with relative ease, I struggle every Thursday night like my former high school students, not knowing where to start, not able to hit that first key on the laptop, staring at a blinking cursor. The past few weeks I struggled because I knew what I was lacking, and it’s hard to write about my own spiritual failings. However, this week I struggle because I know I haven’t done my subject justice.

I really had hoped to encounter the perfect story of goodness, perhaps an unexpected moment at the grocery store, or a random phone call from a far away friend. Instead, one person entered my mind from the first moment I contemplated this fruit of the Spirit. But I didn’t want to write about him.

I prayed to God for examples of goodness, hoping there was someone I was forgetting. I searched my memory bank for anecdotes involving loved ones and relatives whom I haven’t seen in years. I even looked up the definition of ‘goodness’ in the dictionary, hoping some word in the definition would trigger the inspiration I needed to write a different story than the one in my head.

But it was always him.

And I really didn’t want to admit that fact because I’ve been mad at him for the last week.

But if I’m truly to write on goodness, there’s only one person I know who is this good.

I wish I could say that I’ve never uttered an unkind word about another, but I can’t. I wish I could say that when I fight, I always fight fair, not hitting below the belt with careless words or rubbing salt in the wounds with a stone-cold silence. But I can’t.

And he can.

He doesn’t offend easily, and he is slow to anger.

He doesn’t choose jealousy as a garment but instead clothes himself in trust.

And he trusts with the words I type across the screen, even when they’re not pretty.

He isn’t perfect, but he does walk a righteous path.

And his heart is good.

And when he knows that I’m frustrated, that after nine years we’re still not on the same page, his heart hurts as he searches for ways to find common ground. Whether through a cup of hot tea, a cannoli on a Friday night, or a kiss sending me to bed amidst the clanging of dishes in the sink.

He’s just that good. In the little things. In the big things. All the time.

And even when we’re not on the same page, I know we’re in the same story, fighting for the same things, just focusing on different battles.

His goodness sets my heart at ease, my mind at rest, and when I see the goodness of my loving husband, I taste the goodness of our perfect Father.

^“22But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine.

When you think of goodness, is there one person who comes to mind? How do you see goodness in your own life?

Link up your own post on goodness below, and please link back to my post with either a hyperlink or my button (grab the code off the sidebar). Be sure to read some of the other posts who have joined us, and show some kindness by leaving comments on the other blogs! Thank you for taking this journey with us!

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The More Things Change…

One year ago today, I was scrubbing base boards and stressing over the combination of new carpet and three children under the age of four. I was staying up way too late trying to get in those last minute chores after a full day of being a momma. One year ago, we were preparing to put our house up for sale.

In a quest to lessen my husband’s near three-hour roundtrip commute, we took on the stress of selling a home in this lousy housing market. And my writing, which was very infrequent at the time, reflected my stress. And all the stress? It was pointless–the house didn’t sell.

When I look back at my writing from a year ago, I’m struck by the similarities between my life then and my life now. I was knocking myself out in pursuit of a goal that was unattainable. We were dissatisfied with the lack of time we got to spend together as a whole family, and we wanted our situation to change. I wasn’t happy with the person I was on the inside, and while I was giving my house a good spring cleaning, I was dusting over the neglected areas of my soul, as well.

Today, I’m still knocking myself out. I try to do everything–spend meaningful time with my children all of their waking hours, present a spotless home, create home-cooked meals every night–and my goal, while admirable, really isn’t attainable, at least not given the ages of my kids or the fact that my husband’s commute hasn’t changed. If anything, we see each other even less than one year ago, and I’m more dissatisfied with this fact than I was in 2010. And as far as the spiritual–I’m still finding more and more areas of myself that displease me.

And I’ve come to the realization that, while circumstances may change, life doesn’t. Every season of life will have its own challenges, and while they may seem small when looking back, they feel huge during that time. When I read how nervous I was about my ability to keep up a presentable house, I want to laugh. Who cares? But I did at the time. And looking back, I’m able to see that I did the best I could, but moving wasn’t meant to be. Life continued, and we make do.

Likewise, I’ll look back in a year on my writing from now, which is much more frequent, and I’m sure I’ll shake my head at the insignificant things that caused me to stress. I’ll wish that I could go back and visit my past self and whisper, “This too shall pass.”

So I have a goal–to take each day as it comes and live it fully; to acknowledge my feelings without allowing them to overrule my logic; to continue to laugh at myself and my follies; to rest in the grace of God; and to live in the present, not waiting for better days to come. Different days will come, but they will bring their own struggles. I want to be ready to meet them.

Come back tomorrow for this week’s journey on goodness. I’d love for you to share your perspective by linking up your own post!

Submitting the Vacation Request

Five a.m. isn’t happening. At least, it hasn’t happened for the last week or so. Nor have the warm breakfasts that can’t be found in a box or little to-go wraps for the husband. Bible study has become Bible speed-read. Going to bed earlier isn’t going to solve this problem–the sleep deficit is too vast at this point, and let’s face it; when the last child doesn’t fall asleep until after nine, getting myself into bed by ten is a lofty goal.

My son is turning five in just under two weeks, and I’ve started to reflect. I think about that little baby who changed the direction of my life forever, the bouncing baby boy who was all smiles and a fireball of energy. And I think about the fact that in five years, the only times I have been away from him for longer than 24 hours is when I had other babies, surgeries, or helped my friend care for her sick husband and her own bouncing boy. While I look back fondly on my times with anesthesia, I’m craving another sort of rest…perhaps a week-long kind of rest.

I haven’t seen a week-long kind of rest, with or without kids, in over seven years. I feel I’m overdue. The way I figure the numbers, most people who have had a salaried-type job with a company for five years get at least a week’s vacation, if not more. So I’m submitting my official vacation request (even though I don’t get a salary) .

I didn’t want to go this route–I know the ‘company’ needs me–but the whole ‘personal’ day thing hasn’t worked out too well, either. In fact, I didn’t even ask for a whole day, just an hour. But the hour I’ve tried to schedule with my friend has been rescheduled four times now due to sick children, children with broken bones, sick mommas, etc. I was gracious enough to schedule the hour while two of the children were at preschool, therefore, not inconveniencing anyone else, but if any of those two don’t go to school because of illness…well, you get the picture.

I look at my life and am in awe of how blessed I am. I read letters from the mother of the child we sponsor, how sometimes she wants her son to stay home from school so he can help around the house, help with chores like fetching water or washing dishes by hand, and I know that I don’t know real tired. I think of my dear friend teaching students then coming home to care for her husband with cancer and her preschool-aged son. She knows tired.

And while their lives help put mine in perspective, I also see that Jesus got away for times of solitude, and He was perfect! He didn’t grit his teeth like I did as I was trying to read the Bible but couldn’t see the words due to the three-year-old who bounded in my bed at six a.m., repeatedly flinging her leg on top of the computer screen. He didn’t show childish behavior like I have, throwing a toy across the room that came too close to my foot. He didn’t lose patience like I do every single day now with my children. And with my husband, too. So if Jesus took times to rest, and He was perfect, how much more do I need some time away?!

I am blessed; I know that. But I am tired, and I have contemplated submitting my two-week notice far too many times lately. And since I really do love my job and don’t want to quit, I’m submitting my vacation notice instead. I really think if I could get a little break, I would come back a better wife and mother, the type of wife and mother I aspire to be…and think I could be.

Now: Who wants to watch three kids almost five and under for a week?

The Cookie Test

Yesterday, I left church not dwelling on a specific scripture, but agonizing over whether or not my children had any shred of self-control. As a tie-in to his sermon on the faith of Abraham and the need for those with faith to wait, our pastor showed a video on “The Marshmallow Test.” In this experiment, children were brought into a room without distractions by themselves and given one marshmallow. They were told that if they resisted eating the marshmallow, at the end of fifteen minutes, they would get one more marshmallow.

In the original Stanford study from 1972, follow-up studies were performed on the children who participated, and the results showed that children who resisted eating that first marshmallow grew up to have happier, more successful lives.

Immediately, visions of my children hiding under the dining room table, scarfing down homemade cookies came to mind. I saw the lollipop stains I had to clean off the carpet as they tried to devour their Valentine’s candy under that same table without Mommy noticing. My heart was filled with dread as I came to the realization that my children were doomed to a life of failure. There was no way they would resist the marshmallow. So, naturally, I had to recreate the test to see just how bad a parent I really am.

Since I don’t have hidden cameras, I performed the test in my kitchen where I could watch my children, and I had them take the test together. And since I didn’t want to have to buy a bag of yucky marshmallows for this test, I bought a box of Back to Nature Classic Creme Cookies. I did my best to not converse or actively engage with them once I started the kitchen timer, and I did not encourage them to hold off on eating the cookie. I simply stated the rules at the beginning of the test: “You may eat your cookie now, but if you wait until the timer goes off, I’ll give you another cookie.”

Four seconds into the test, my three-year-old daughter looked at me with a resigned look on her face.

“I’m going to eat my cookie now.”

Clearly, the last four seconds were the longest of her life, and her bright blue eyes dulled a little, conveying the inward struggle she had to endure.

I didn’t dissuade her and was ready to accept the fact that she was doomed to a life of failure, that I had failed as a parent, when she said, “No, no, I’m going to wait.”

I took to cooking a quick dinner while the children waited in their chairs. As I spread the tortilla chips across the baking sheet for the nachos we were to have, I happened to look up as Hannah Grace was putting her cookie to her lips, quickly bringing the cookie back down. I wasn’t near the timer, but I think we were about a minute into the test.

Caleb, my almost five year old, found his Leapster video game to occupy his time, and I’m pretty sure playing video games is against the rules and would’ve invalidated the results. However, I quickly snatched the Leapster from him and instructed him that he had to stare at the cookie from his chair–without any games in hand.

I looked up again at four minutes into the test, and Hannah Grace, once again, had the cookie to her lips. A couple of minutes later, the cookie was gone.

“Hannah Grace, did you eat your cookie?”

“No, Caleb gave it to Chloe.”

“What?!”

“Caleb gave Chloe my cookie!”

I looked at Caleb with disbelief written across my face. Did he really ruin this test by giving Hannah Grace’s cookie to their baby sister?

“I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah’s cookie.”

“You gave Chloe the cookie?”

“Yes, I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah Grace’s cookie.”

Caleb actually had a slight look of remorse and embarrassment.

“How do you accidentally give someone a cookie?!!”

I quickly reached into the box and set another cookie in front of Hannah Grace. Yes, these results were definitely invalidated. However, a couple more minutes into the test, Hannah Grace had the cookie in front of her lips again. The end result would be the same.

I have to admit that I felt surprised and disappointed at the same time–surprised that both children made an effort to not touch the cookie but disappointed that Hannah Grace couldn’t hold out.

Or could she?

Finally, the timer went off, and I immediately walked to the table. Caleb’s cookie was perfectly intact. He exceeded my expectations, more than proved me wrong by not even showing the least bit of temptation from that cookie.

But then I was perplexed. As I looked at Hannah Grace’s cookie, expecting to find chunks missing from the round chocolate disks held together by creme goodness, I noticed a cookie broken in half, but not eaten.

But I saw her put the cookie to her mouth, and she had a chocolate rim around her lips!

“Hannah Grace, did you not eat the cookie?”

“No,” she said with a smile conveying the victory she thought she achieved.

“But you have chocolate on your face. I saw you put the cookie by your mouth….” I trailed off waiting for her explanation.

“I licked the cookie!”

And licked it she had. She must’ve licked the cookie with all the force her little tongue could muster, tasting every bit of that chocolate and creme that she could without technically eating the cookie.

I didn’t have it in me to disqualify her. After all, I didn’t give her any rules except to not eat the cookie, and a full cookie she had in front of her. Never mind the fact that the cookie was moist with saliva.

As I walked over to the counter where I had set the box of cookies, I pulled out the plastic tray and grabbed two more of the promised treat. I set one cookie before each child, giving them the grand total of two, and pondered what kept these children, prone to sneaking every sweet in the house, from eating the first cookie that I laid before them. All I could figure was that they believed the promise of one more cookie to follow, and that promise was enough.

“Abram believed the LORD, and he credited it to him as righteousness” (Genesis 15:6, New International Version, 2010).

I smiled as I looked at my two children, enjoying their cookies, chocolate crumbles around their lips, a trail on the table, and I let out a sigh knowing that they were not doomed to a life of failure and that I had managed to teach them some self-control. And I marveled at the lesson that they had helped bring home for me–that I, too, have a parent who will deliver on what He has promised. Temptation might encourage me to take a bite, but if only I can resist! Because, after all, everyone knows that two cookies are much better than one.

A combination of staying up too late watching a bad 83rd Oscars and having three children wake up a tad too early prevented me from linking up this post yesterday. So here it is! Just a day late…and for any of those following my weekly Journeys, this week I will ponder goodness. I would love for you to join me and link up your own post on Friday!

^“22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

Kindness

If the words you speak to a stranger

are more kind

than the ones you share with those who gather around your table,

more sweet than the morsels you deliver to the one who shares your bed,

then, perhaps, you have good manners.

But good manners are not a fruit of the Spirit.

“²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:23-23, New International Version, 2010) Emphasis mine

Why is it easier sometimes to show kindness to everyone but those living under your roof? Do you have this struggle, or am I alone in uttering careless words to my loved ones that I would never say to anyone else?

Link up your post on kindness below, and please link back to my post with either a hyperlink or my button (grab the code off the sidebar). Be sure to read some of the other posts who have joined us, and show some kindness by leaving comments on the other blogs! Thank you for taking this journey with us!

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Lesson Learned!

From the time my daughter was old enough to have a conscious will, she has loved beautiful and girly things. From jewelry to makeup–she loves them all–and the more colors and glitter, the better!

I was not surprised to find her one day sitting on my bathroom floor, makeup smeared all over her face, mascara wand in hand as she painted her toes. I was not surprised when I found the missing necklace from my jewelry box adorning my daughter’s neck. Nor was I surprised when I found evidence of her princess stamp set marking a trail along the bannister. My daughter believes in spreading beauty and color throughout her world, no matter if she is wearing the beauty and color or her parents’ furniture.

I was never surprised at any of my little girl’s antics. I was, however, surprised at her brother’s.

I wasn’t completely naive–I knew better than to leave little kids alone with scissors–but the combination of trying a recipe for dinner that was taking too long and a crying infant left my attention divided. Way too divided. And in a brief moment, I learned that my son would make his own attempt at beautifying the world:

I just wish he wouldn’t have made this attempt the day before his sister’s second birthday party. And I really wanted her first haircut to be, well, a good one.

I thought I learned my lesson; I figured my son was just young. He was just doing what three-year-olds do. Heck! I cut my own bangs, to my mother’s horror, when I was three. Except that he tried his hand at hair design again when he was four. In exactly the same place that he cut his sister’s hair the first time.

If I hadn’t learned my lesson before, I learned it now. Scissors were no longer put up high–they were put away all together! The only time cutting was a part of arts and crafts was when the kids’ baby sister was napping and dinner preparation had not yet commenced. If Mommy had to use the bathroom, the scissors came with her! She would not make this mistake again.

So it’s really embarrassing that this story continues….

In a quest to save money and prove that I had skill, I took my son outside to cut his hair. I really didn’t know what I was doing, so the haircut took three times as long as if I got it done in the salon. My plan to cut his hair while the baby was napping was a good one. His other sister was playing outside. And when the baby woke up, I took the scissors with me to get her.

Unfortunately, I forgot that there were clippers in my little haircut accessory pouch. My son, however, didn’t. In the thirty seconds I was gone, he found an electric outlet outside, plugged in those clippers, and took a chunk out of his hair–right in the front. And for good measure, he took out a section from his sister’s hair again–in a slightly different place from the last two times. I guess he was starting to learn about symmetry.

So, while others might see a cute picture of a boy and his father, I see that a chunk of hair is missing from his bangs.

Clearly, I do not think fast enough for my son. My tears at lost hair do not have an effect, nor does punishment. And, frankly, I’m not sure any of those things can persuade a person with a passion.

So why fight it? I’ve learned my lesson–I’m enrolling my son in cosmetology school.

I’m linking up today with Mama Kat for her writer’s workshop. I combined two of her prompts–a lesson learned and a time my toddler got into something he shouldn’t have.

Don’t forget to come by tomorrow and link up your own post on kindness for this week’s ‘Journeys!’

The Extra-Terrestrial and Other Stuff

The other night we opened our small group by having everyone share a fear or something that really freaks out him or her. Before we began, I have to admit, I felt a little proud–after all, I really only had one main fear.

Too bad that fear is kind of crazy.

You see, I am terrified of something that really shouldn’t bother me. I’ve never had any experience with this thing, nor will I probably ever. Yet, the thought of it can start my heart racing, my body tingling. I’ll stay awake at night curled in a little ball, holding onto Matt’s arm as we sleep.

But if this thing is real, Matt’s arm isn’t going to help.

No, nothing can save me if the aliens come.

That’s right; I’m terrified of aliens, so terrified, in fact, that I cannot even look up a picture to place within this blog. I tried to find a picture of a UFO instead, minus the aliens, but when the pace of my breathing quickened, I had to stop.

I know they are probably not real, and I also know that, even if they are real, they most likely aren’t coming for me. Unless they can read minds and know I’m currently typing about how afraid I am and they come for me and then they take me to the mother ship and they stick those probe thingies in my eyeballs and then they impregnate me some little alien baby that will burst forth from my stomach in four months (they grow quickly) killing me and setting forth their plan to take over the human race.

Whew.

By the time it was my turn, I had heard fears ranging from giant camel spiders in Iraq to snakes to sinking in the ocean, and I felt like I could have a panic attack. I didn’t even realize that I shared some of these fears, and I was sure when I talked of my fear of aliens to the group, I might send some of us over the edge. But everyone just stared at me and gave a polite chuckle….

I know the fear is irrational, but, nonetheless, it is real. When Matt is away on a trip and I hear a noise in the dark, my mind goes to strange places. And while fear can serve a purpose–we stay away or are cautious of unsafe environments–this fear does nothing useful.

And, unfortunately, when I really began to think about this topic, I found that I have a list full of unproductive fears:

What if my children don’t love God when they’re older, and they rebel? What if they don’t love me? What if one of them gets sick–really sick? What if something happens to Matt?

The list could go on and on. And while the above list at least covers real people in my life and lists more rationale fears, the end result is the same: the fear gets me nowhere.

And since I’m too busy to waste my time dwelling on the unproductive, I choose to place my thoughts elsewhere:

“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, New International Version, 2010).

Not on snakes.

http://i226.photobucket.com/albums/dd309/KenMarsh/python.jpg

Not on spiders.

And definitely not on aliens.

(No picture available)

What frightens you? How do you overcome fear?