Nothing Wasted

Last night as my birthday date came to a close, I lay in bed thinking about the last 31 years. I was overwhelmed by the goodness of God. I compiled a mental list of all my blessings, a list I have chosen to keep between God and me, and I realized what a full 31 years I have had. God has given me so much, so many good things, and in His kindness, He has used the ‘bad’ parts of my life to grow me and teach me, as well. He doesn’t waste any moments.

Unfortunately, I have a tendency to compare. Sometimes I like to peek at your list and question why God hasn’t blessed me with item #53 as well. God then has to walk down the aisle, tap on my desk with His hand, and firmly instruct me to keep my eyes on my own paper. He knows best. You see, we’re not taking the same test; your list won’t help me. And it is then that I have to rely on faith, faith to remind me that the items God hasn’t put on my list don’t need to be there, and those items that I don’t want to write on my list do. He doesn’t waste.

I have no idea what the future holds for me. God could grant me another 31 years, or God could call me home today. But no matter the length of time on earth, I want to always say, “There were no wasted moments.” And truthfully, having that attitude can be challenging for me. But it’s important to try because it’s true.

“‘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).

For this ‘Focus on it Friday,’ I am so thankful for all of the wonderful blessings God has given me over the last 31 years, and I am thankful for those trials that I normally wouldn’t see as a blessing. Thank you, Lord, for using those difficult moments to bless me, as well!

My challenge to you for this Friday is to compile your own list while keeping your eyes on your own paper. What blessings has the Lord given you? And just an important, what trials has He allowed to come your way? How has He shown you that He will not waste those moments?

More Beautiful With Age

It’s all downhill from here. At least that’s what a new study from QVC initially had me think. The study finds that women are most attractive at age 31, and since that big day is here for me, I best enjoy the year.

I can agree with part of the survey–at 31 I’m happiest with how I look than ever before. I’ve come a long way since last year when, instead of approaching 30 with assurance, I admitted how unattractive I felt, and in all honesty, unhappy. It’s amazing how hormones can warp a mind! But this year, I view myself differently, with more confidence and contentment. I am pleased with the progress I’ve made physically, but there is more to beauty than mere physical appearance. As I read over my post from last year after just having a new baby, I thought to myself, “How could I not find myself beautiful then?” There is nothing more beautiful than a mother holding a new baby.

And while I feel at my most beautiful now, I have no plans to peak at 31. I can’t put my stock in QVC’s survey; I know for a fact that a woman’s attractiveness only grows as she ages.

I look at my mother, a woman who gives of herself over and over, who takes to heart the example of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, and I am overwhelmed by such beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who spent the whole evening helping her daughter care for three children while her husband was gone, a woman who found the energy in spite of sheer exhaustion to laugh at a little two-year-old who scurried downstairs at 10:30 p.m. wearing two shirts, three dresses, and a pair of pants, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

I look at my mother-in-law, a woman who insists on gathering her family to her whenever she can, who strives to keep us all close to her heart, and through her love I see true beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who laughs and takes delight in the chaos of trying to snap one good picture with the grandchildren, a woman who knows that family is the greatest blessing God gives us, even while the rest of us (or just me) grow impatient inside, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

I look at Dot, a woman who exemplifies humility and grace through the unassuming way she serves her whole community, a woman who never draws attention to herself, and I doubt if I could ever attain such beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who has supported me throughout the years with her presence or words of affirmation, a woman who has shown me how to treat others kindly and sincerely, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

And when my husband looks back at a picture of me from our wedding day, I hope he can think, “I thought this day was when Jennifer was her most beautiful…

…but I was wrong. She only got more beautiful with age.”

The Date

She woke up and piddled around until she remembered the significance of today–it was her turn.

She quickly moved to her room and pulled down a favorite dress. Swiftly she fit her head through the opening and watched as the fabric dropped to her shins. A sense of pride filled her spirit as she slipped on the new shoes that made her feel beautiful, and she emerged from her room with excitement.

Flower barrettes adorned her silky strawberry-blonde hair, a necklace the top of her chest. She awaited anxiously for her date.

He knocked on the door, and she ran to answer, a giggle in her voice. Her smile spread wider as she held out her hands to take hold of her first flower, a flower whose brightness matched those of her eyes.

And I watched with joy as she set out for her date with Papa, knowing that this date would be the first of many in her lifetime, one of the few that I could so easily let her go.

On Any Given Day

I lay on her bed, frustrated at the events of the day. Sundays were supposed to be our day, our day for church, family, and relaxation. Instead, everything was in a constant state of frenzy from the moment we woke up until right then, as I was trying to get my daughter to go to sleep. The kids were horrible on this particular day, and try as I might, I couldn’t get them to cooperate. My nerves were on edge, and Matt and I were at each other’s throat.

“Hannah Grace, stop talking,” I reprimanded her. And I began my normal habit of introspection when the kids didn’t behave. Why had I failed at parenting again?

I closed my eyes, hoping that if I looked like I was asleep, Hannah Grace would copy me. The sky didn’t reflect the time of evening that it was, and light began to stream in through the cracks in the blinds. The thunder rumbled a low groan.

“I don’t like thunder,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“We need to go somewhere.”

“There’s nowhere to go, Hannah Grace.”

“I want to go to the mall.”

“You’re not going to the mall.”

The pitter-patter of rain began, while the sky remained light.

“I like the rain,” she said.

“I do, too,” and I silently thanked God for the rain I was craving all afternoon, the rain that kept teasing me but never came.

I kissed Hannah Grace as I warned her to stay in her bed, and I moved to the hallway. I watched the rain through the big window above the front door.

Hannah Grace began crying again, and Matt moved from Caleb’s room, where our son was now sleeping, to our daughter’s.

As the rain washed the dust and the heat down the street, my insecurities began to roll off of me in the big raindrops.

I thought about the play dates where a friend’s child blatantly defied her or another’s threw a tantrum. I thought about the mother who made a threat and didn’t follow through, yet had a well-behaved kid. I thought about the child who wouldn’t venture away from his mother’s side, afraid to make new friends, safe from getting in trouble. I thought about my child who was never content at my side and found a new friend wherever he went.

And I thought to myself they’re all different. It’s not all about me.

I thought how I must have been easy to raise. Afraid to get in trouble, I never did. I never got detention, but I never took risks. I thought about my sister. She was harder. She was the toddler who couldn’t control her curiosity. I identified one of my own children with her personality.

I thought about how I parented, how the good I did outweighed the bad. And I thought about my children, how they are good children. They’re just children.

The heavens opened and released the last bit of rain it had been saving. I watched the downpour and let out a cleansing sigh. And then the pitter-patter resumed amidst a greenish sky until the drops faded away to nothing.

Matt appeared at Hannah Grace’s door and moved into the hallway. He reached out a hand and pulled me up off of the floor. We gave each other the knowing look that spoke thank goodness that’s over, and we hugged.

Sometimes we have bad days, too, and we’re the adults. But we’ll be okay, and so will they.

Family and Friends

This week has been one that I wish I could’ve hit stop, rewind, and started over–or if that weren’t possible, just fast forward to the end. Yet, in the midst of dealing with children who wouldn’t obey, many nights of interrupted sleep, a sick dog whose remedy caused us to reach into our savings, and vast amounts of urine released onto the floor and carpet from said dog and children, I can easily find how I have been blessed this week.

While I had hoped to write how I was thankful for a week of jury duty, I was only called on Monday (they really should take volunteers) and thus not able to escape the week. There were superheroes to my rescue, though. When I called that I needed to take Scout to the vet, my sister and her husband dropped everything to watch my children. I’ve written about Lisa before; she and Mason helping us is not new, but my thanks for them seems to increase tenfold as time goes by.

They not only show up physically; they invest in the lives of Matt and my children, and they have two of the most generous spirits I know. They play and they love, and my children love them. When Lisa stopped to get Mason coffee, she came back with a chai latte for me–she didn’t ask; she just brought it. When Lisa and Mason saw the vet bill I brought home, they treated us to lunch and a play date at Monkey Joe’s. They give, even when perhaps they shouldn’t, but their generous hearts won’t allow them to do otherwise.

Matt and I have been blessed with a wonderful family, and I could write posts thanking each of them for something they have done. However, I could never write enough posts for Lisa and Mason. I love them and don’t know what I would do without them. Previously, I had written that Lisa and I might not be friends if we weren’t sisters because we are so different. I was right–her heart is a thousand times bigger than mine, and I could only hope to be so lucky to have a friend like her.

For this Focus on it Friday, for whom or what are you thankful this week? Share in the comments section, and help us to remind one another that we are blessed!

A Student and the Standard

I don’t know what made me think about her. Maybe my mind was running rampant because I was in the shower, one of the few places I can enjoy a moment of solitude. I hadn’t thought about her in years, though, and as her picture appeared before my mind’s eye, a sadness washed over me as the soap ran off my body.

Trisha was one of those students who I had really come to enjoy teaching. She started off the school year as many teenagers do–with an attitude of distrust toward me as a person in a place of authority. A smile for me would never cross her lips, but she was more than generous with the rolling of the eyes. Yet something changed, I’m not exactly sure what other than time, and the wall of distrust gradually began to crumble.

Trisha and her friend saw my husband and me at one of the school’s basketball games, and they couldn’t stop turning around to excitedly wave at us. In class, she would participate and answer questions–I remember her sharing her journal that she wished she could sing–and she would laugh as if English class wasn’t that bad after all. She had started off the semester on the wrong foot, but she seemed determined to end it in a better position.

And remembering all of these details in that one random instant in the shower, I questioned if I did the right thing. In place of a final exam, I had all of my students complete a portfolio project. They were to gather samples of their work from all the different periods of American literature we had studied and explain what they had learned, how they had grown throughout the semester using those samples as evidence.

I remembered Trisha showing me her introduction ahead of time; she wrote how she had grown as a person during my class, how she enjoyed the class and had learned, not only about literature, but about herself. She was so proud as she gathered her evidence to include in the portfolio, and she took the extra step of making it look more like a scrapbook than an academic assignment with construction paper and vivid colors. I couldn’t wait to read the final product.

But when I did, I sighed and tried to push away the sick feeling that was forming in my stomach. Trisha had obviously spent tremendous amounts of time putting together the project, but it said nothing about American literature. She included samples of work from throughout the year, but she never explained what those samples proved. She did write how she had grown as a person, but she neglected to show what she comprehended from the curriculum. What had she actually learned? From the portfolio, I couldn’t tell.

I had to grade her with the same rubric I used for everyone else, and the grade she earned was a ‘C.’ I’ll never forget the look on her face when she saw her grade. I specifically made a point of being there when she opened her portfolio and pulled out the grade sheet. I told her how proud I was of her for the effort she had shown, how I knew she was disappointed, but she didn’t cover all aspects of the assignment as she needed to. She shook her head like she understood, but the look on her face said she was crushed.

Looking back, I know I explained the project well. After giving the project for the first time the previous year, I made adjustments to the rubric and how I taught the project. I made my students keep their notebooks in the same order and with the same headings that they would use in their portfolios. I brought in sample projects from the previous year; they saw what kinds of portfolios earned an ‘F’, a ‘C’, and an ‘A.’ I offered to look and make suggestions to their portfolios before they were due, and I gave them class time to work on the project. And seven years later, I was still questioning if I had expected too much.

As I wrapped the towel around me, I wondered what Trisha thought about me. Teachers have this amazing ability to affect a person’s life forever, whether for bad or good. I remember a friend blaming an English teacher for her almost dropping out of school, and I remember inviting one of my own English teachers to my wedding. Did the wonderful sentiments Trisha had written in her introduction still hold true, or did that experience of working so hard and only earning a ‘C’ negatively affect how she approached the rest of her schooling?

While I hoped that Trisha didn’t look back on her sophomore English class and think about how much she hated Mrs. Davis, I more so hoped that Trisha didn’t look back on that moment as the moment when she stopped trying. I most likely won’t ever know.

As I got dressed and walked downstairs, I did so with a melancholy spirit. I only taught for three-and-a-half years, but I had influenced over 550 lives. I’m sure some look back on me as a teacher who challenged them and cared about them, and some probably don’t remember who Mrs. Davis is. But it’s that other group, that group who looks back and says that Mrs. Davis was the teacher who caused them to stop trying, that group is the one that I can’t bear to think about.

I could only do what I thought was right, hold high standards and hope that my students would rise to them. I held myself to those high standards, too, those standards which, seven years later, cause me to see Trisha’s face.

Freedom

I love my children more than I could express in words, but I have to admit, I had been looking forward to this day for a few months. I didn’t know exactly what to expect for today, but I so relished the chance of having a few hours to myself without the responsibility of any children.

Today was going to be different. I woke up early, put on a nice outfit, fixed my hair, and applied make-up. I whipped up some pancakes for everyone while the house was still quiet, and I got together everything I needed for my day. I packed my lunch, the laptop, and a novel, and I noticed a spring in my step as I moved throughout the kitchen prior to departing.

I read for a couple of hours today, a leisure activity in which I do not get to take part for that length very often. I chatted with some new acquaintances and caught up with an old friend. Nothing about the day was extraordinary, but I took pleasure in doing the ordinary that had somehow slipped through my fingertips these last few years.

I rested. Sitting in my chair I could do or not do while I waited. I didn’t clean, I didn’t discipline, and I didn’t teach numbers. When I had to go to the bathroom, I went–and I closed the door all the way–and I didn’t hold my breath as I left, afraid of what mess I’d find in the kitchen. And as an added benefit to the near-perfect day, I got paid for my freedom.

When I came home, I hugged my beautiful children and stepped right back into our normal routine. But I couldn’t help but glance back from whence I came….

For the beautiful day, all I can say is ‘thank you.’ God bless the United States of America and our wonderful judicial system. Thank you Gwinnett County Courts for calling me today for jury duty, and while I know you don’t need me tomorrow, please call me on Wednesday. Please.

Remembering

Sometimes it’s easy to forget.

I look across the bed at my husband, tired from a long week at work, and recognize my own weariness. Weariness, a feeling more common than not. Talking has quickly given way to sleep. Who are these two people?

Sometimes I look back at those two people, ten years younger, and try to remember what initially attracted them to one another. It’s difficult to define.

When we were dating, our relationship was defined by doing. Every weekend dinner dates continued an early set tradition. We eagerly anticipated the opening of new movies, and we experienced music flowing through our veins at many concerts. We cheered at baseball games and yelled at football games. And at night, we were able to stay up into the wee hours of the morning talking and laughing until we would go our separate ways, waiting for our next appointed meeting–the sooner the better.

I look at these two people now, how they’ve changed. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. These are not the same two people from before.

Now, our relationship is defined more by being. We exist together for the same common purpose of serving God and our family, but the days of constant doing are few and far between. No longer do we share weekly dinner dates; we share a quiet dinner around the table after the kids are in bed. We don’t anticipate the opening of new movies; instead, we fight sleep on the couch to watch the ones that are now old. The children come along to those rare sporting events; my eyes aren’t on the game but on three little heads constantly moving in different directions.

I look back at those people from ten years ago, and I begin to think that they are more different from us than alike. I wonder would they still find each other attractive if they met for the first time today? Until one night when he opens his computer…

Ten years ago, he sat at his computer. I watched, tired and helpless, as he set margins, changed fonts. He took my words and made them look beautiful. He took my accomplishments and turned me into a professional. He made my first resumé without my asking, as a gift for one he might love, and I secured my first teaching job comfortably before I graduated.

Ten years ago, he sat at his computer. He set margins, changed fonts. I sat downstairs in my apartment, labeling pages, putting them in order, proving to my professors through those words and sample lessons my ability to teach. Together we worked through the night completing this portfolio that encompassed a year’s worth of work and a journey. I didn’t ask for his help, but he volunteered for the one that he loved, and I received an A+, my final task completed before I graduated.

Five days ago he opened his computer. He set margins, changed fonts. He took my ideas and gave them form. I sat at my computer, made changes to my blog, this hobby now a daily part of me. He changed my changes, making them better. He took my words and made them look beautiful, my words that convey a year’s worth of learning, my journey. I didn’t ask for his help, but he worked for this girl that he still loves, his ways not all that different from when she first graduated.

And I know now that the core of these two people is not all that different from those two of ten years ago.

For this Focus on it Friday, I am thankful for a husband who has always wanted me to succeed, who puts aside his time to show me his love. We’ve changed, our relationship has changed, but the heart of the man who loves me is the same. For what this week are you thankful? Share in the comments or provide a link to your own post.

The Cleaning Routine that Changed My Life

How’s that for an overly dramatic title? No, this cleaning routine did not save me from a horrible addiction and the brink of destruction, but it did give me some structure. No longer do I have to spend my weekends cleaning like crazy (or feeling guilty because I didn’t); my weekends are free to work on other projects or just have fun with my family. So in that sense, starting this routine almost three weeks ago did change a small aspect of my life.

I am not one to use my blog to give tips or advice–more often than not I write about what I do wrong–and I especially do not count myself qualified to discuss cleaning. However, after writing my previous post in which I cited having a new cleaning routine as a benefit of trying to move, I received a request to share. If you are looking for a detailed plan which provides days for sewing and ironing curtains, I have no idea why you thought you would find that plan here. The legless dolly sitting on my nightstand attests to the fact that sewing rarely makes my ‘to-do’ list. You can find those plans on the internet, though, so search away.

Click on the following link to find the fabulously simple plan courtesy of Courtney at Raising Homemakers.

The best tool I have found to getting all of my housework done each week is a:

SCHEDULE

My 2010 Weekly Schedule looks like this:

Mondays – Menu and Market Day
Tuesdays: Toilets, Tubs and Towels Day
Wednesdays: Wash (laundry day)
Thursdays: Dust
Fridays: Floors

This schedule has been so easy to follow since the task matches the first letter of the day.

Doesn’t that plan sound easy? I try to knock out my tasks during ‘Quiet Rest Time’ when my children are rarely resting and only sometimes quiet. I am one who likes structure and tends to show discipline if I have a plan. Previously, I would tell myself that I was going to clean one room a day, and sometimes it happened, but other times it didn’t. Typically, the kids’ bathroom and other rooms they touched got attention, whereas Matt and my bathroom was neglected. Now I have a specific goal in mind for each day.

The plan is flexible. I am not completely insane, yet, so I try to avoid shopping with all three little ones if I can help it; Friday night/Saturday morning is when Matt and I accomplish grocery shopping. Market Monday has become Mopping Monday, instead. I vacuum all the rooms on Friday, but I save the kitchen floor for its own special day. Reserving only one day for laundry would never work since Chloe wears cloth diapers, and we signed up for the energy savings plan this summer that doesn’t allow me to use much electricity from 3-8 p.m. every day. I wash at least one load every day, and Wednesday can serve as a catch-up day for any tasks I didn’t complete on the previous days.

If you come over to my house Tuesday morning, the floor will not look mopped as someone will have already spilled milk all over the floor, the dog will have tracked in dirt, and the baby will have thrown on the floor whatever food she hadn’t finished. By Tuesday night, I will need to scrub the walls and floor of whatever bathroom my son has used. This plan does not eliminate the messes that kids make, but it does ensure that I’ve cleaned every room at least once during the week.

Cleaning is not the most important thing in life, but right now, my job is raising my children and taking care of the house. I want to work hard at what I do. However, in my quest to avoid idleness, I do not want to make an idol out of my home. The plan is not the law, just a guideline. If it can help you, wonderful! If not, don’t worry; I have no plans to start evangelizing the benefits of cleaning or this plan.

Join me tomorrow for Focus on It Friday! Start thinking about something from this week for which you are thankful, and come back and share.

The Silver Lining: Ten Reasons that Not Moving is Not Bad

We took our home off the market this weekend. Our realtor removed the sign before knocking on the door so that we wouldn’t have to watch as it became official–we were not moving. I’ve not allowed myself to dwell on the reality because I don’t want to feel disappointed; I love my home and where we live–I just wish we could spend more time together as a family.

I hadn’t planned on doing a top ten list today; however, I thought this exercise would be good for me, would force me to look ahead with hope and anticipation. So here goes my top ten list for why not moving is not a bad thing:

10. A Clutter-free Life: Getting ready to move was extremely stressful and took a couple of months of going to bed after midnight every night to finish. However, we needed the deadline to remove every piece of clutter from our home, and as a result, my every days are clutter-free and smoother, as well. I won’t have to start over in a new home; I can enjoy the set-up of this one.

9. A New Routine: Keeping an entire home clean and ready to present any day of the week was a challenge, especially with three destructive little ones running around. However, I found a cleaning routine that works for me and that I can continue. I cleaned before, but my house looks the best it’s ever looked because of our attempt to move. I know I can keep this routine going. And who doesn’t like a clean house?

8. New Carpet: Our old carpet was disgusting. End of story.

7. Our Garden: For the four years that we’ve lived here, I’ve wanted to plant a garden. However, every year I was either very pregnant at planting time or home with a newborn and other children. The garden wasn’t a priority. This year, however, my whole family and I got our hands dirty, made memories, and grew the best produce and herbs I’ve ever tasted. I can’t wait to expand our garden next year.

6. Our Backyard: Our yard is large and level–perfect for three kids running around or driving laps in PowerWheels. In addition to being the perfect yard, the location is great, too. We’re located right next to the swim/tennis in our neighborhood. Part of our fence opens up to the path leading to the pool. What could be more perfect during these hot, Georgia summers?

5. Teamwork: Through this process, we’ve all discovered how to help one another. The baby is the only one who doesn’t make her bed, clean her room, or put away clothes. Our family is a team, and we work together.

4. Church: We get to continue going to the church that we love, 12Stone Church, and grow our friendships. And I’ll continue one of my joys this fall–leading with my husband another small group .

3. Focused Family Time: We wanted to move closer to Matt’s work so that we could spend more time together as a family, and Matt would spend less of his time in the car. Right now, that plan is not to be, so as we’ve been doing for the last few months, we’ll have to be intentional about our family time. And intentional time as a family is definitely not a bad thing.

2. Honoring the Sabbath: Even though I know God commands that we use the Sabbath to worship and rest, I’m not sure if the rest part would have become a priority had we not planned to move. After working so hard every week, I needed a rest on Sunday. And since I knew the weekend was our reserved family time together, I made sure I got all of my chores completed by Saturday night so that we could use Sunday to focus on God and family. I now realize why God commanded the Sabbath in the first place and wish I had taken His instruction seriously from the beginning. This practice is one I will ensure we keep.

1. Discovering God’s Will: The frustrating part of this journey is not knowing God’s will for us. We prayed about our decision before we ever put the ‘For Sale’ sign in our yard and asked God to guide us. If it were not His will, we did not want to move (even though we really wanted to move). I’m not sure what He has in store for us, if there is a specific purpose we are to accomplish here, or if we are just products of a bad housing market. What I do know is that if God had a specific purpose for us to live in Alpharetta, then our house would’ve sold. And while I’m disappointed, I will rest in that fact and continue to seek His will for our family.

I’ve linked today’s post at OhAmanda for Top Ten Tuesday. Head on over for some fun reading!