When I Don’t Know W.W.J.D.

Two days ago, I had a blasphemous thought: Would Jesus have remained sinless if he had had to parent my kids? And while I know that that thought shouldn’t have crossed my mind, it did. And, truthfully, on this particular night, I was convinced that even Jesus would’ve lost his cool when He saw his little kids lying amidst papers and toys strewn across the playroom floor after two weeks of ordering them to clean up. I was convinced that the sounds of whining and crying from his oldest and the touch of toddlers clinging to His leg while having tantrums would’ve had Him calling one of the disciples to come babysit so He could head to Starbucks, hiding from the sight of any people three feet tall and under.

After a miserable previous week, I had started this week off fresh. With a new idea tucked away in my brain, I loaded up the girls and headed to Target for some incentive stickers. And even though the Disney princess stickers cost $6 when a pack of butterfly and flower stickers cost half that amount for twice the number, I went through the check-out line with the princesses and a pack of Star Wars stickers for Caleb. After all, for the incentive to work, the kids had to be excited about their prize. I was sure they would pick up their toys for a sticker.

So when we reached the end of the week with two barren charts except for a few stickers awarded ( one sticker stolen, not earned) merely for the kids to realize that they could, in fact, earn stickers, I threw up my hands in desperation. And as I hung my head in defeat and contemplated if Jesus would, in fact, sin, I also thought about a question that I was first asked my senior year in high school.

My mom had come home from the Christian book store one day with a handful of bracelets.

“What are these?” I asked.

I looked over the letters ‘W.W.J.D’ embroidered on the cloth.

“It stands for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ and when someone asks you what it means, you’re supposed to give them the bracelet.

I remember giving some to my boyfriend and hearing his experience having given his away to a girl in his math class:

“She told me it was really hard to smoke wearing that bracelet!”

In high school, when I asked the question ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ I knew the answer. He wouldn’t want me to rebel against my parents by smoking. He wouldn’t want me to cheat on tests or make fun of the awkward boy in my math class. He would want me to try my hardest, act respectfully to my teachers, love my neighbors.

But the other day, as I stood in my kitchen and asked myself that question again, I answered honestly I don’t know.

I thought about the life of Jesus, and since he was not a human parent to any children, I could only look to how he treated those he encountered.

I considered the option of teaching my children in parables:

There once was a mother Wolf spider. She had three children who crawled around under her legs and wouldn’t grow up fast enough. So she ate them.

I wasn’t sure that parables would be the most effective method for my young audience.

And I wasn’t sure what method to use instead. I didn’t know if Jesus would praise the ‘Naughty Step’ or give a swift spanking. I wasn’t sure if He would hand out stars on chore charts or box up toys that had littered the floor one day too many. I wasn’t sure of much other than that He would love.

He would teach them in a way that they would know their sins without feeling the weight of condemnation, being clothed in forgiveness instead.

And they would know love.

And it is this love that would compel them to obedience, to following the One who called.

I find the job of ‘mother’ extremely frustrating sometimes. I have more questions than answers, and I feel the weight of my responsibility to these three precious lives. And most mornings, I wake up not knowing how to discipline a child who isn’t motivated by punishment or reward.

But I can start with love.

And while I don’t know how to do it as perfectly as Jesus, I do have that motherly instinct. And I know the love Jesus has bestowed on me.

So I start there. With love. Some days it’s all I have.

Have you ever pictured Jesus as a parent to your children? How do you think He would respond? Join in the conversation below, or add your own post describing a spiritual journey you are currently taking.

And for those wanting to embark on a different kind of journey, Nikki invited me to share my thoughts on potty-training. I find the timing of these two posts ironic, the one where I say I don’t know how to parent and the next where I give out advice! I’d love for you to check out her site and add any other tips on potty-training that you can offer.

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Ripping Out Pages

Last week in church, we finished up the “Puzzled by the Bible” series with a look at Revelation and the end times. Scripture references alluding to evil and suffering and hell are never among my favorite, so I chose to pass on writing a post for Michelle’s “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday.” Instead, I wrote about the hell of shoe-shopping with my daughter.

However, as the week went on, I couldn’t escape one image that my pastor created. He recognized that some people don’t like discussing hell–they’d rather ignore those passages in Revelation–and by doing so, they are effectively ripping out the pages of the Bible they don’t like. The only problem, he pointed out, is that if we rip out those pages in Revelation, then we have to rip out the passages in the Gospel where Jesus alludes to hell. And if we rip out the passages with Jesus, then we have to rip out the prophets who foretold of Him, and so on and so on.

And as he started ripping pages, it became obvious that soon we’d be left with nothing.

While my pastor later revealed that he was actually ripping pages out of an old encyclopedia, the image stayed in my mind. Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we all figuratively rip out pages every day.

Perhaps we are very comfortable pointing out the sins of society, take a literal view of Creation and God’s commandments, and strive to live a righteous life, but we gloss over James 1:27:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

All of a sudden, our literal interpretation of Scripture becomes figurative or allegorical. We read a general mandate of doing good deeds, so we’re content to continue pointing out the sins of others while 143 million children live without parents in this world. We drive by the nursing home on our way to work, not once stopping in to visit that widow without family.

Or maybe we devote our life to doing good deeds and working for social justice. We do care for the orphans and widows and spend our Saturdays in the soup kitchen. Yet, when it comes to the reason for why we are compelled to act with mercy and love, we stay silent. We read the story of Peter healing a paralytic, yet we ignore the most important words he speaks: “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk” (Acts 3:6, emphasis mine).

Perhaps we don’t want to call sin, sin. We look to the changing time and culture, so we rip out pages there. We don’t want to forgive our brother for offending us ten years ago, so we rip out the passage that says to forgive seventy-seven times (Matthew 18:22). We keep ripping and ripping, and pretty soon, we’re left with some passages from a good book.

But not the Word of God.

Because we wouldn’t dare destroy words that God himself instructed.

As I walked through last week thinking over this image, I became fearful. Where was I ripping out passages, and what do I believe? Do I truly believe the Bible is the Word of God, or have I made it a good book, treating it like a buffet where I grab a little of this and a little of that?

The implications for either are great. Because if the Bible is the Word of God, then there are serious commands that I must follow, but there are also wonderful blessings. However, if this book is a just a good book, then I can pick and choose what I want, but there is no more power in those words than the bestseller I grab off the shelf in the bookstore.

And on which type of book would I rather place the foundation of my faith, the reason for how I live?

So this morning I knew I needed to at least give the topic consideration. I could no longer ignore the question chasing me last week. And so I ask (nervously) this morning, God, where am I ignoring you? What pages have I ripped out of your book?

Where are you ripping out pages, and are you content to do so?

Shamrocks and Late Nights

I had every intention of taking on the role of that mother, you know, the one who anticipates every holiday and presents her kids with an appropriate craft and history lesson on its origin. I know my limitations, so I planned to make simple shamrocks with the kids and Google search St. Patrick to provide just enough basic details about the man for whom this holiday is named.

Yeah, it didn’t happen.

Instead, at 8:50, when we are typically heading out the door for preschool which is five minutes away, we were all still in the kitchen. I realized the date and looked in horror at my three perfectly well-dressed children in the clothes they had laid out the night before–none of which had any green.

Because my priorities were in order, I made a mad-dash up the stairs, ripping through my son’s t-shirt drawer, pushing clothes out of the way in my daughter’s closet, finding completely new outfits for them down to the little green hair clip to adorn my daughter’s strawberry-blonde locks. I threw my son’s shirt over the bannister knowing that if I saved him the 30 seconds it took me to get his sister’s clothes and walk down the stairs, they both would arrive miraculously on time for carpool.

Hannah Grace, excited to change and put on more clothes, followed me up the stairs. Moving faster than she had in at least a week, she helped me whip off her shirt and pants and donned an outfit that said she was proud of that eighth of Irish blood in her.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked in horror at my son who had not performed the Jedi mind-trick of removing his first shirt without actually using his arms and replacing it with the one I threw down the stairs.

“Caleb! Why haven’t you changed?”

“This shirt isn’t green.”

“But it has green on it!”

My voice was getting a little shrieky. Clearly, Caleb didn’t understand the sense of urgency I was going for, as it was now 8:55. Clearly, he didn’t understand that the only reason I got him a new shirt was to prevent him from possibly getting pinched. It could happen. Preschoolers can be mean.

Caleb walked away as I began grabbing an assortment of bags of the book and diaper variety that I had previously piled up at the door. I unbuckled Chloe who had been sitting in her booster seat at the kitchen table while I had run from one room to the other. And, suddenly, Caleb emerged from the laundry room.

“I’m going to wear this one.”

In his hand was a beautifully green t-shirt. Perfect.

“Did you get that shirt from the laundry basket?” I asked suspiciously.

“No.”

“But you just came from the laundry room, and that shirt wasn’t in your drawer upstairs.”

“I got it from here.”

Caleb took me into the laundry room and pointed to a small pile of clothes on the floor that weren’t even good enough to make it into a basket.

Hmm. Even better.

I snatched the shirt out of his hands, gave it a quick look-over, smelled it, and tossed it back to him.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Caleb pulled the new shirt over his head, and we made our way out the door at 9:00 for the preschool carpool that was now just beginning. I ushered the older two into the van and ran to the other side with Chloe, who, of course, decided now was the perfect time to start the I-can-arch-my-back-so-far-you’re-going-to-drop-me routine. Once she was buckled, I started to run back to my seat when I noticed Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum staring at butterflies and rainbows in the air.

“Get buckled!” I insisted.

And for a moment, I started to panic. But then I remembered who caused this fiasco. I remembered the two times I hit snooze this morning, and I remembered how I chose ‘green’ as more important than ‘on time’. And as we headed toward the school, I relaxed as I remembered that carpool runs until 9:10, and if we arrived later, I’d simply walk the kids inside.

Every week since I started writing on the fruits of the Spirit, I’ve been tested. In fact, I can honestly say that I can’t wait until this study is over. I don’t like being tested, and I don’t like seeing how much I need to improve. Prior to having kids, I was gentle. I was kind and patient. After having three kids, my impulse is to freak out and speak harshly when things get chaotic.

And I know now that being gentle isn’t about cooing at a little baby or about how to handle china. It’s about my response to my daughter who stared at the garbage men in a comatose-like state for three full minutes in the middle of the driveway while everyone else was buckled in the van. It’s about the words that I held back when I found a mysterious wax-like substance melted into our newly cleaned carpets. It’s about the temper that I contained when my kids had their own St. Patrick’s Day parade in my bedroom with every gift bag and piece of tissue paper they could find. And it’s about my attitude when I was rocking my daughter to sleep at 10:10 p.m. while her daddy was out with his friend, and I had spent the last two hours trying to get her to stay in her room. ‘Gentle’ truly is a gift from God.

And ‘gentle’ is hard, but I’m getting better. I’m trying to look at life logically and see that the craziness of every day isn’t really all that big of a deal, but the tone of my voice when I speak to my children is.

I’m trusting that He will see this change through and am clinging to the promise that “he who began a good work in [me] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

And until that day I’ll keep practicing my deep breaths and counting to ten as I watch the applesauce hit the floor for the fourteenth time.

“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). Emphasis mine

Now it’s your turn! Link up with your own post on ‘gentleness!’

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Parting the Red Sea: Part Two

Last week I wrote how God had given me an unusual calm, but as the week played out, I became fully aware of the gift He had given me. I want to write this post not to entertain or improve my writing skills but simply to remember.

I wish I could recount all the details; a part of me is afraid that the change won’t stick, and I want a formula to follow to produce the desired results. But I know better; faith is not a formula but a condition of the heart, a way to live.

Last Sunday night I came home from small group utterly dejected. I went to bed as I had done many Sunday nights previous, with a heaviness on my chest and a dread for Monday morning. Not only was I physically tired but mentally tired, too; as hard as I had tried, my attempts at observing a Sabbath never produced the rest of which I hoped.

Monday morning, I remember sitting up in bed and praying as I do most mornings. I don’t remember the words, but I think the prayer was simple. In fact, I think I said something to the effect of “God, I want to have a good day.” I can’t remember if I had thought these words Sunday night or if they were part of my Monday prayer, but I remember the cry of my heart to God was that I wanted my children to have good memories of their mother. I wanted my husband to like me and not grow to hate me over time.

As much as it pains me to admit, I had grown to thinking that my children would be better off if I went to work full-time, my husband if he married someone else. I didn’t feel happy, and while I put little stock in the fleeting feeling of happiness, I didn’t have contentment, either. My entire life I had been called a calm and patient person, but I had discovered my temper and the ease that frustration came to me after the birth of my third child.

The last two years were rough. I think most moms would find having three kids in three years challenging. Then add a husband whose work is far away and his hours away from home long, and the situation is tougher. And I resented the hours that I was home by myself. Even though I knew in my heart my husband was good and was providing the best way he knew how, I was tired. Waiting for him to come home until seven or later every night, eating dinner at nine after the kids were tucked away in bed, was taking it’s toll. And I didn’t think I could handle this routine that we had established any longer.

Last Monday morning I prayed, but I think even before I thought the prayer I felt different. As I already wrote, I had a calm. During a week which should have sucked, I felt a peace. I didn’t feel the weight on my chest, and I felt like I could love, be a good mom for my children, a supportive wife for my husband.

That day I wrote my blog post not looking for help because I honestly felt fine. However, that night a friend sent me a message that she was coming over to help make the light sabers for my son’s Star Wars party. The next day another friend called and said, “Oh, honey! I just read your blog–what can I do to help?” She went to the store for me since my kids were sick, and later that week, she brought her kids over to play with mine and watched them all while I cut out belts for the Jedi robes. A friend from small group brought my family a meal on Thursday, the day of Matt’s procedure and Caleb’s first baseball game, so that I wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. Another friend sent me messages of love and support on Facebook.

And I knew God was whispering, See? I will take care of you. When you focus your eyes on what’s important and not on all the other stuff that is a distraction, I will give you the help you need.

To some, the help of my friends would seem a coincidence or just what friends would do regardless. But I know better. I know how I felt Sunday, and I know how I felt all the Sundays before. And more importantly, I know how I felt Monday. God was confirming that He was in this change.

I didn’t do anything different. But there was peace. God lifted the darkness and depression that was crushing me, and as I shared last night with my small group, the same group whose prayers I coveted the week before, I broke down in tears. God had answered their prayers.

I don’t know why God answered our prayers on Monday. I had prayed many, many times before. In fact, during this past year as I have increased my writing and been more consistent with prayer and reading my Bible, I have felt closer to Him than ever before. But I struggled daily.

I wish I knew the formula, but I think God just wants me to have faith. He wants me to acknowledge that He is the source of all good and all miracles, and I don’t need to know the hows or the whys.

He is the One who parted the Red Sea, and He is the one who brought me peace. And that is enough for me to know.

“…he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6, New International Version, 2010).

I’m linking up with Michelle today, and I know I’ve kind of cheated because I’m not sharing what I learned in a sermon or book that I’m reading, but I think learning something straight from the Source counts, too! 🙂

I’d love for you to join me on Friday, as well, and share what God has taught you. This week’s journey is on ‘gentleness.’

“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).

Finally, I want to thank everyone for all of your thoughtful comments on my blog. I am severely behind in my replies! I love replying and/or visting your blogs, too, and I promise I will get there; it just might take me a little while.

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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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).

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).

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.

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What frightens you? How do you overcome fear?

The Second Half of the Story

Faith has always seemed mysterious to me, how some people can have it and others struggle to find it. There isn’t a formula or steps a person can walk through to attain it–in fact, faith is almost the opposite. Faith is relying on somebody or something to live up to its promise, and the results are often out of one’s control. Faith is surrender, and at times, faith is frightening.

I’ve never had trouble believing in God; I find it harder to have faith in the idea that the world and all its beautiful intricacies do not point to the hand of a creator. I read the Bible, and I see prophecy after prophecy fulfilled, parallelism illustrated in books written hundreds of years apart, and the literature teacher in me delights in the richness of the pages. The words of Jesus hit me at the core, and I believe.

Something resonates in my soul, something that awakens my spirit to the idea that these words are true. And while doubts have come, they quickly wash away as sand pulled underneath the retracting tide.

While I believe, I completely understand why others don’t. No matter the number of prophecies fulfilled, historical evidence retrieved, or miracles performed, believing in the words of the Bible requires one to accept some difficult ideas: the hand of God parts the Red Sea through a shepherd’s staff, a man lives in the belly of a great fish for three days, a virgin gives birth to a son, and a Son ascends into heaven after experiencing death and life anew.

Tough ideas to wrap around one’s mind, yet I believe. I read about walls tumbling down after a group of Israelites circle them seven times; I taste the wine that Jesus made, saving a bridegroom from the embarrassment of having run out; and I wonder at the miracle of a bush aflame but not burnt.

But while I have faith in a big God and the miracles that He performed in another time, another place, I find that I don’t always have that same faith allowing me to believe He could work through me. While hearing a teaching on Gideon in church, I marveled at the faith of a man who believed God at His word that his mere army of 300 men would sufficiently destroy a Midianite army of over 100,000. I can believe that God asked someone else to trust Him, and He provided, but I can’t imagine trusting God in that way myself.

I want to be the woman who can pray and believe that what she is asking can happen. I want to be the Christian who has faith enough to act on the prompt of God, no matter the difficulty of what He asks. I want to be the person who could give up everything without knowing the next chapter in the story.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is found in chapter nine of Mark. A man requests that Jesus, if He can, heal his demon-possessed son who has suffered since childhood. After Jesus responds that “everything is possible for one who believes,” the man cries out, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9: 23, 24, New International Version, 2010).

I get him. I understand believing in my heart that God has the power to do all He promises, but I wrestle with doubt at the same exact time. I want to believe, but I need help with my unbelief.

But I am comforted by the end of this story. Jesus does the impossible; He heals the boy. Despite any unbelief with which this man is fighting, God works a miracle. God opens the man’s eyes to His power and deals with his unbelief.

And I am no different than this man in the Bible. I have unbelief, but I also believe. And if I ask God to help me with my unbelief, He will–and that fact is scary because I don’t know what uttering those words–“God, help me overcome my unbelief!”–will mean for my life.

And I don’t know what they will mean for yours–perhaps revealing a path that points to a creator, perhaps driving you into the arms of a Savior, or perhaps giving you the courage to face the army that stands ahead–but He will answer.

Now the question is, will we make that demand? Will we demand that He help us overcome our unbelief? Because until we do, we are missing out on the second half of the story.

We’re just a mass of people waiting at the edge of the water as the Egyptian army follows ready to attack. We’re just a tired, beaten-down man waiting in the belly of a giant fish. We’re just a pregnant, unwed teenager, confused and scared.

But I’d rather walk through that path with walls of ocean in the periphery. I’d rather make it to dry ground, delivering the message God had asked I take. I’d rather know my Savior and grab hold of the courage He can give…

…help me, Father. Help me with my unbelief….

Now it’s your turn! What did you learn about faith this week? Leave a comment, or link your post below. Grab the ‘Journeys’ button from the sidebar so others can join the conversation. Thank you for your participation!

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The Journey to Iceland

“We’re going to see Iceland.”

I looked up from the mess I was clearing away at the table to see my daughter, dressed in a cowboy hat, coat, and little pink backpack filled to the brim.

“Iceland?” I questioned. I was certain I had never told my three-year-old about Iceland, as geography is not my thing, and I was curious as to where she learned of the place.

“Yes, Iceland. We need to go.”

I could hear my son in the playroom, clamoring to fill his own bag with necessities for the trip.

I was instantly concerned. When my son emerged, he was wearing a blue vest and a baseball cap. I wasn’t sure that they were dressed appropriately for the journey, and I feared that they would need more than the bags on their backs for this kind of adventure.

But they were ready to go, and my questions about the weather and where they would stay once they arrived did not deter them from taking that first step out the back door.

As I grabbed my camera and coat (wouldn’t you take a camera if you were heading to Iceland?), I couldn’t help but wonder where this journey would end and what I would find. I wanted to act in my kids’ play, but I needed to understand my character’s motivation first.

Unfortunately, it’s not unlike me to focus on the destination instead of the journey in more than just my children’s play. When I feel God’s leading, I want to know all of the details immediately before I begin. If I am going through a trial, I know God will use it for good, but I want to know what that ‘good’ is while I struggle. If God calls me to Iceland, I want to know how to pack.

During the Christmas season, it’s easy for me to sing about Emmanuel and nod my head and smile as I think of the baby in the manger. I can proclaim that God is with us as I recall the story of the virgin birth and a newborn whose arrival caused the heavens to break open in songs of praise while a group of shepherds shook in awe and fear.

I know Emmanuel, yet I forget what His name means. I forget that not only does God orchestrate the journey with an end that fits perfectly in the giant puzzle of the universe but that He also takes the trip with me, offering to carry my pink backpack when the load becomes too heavy or take my hands in His when I’ve forgotten my gloves.

Emmanuel. God With Us.

Even on trips to Iceland.

I watched as Hannah Grace led the way through the yard, determined that we make it to Iceland in time for dinner. We were to have Taco Bell. And suddenly, I heard an important piece of information:

“Hurry! Iceland is waiting for us, and he’s going to take us to Taco Bell.” He. Iceland is a person. The story began to make sense (well, sort of).

So we journeyed on to the place in our yard where a beautiful summer garden once bloomed, and we ate Taco Bell with Iceland. And I learned that I didn’t need to worry at all; we had exactly what we needed for the journey.

If you haven’t already, check out yesterday’s post to see what’s starting new this Friday!