His Child

“Mom! Hannah Grace had a big fall! She’s needs to go to the hospital!” my ever-dramatic four-year-old informed me.

I was less than six feet away from my kids, doing the dishes while they ate their dinner. Matt was still not home from work. I wanted to get the kitchen as clean as possible before he got home so that we could relax and enjoy our Friday night. I somehow missed the fall, having bent down to put a plate in the dishwasher as Hannah Grace’s head hit the floor.

Of course, I heard her cry, immediately shot up, and ran to her and asked the question which prompted Caleb’s reply.

“Oh, Caleb, she doesn’t need to go to the hospital,” I said while checking her head for bumps. “Don’t try to scare her.”

Hannah Grace was still crying, so I asked her where it hurt.

“My heaaaddd!” she pathetically drew out the word.

I was hoping for a more specific answer. “I know your head. Point to where it hurts.”

I felt the upper portion of her head where she was rubbing and pulled her in for a hug. I rubbed her head until she stopped crying, which didn’t take too long.

After a few tries, I gave up figuring out how she fell. All I could gather from both kids was that she was standing on the chair, leaning on the table, and somehow ended on the back of her head on the floor.

She was fine now, though, so I didn’t worry anymore. We had the talk (again) as to why she shouldn’t stand in her chair, and the kids finished their dinner. Then they went on their way to clean up the playroom while I finished cleaning the kitchen.

Ten minutes later Matt called: “I’m stopping at the store now to pick up the brownies, and then I’ll be on the way home.”

Good. Matt had made most of the drive in from work, and I was almost finished with the kitchen. I could start getting the kids ready for bed while I waited. We were going to have our weekly Friday date night which normally included a snack, an attempt at a movie, and someone falling asleep on the couch.

As I started sweeping, Hannah Grace was tip-toeing her way into the kitchen, singing a little song to herself.

“Have you finished cleaning up?” I asked. “Hurry up, babe. Mommy’s almost finished in here.”

I looked up from the pile I was sweeping as she twirled around and headed back toward the playroom.

“OMIGOSH!” I yelled. “What did you and Caleb get into?!” For a millisecond I was baffled at the reddish-purple substance matting Hannah Grace’s hair to the back of her head. For a millisecond.

And then fear set in.

“Hannah Grace, come here.” She had fallen on the back of her head, and now almost all the hair in the middle of her head was red and sticky.

I didn’t want to panic, and I didn’t want to scare her, and I really didn’t want to search through her hair to her scalp to find the injury that had caused this much blood. I started to move the hair away and didn’t see anything protruding from her scalp. I breathed a small sigh. I continued to search for the source and thought I found it, but she had too much matted hair. I decided I needed to put her in the tub so I could wash away the blood and see better.

I began dialing Matt. Straight to voicemail. I had just spoken with him! I tried again–maybe he was ignoring me because he was in the checkout line. I called again. And again. And again.

Now I had to think about the other two kids. I didn’t want Caleb to be scared or to scare Hannah Grace with his questions, and Chloe would just try to climb in the tub. I had to trust Caleb until Matt got home, which should be soon.

“Caleb, I need you to stay in the playroom with Chloe. Please watch her. I need to wash Hannah Grace’s hair.”

I can’t remember the questions he asked, but I know I emphasized how I really needed him to be a big helper then.

As I was moving Hannah Grace upstairs, Matt called.

“If I call four times in a row, it’s probably important!”

“I didn’t hear my phone. Well..what’s wrong?!” I had worried Matt with my ‘greeting’ and needed to fill him in on the details, which I did. I told him I was taking Hannah Grace upstairs, so when he got home, he needed to check on Caleb and Chloe.

“I’ll be home in ten minutes.” He sounded as scared as I felt.

While I moved with a purpose, telling myself to act calm, Hannah Grace continued on in La-La Land–not because of her injury but because she is a regular inhabitant of the place. I sat her in the tub and began rinsing her hair. We both watched as the clear water became pink and swirled around her feet. I looked at the back of her head. Yes, there it was.

No bigger than a half an inch long in the middle of her head sat the cut, open. Her scalp around the cut had swelled into a tender knot. Caleb was right–we would be making a trip to urgent care. Now seeing her injury clearly, I relaxed a little. I couldn’t believe a cut that small produced so much blood!

As I called my parents and set up the arrangements for Caleb and Chloe, I watched in amazement as Hannah Grace played in the tub, apparently not in pain and oblivious to the chaos I had felt for the past ten minutes.

“Hannah Grace, we’re going to need to go to the doctor. You have a boo-boo on your head that we need to get fixed,” I told her matter-of-factly.

“To get a band-aid because we used up all the band-aids?” She remembered earlier that day I reprimanded her and her brother for sneaking and using the rest of our box of band-aids.

“Well, no, we don’t have any more band-aids, but we need a doctor to check your boo-boo.”

As I pulled her out of the tub, swaddling her in the blue hooded towel, Matt made his way into the bathroom. I showed him the cut and was surprised to see the hair around the wound was already turning red again, slowly, but confirming my decision to head to urgent care.

We proceeded to get each of the kids dressed in their pajamas and put Caleb and Chloe in bed. Hannah Grace came downstairs with us as we ate a quick dinner and waited for my parents, and once they arrived, we headed on to urgent care.

We knew the drill–almost a year-and-a-half ago we were in the same place for the same reason after Caleb fell on the playground and cut his cheek. The nurse would look at Hannah Grace’s head, then get the doctor who would tell the nurse to numb the spot, and then we would wait in the waiting room for the anesthetic to take effect before proceeding with the stitches.

We went through the routine and waited. Hannah Grace was happy reading books and playing with toys as she awaited the nurse to call her name. When she heard, “Hannah?” she looked up at the nurse by the door and began to make her way, not waiting for Matt or me. She was a big girl, and she was ready to get her stitches so she could get a sticker–no one ever told her she would get a sticker, but that was the appropriate prize, she had decided, for her injury.

We had to take Hannah’s shirt off while waiting for the doctor because the nurse said they would clean her injury again, and she didn’t want to get Hannah Grace all wet. That was the first protest we heard from Hannah Grace all night: “I don’t want them to see my boobies.”

While she lay down on her stomach on the table, her little body covered, arms and legs tucked in the sheet like a burrito, I brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. She was my daughter, my precious baby. How I wanted to protect her!

The nurse informed me, “She has a good bruise around the injury, so she may say it hurts when the doctor starts pulling on the stitches. If she says that, it’s because of the bruise.” The nurse was assuring me that the anesthetic had done its job.

I started to pray but then pushed aside the prayer. I felt selfish praying for Hannah Grace to not feel pain when I knew there were children with serious injuries and illnesses. I know in my head that God cares about me and my concerns, but sometimes I have trouble believing that in my heart. I have been so blessed–why would He listen to my prayers when there are real troubles in the world?

And in that moment I felt a peace. As I looked at my daughter, whom I loved with all my heart, God told me, “She’s my daughter, too. I don’t want her to hurt, either.”

Hannah Grace started to move, and I knew she just wanted her right arm free so that she could hug her pink bear-blankie to her face. I asked if the nurse could free her arm, which she did, and Hannah Grace fought her eyes to stay open, tiredness washing over her as her bear touched her face.

While the doctor made each stitch, Hannah Grace and I made faces at each other, sticking out our tongues from side to side. Matt had his hands on her little body, ensuring she didn’t move, but she had no plans to. She was a big girl.

“It took four stitches,” the doctor told us. That was one more stitch than her brother received a year-and-a-half before.

We dressed Hannah Grace, hugging her and telling her how proud we were. She didn’t cry, didn’t move; she was perfect. God had answered my prayer.

And He answered hers, too. She didn’t get a sticker, but she got a green popsicle. She sucked on that popsicle most of the whole way home until it was gone, and then she fell asleep.

Faith Like a Child

I can’t get anything by Caleb; he is too bright. Always asking questions, he stores away the answers in his computer of a mind, a mind that does not forget. I have to make sure I answer Caleb truthfully and carefully because, chances are, we will come back to our conversation again someday.

When Caleb asked me how his baby sister got in my tummy, I was happy to give him just enough information that he needed without the extra details that his three-year-old mind at the time didn’t need to explore.

“Mommy and Daddy wanted and prayed for a baby, so God put her there.”

That answer seemed to suffice. However, Caleb did not find that answer sufficient for how his sister came out of my tummy.

“God got her out.”

“But HOW?”

“Umm…I’m not exactly sure how; the doctor did something…”

“But you were THERE!!!”

“Yes, but I had my eyes closed. Why don’t you ask your father when he gets home? He was there, too. Maybe his eyes were open.”

And we moved on from that conversation, Caleb satisfied for the moment knowing that he could ask his daddy again, later. I felt a little guilty because I never wanted to lie to my son (yes, my eyes were closed for part of the process, but I have a pretty good idea of how each of my children emerged!) or pass all the responsibility for educating him onto my husband. The truth is I just wasn’t prepared for that question, yet, so I didn’t know how to answer.

There have been other times that I haven’t been prepared for how to answer Caleb, but I knew the question was too important to find a benign answer or wait until Daddy came home.

“How did Jesus make people when he was here?”

We had just finished reading a story about Jesus in Hannah Grace’s children’s Bible when Caleb asked this question.

“I’m really not sure how Jesus makes people. He’s God and can do anything.”

I started to answer, fumbling along, wondering again how much detail Caleb would need to be happy. I really didn’t want to give a sex talk, yet, but Caleb started to shake his head, furrowed his brow, indicating I was heading down the wrong path.

“No. When he was here, how did he make people?”

I looked at him for a minute, and then it hit me what he was really asking.

“You mean, because Jesus wasn’t in heaven, he was on Earth, how was he able to make people?”

“Yes.”

Oh, brother. Caleb was essentially asking me about the Trinity. I was beginning to think the sex talk would have been a little more straightforward, and nervousness began to grip me. I didn’t even understand the Trinity–it’s one of the mysteries of the Christian faith–so how would I explain something so complex in language that a three-year-old could digest?

What if I actually said something heretical when trying to explain this concept to Caleb? What if I influenced Caleb to believe something incorrect? Or worse, what if Caleb thought everything I was trying to explain just sounded crazy, and he didn’t want to believe?

I had this same fear when Caleb asked me about the crucifixion earlier in the year. Jesus dying, Jesus rising from the dead, an angel appearing to the women–how could I expect Caleb to believe the things that I believed when they sounded so outlandish?

And I remembered two verses: “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written: ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise; the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate'” (I Corinthians 1: 18-19). Yes, the message can sound foolish, far-fetched to our human minds, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

And then God comforted me: “But Jesus called the children to him and said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it'” (Luke 18: 16-17). Caleb had everything he needed to believe; he had the innocence and faith that we adults sometimes lose.

Having faith like a child doesn’t mean becoming unintelligent; God created the little mind that is always working in Caleb and wants it to grow. Instead, having this faith means learning how to trust. Caleb could believe what I was trying to teach him because he trusts me, that I love him and will teach him what is right. Likewise, I can have faith in God because of what I trust about His character–He is good, He is love, He is holy. As Caleb grows and learns about the character of God, he will no longer need to rely on his faith in me to believe; he will develop his own faith in God.

More important than the doctrine I try to teach is the life I actually live. And while our conversations are important, Caleb will learn more from my example. Am I loving as God commanded, serving others before myself, trying to model the life of Jesus and follow His will? These questions are the ones that I need to know how to answer. My hope is that if I can answer them in the affirmative, Caleb won’t find having faith like a child quite as difficult when he’s an adult.

Fruit from the Garden

I open the back door and turn down our little path covered by the shade of trees toward the hose. I pull on the hose that was wound tightly around the wheel, the wheel that should make unraveling and winding up that hose easy. It doesn’t. As I turn on the water, I get sprayed all over my arm, water leaking out where the hose and the spigot join; the spigot needs to be replaced.

And then I turn, ready to water the garden. Just like a little kid, I excitedly made my way to that garden every day, eager to see what new green growth has sprouted. But this particular day I stop short.

Where there used to be cute green sprouts contained in their designated area in front of the tomato cages, there are now these crazy, wild leaves creeping their way onto the neighboring plants. I cannot take my eye off the three mounds sprouting squash, cucumber, and zucchini.

They look reckless and not at all what I imagined. I had imagined these green plants would develop their leaves and vines and work their way down the mounds, filling out the space in between. Instead, these plants have swelled in one night thanks to a little rain and are blocking the view of my tomato plants. They have not grown merely side-to-side like I think they should; instead, they are taking over every inch of space anywhere near the vicinity of their mounds, sprawling into the herb garden and the growth behind them.

Their huge elephant ear-looking leaves are overshadowing the pepper plants. There are so many of these leaves I actually have to bend down and peer in their cover to find the fruit that is growing within.

And I don’t like it. My garden no longer looks neat. It doesn’t look contained. It’s wild and out of control. I no longer trust that my garden will produce the harvest for which I had hoped.

My faith so easily wavers; I am distracted by the largeness of the plants, their wildness, that I can’t see the promise of fruit. I don’t like the process He has determined is required for growth. I have decided that I know better than the Maker.

But the True Gardener interrupts my thoughts. He takes my eyes off the mounds in front of me and allows me to see the bigger picture.

He reminds me that His ways are not my ways; He has created order, but order doesn’t always look neat. He reminds me of His Son, and the jagged path that He walked, a path that was messy, full of betrayal and heartache.

A path that brought redemption. A path that brought beauty. A path that brought eternal life.

He reminds me that there is beauty in the messy process, and to grow, the leaves must stretch outside the boundaries I have created. And He promises that if I allow Him to grow the plants as He intended, they will bear much fruit.

And the fruit. Oh, the fruit! When we allow the Maker to grow the garden as He designed, He will never disappoint.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8)

Fearless

I had no intention of doing any more than dangling her little feet in the water. I thought the newness of cool waves lapping at her feet, sand squishing between her chubby toes would suffice. It was early evening, so I hadn’t even changed the baby into her swimsuit; the sun would go down, and no one would want to swim. Instead, I found myself struggling to pick up a baby who had doubled over my arm reaching towards the water. When I tried to straighten her and carry her, she allowed her body to transition from completely limp to completely tense–whichever would successfully allow her to slide beneath my grasp.

I marveled that evening as she moved through the water, determined to keep traveling ahead. She was undeterred by the small waves that would meet her and pressed on. Her orange tank-top dragging across her body with the weight of water, she continued to crawl with a small grin on her face. She purposely dipped her head into the ocean to feel the cool on her cheek, only stopping momentarily, and then she continued.

Watching her move with such grace, I thought to myself how free she looked.

Fearless.

I envied her. To be able to look at something so vast, so huge, yet jump in without hesitation is not an action to which I can relate.

I can relate more to my son who, upon seeing the ocean for the first time since he was a baby exclaimed, “It’s too scary! It’s too scary!” I was surprised by his reaction. He went on to say that the ocean was so big, but almost immediately, he, too, braved the scary sea.

My second-born wanted to be brave; she wanted to run towards the waves, but her fears kept her dancing along the shore.

Until the next day when she gripped the back of her daddy’s neck, wrapped her legs around his waist, and allowed him to carry her through the waves. I watched as cries left her open mouth, but then gradually the black hole I could see from afar began to close. She trusted her daddy.

And why should any of my children have been afraid? If they turned their heads away from the sea in front of them, they would’ve noticed a creased brow over the eyes of one watching with concern, not turning her eyes from the fearless babe unaware of how easily a wave could knock her over. They would’ve known as soon as they took their first step into the deeper water, their mommy would’ve been right behind them.

Or behind the lens, capturing their every move, their brave moments in the waves, stood their Daddy. With each click of the camera, a smile spread across his lips from the joy of watching his kids play. He stood proud, cheering on his children with each memory he preserved.

And when I turn my eyes from the vast sea in front of me, I am reminded that I no longer need to fear. I look into the eyes of my Father and know He is guiding my every step as I pick up my foot that has sunk into the sand and push through the water lapping at my ankles. I walk and feel the cool on my calves and then the back of my knees. As the first waves splash around my thighs and more are forming in the distance, I turn back with worry written on my face. But the eyes of my Father speak, “Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).

It is then that I begin to play in the water and splash until I taste salt on my lips. It is then that I know that I, too, can be fearless.

The Heart of the Matter

In honor of Mother’s Day, I am linking up with Lisa-Jo, a.k.a. the Gypsy Mama, to explore why moms matter. If you haven’t already, I highly encourage you to visit her website. Not only is Lisa-Jo an incredible writer, but she has wonderful insight into pursuing a relationship with God. You will be blessed by your encounter!

I know full and well the importance of Mom. When I taught high school, I watched teenaged girls crumble under the weight of their grief after the loss of their mothers, unable to focus on schoolwork, maybe just not caring. After all, how did Language Arts even compare to a day without their mothers? I remember a friend from college who went to the doctor every time he had the slightest cold; his mother had died from cancer when he was 13. And even after 16 years without my Nana, I see the longing in my own mom’s eyes when she talks of her mother.

Some friends share delightful stories of their mothers, while others are consumed with bitterness for the wounds their mothers created. No matter the story, all have a place in their hearts that wants to hold fond memories and affection for the women who bore them.

My youngest just turned one. Lately, I have spent a lot of time looking back over the past year, and I find many moments of ambivalence. In one moment I love deeply as my baby lay her head on my chest, the next I struggle to suppress the desire to yell at my children in frustration. In one moment, I thank God for the gift of my new daughter, the next I question why we ever thought having three kids in three years was a good idea. I look at my writings from the past year, many used as a method to unburden my soul and work through my own guilty feelings, equally as many filled with smiles as I laughed at the follies of myself and my children.

When I think about this past year, there is so much I want to do over. I don’t want my children to remember me losing control, not showing them tenderness and patience. I want the day I die to be filled with tears over losing the mother who created the delightful stories, not the mother who created the wounds that never healed. Yet every time I find myself dwelling too long in guilt and despair, the kindness of God softly nudges me like a cool breeze, prompting me to move away from that place that He did not create for me.

This week, I searched my mind for why moms matter, and writing from the perspective of a daughter, I could fill pages and pages of why my mom matters to me. However, I had a much harder time writing from the perspective of the one who matters. Why do I matter? And because I couldn’t answer without falling into that place of guilt, God spent time with me so that I could answer this question.

When God chose to save humanity, He did so through His Son, Jesus. Most of what we know about Jesus is from the start of His ministry when He was around the age of 30. God’s plan could have started with this God-Man sent from heaven at age 30, dropped in the middle of the desert, suddenly appearing before John the Baptist to get baptized. Yet we know Mary carried Jesus in her womb, conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, fulfilling numerous prophesies about the Messiah.

I don’t pretend to know the mind of God,why He chose to send Jesus as a baby, but this week I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary. Whenever I think about Mary, I think about this woman God chose to carry His Son, calm and mild, the perfect mother. But she wasn’t perfect; she was just chosen.

I wondered if she ever cried herself to sleep at night, overwhelmed by the task put before her. Did she ever cry simply because she had a bad day with her children? Did she ever wish she spent a little more time hugging and kissing and less time allowing frustration to consume her?

I picture Mary going about her daily tasks while a young Jesus looked on. He saw a hard-working mother, a mother who loved her children and wanted to please God. He was a recipient of her affection.

And as all children do, Jesus carried a special place in His heart for His mother, so much so that some of His last words on the cross were for Mary, ensuring she was cared for after His death and Resurrection: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home'” (John 19: 26-27).

I have found comfort in the fact that Jesus belonged to a family. As God, He already knows everything, yet by coming to Earth and, in the great mystery of our faith, clothing Himself in humanity while not losing His divinity, He experienced the mother-son relationship. He witnessed and received the blessings of a good mother, all the while being the source from whom we receive blessings.

When I find myself discouraged and disheartened, I remember that He knows. I receive strength and comfort knowing that my Lord took on the role of a human, felt the emotions I feel, saw the struggle that mothers have, and tasted the joy–the joy that a mother brings to the heart of her child. That joy is where He wants me to focus.

I may not be perfect, but I, too, have been chosen. God chose me to be the mother of Caleb, Hannah Grace, and Chloe, a calling I do not take lightly. It is a calling I am worthy to take because I matter–I matter to God, and I matter to my children. And when it comes down to it, nothing else really matters.

Happy Mother’s Day. May God give you the strength to fulfill your calling with peace, joy, and laughter.

Admiring the Weeds

The other day as I was driving along in my minivan, I passed a hillside covered in dainty purple flowers. I thought to myself how beautiful they looked and smiled as I welcomed the warm spring weather that had recently made an appearance. As I continued to drive by the hill, I realized my mistake; these pretty splashes of purple on the hill were not flowers but weeds.

I have been attracted to weeds before. I loved dandelions as a child. In one of my favorite pictures of myself, I am playing in a field of dandelions, bending down trying to smell one. I used to love when they were no longer bright yellow globes but instead puffy, white cotton balls that I could blow all over the yard. Little did I know at the time, but I was spreading weeds all over the grass, weeds that would cover the lawn if left unattended.

All I knew was that they looked pretty. I was attracted and, yet, deceived by the dandelion, believing I was enjoying a beautiful flower when in fact I was playing with nothing more than a damaging weed.

When I drove by the purple weeds the other day, I couldn’t help but think how sin is very much like those weeds–seemingly beautiful, yet deceitful. How often have I chosen to do something because it seemed right, harmless, even beautiful to find out later that I was allowing the seeds of sin to spread within me! Just as I was attracted to the dandelions as a child, there are certain sins that are able to draw me in, and left unchecked, they could overtake me.

As Good Friday comes to a close, I think of my Savior who hung on a cross on a hill, possibly covered with weeds of its own. I thank Him for His sacrifice, a sacrifice that allows me to see the dandelions for what they really are. I thank Him for His sacrifice, a sacrifice that plucks the weeds from my heart and draws me to His.

Enjoying the New Carpet

4 spit-up spots

3 pee-pee accidents

2 poop stains

1 pink silver polish incident

10 reasons why we should not have gotten new carpet!

Of course, Matt and I knew what we were getting into, and in fact, always said that we would NOT get new carpet until all of our children were housebroken. However, when we decided to put our house on the market during this terrible housing crisis, we knew our only chance to sell without giving our house away would require our house to look as close to perfect as possible.

And our old carpet was anything but close to perfect. We can’t take sole responsibility for it’s condition–the carpet was original to the home, and the home is 13 years old. I will say that we did more than our fair share to speed up it’s deterioration in the last three-and-a-half years that we have lived here!

When I was scrubbing out the pink stain from the silver polish that my two-year-old so lovingly spread onto the carpet (this polish only appeared after getting the new carpet, of course), I began to cry. That evening, I had a nightmare that I was having a party with a group of women that I didn’t know, and someone spilled salsa on the new carpet. One of the ladies curtly spoke, “We couldn’t get the stain out.” A huge pinkish red circle tarnished the beautiful carpet. A few nights later, I had another bad dream, and one more involving marker all over the walls and furniture followed.

So a couple days ago, when I was cleaning spit-up out of the carpet, I thought to myself, “I wish I had my nasty carpet back. This stress is not worth it! This house better sell fast!”

A few minutes later, there was no evidence of the spit-up, just as the previous poop, pee, and silver polish stains vanished before it, and I scolded myself. How could I even think that I wanted my old carpet back? It was disgusting, and I had always looked forward to the day when my children would choose the commode over the carpet to relieve themselves so that we could live in a house that didn’t look yucky.

I realized that I did a lot of looking forward and not enough looking around.

When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to get out of college and get a job. Then I couldn’t wait to get married. Once married, I would wonder how life would change with children. When I had my two-year-old, I looked forward to retirement, and then when he hit three, I changed my mind and looked forward to him starting school so I could have a little break during the day. Then his sister turned two, and his other sister was born, and I looked forward to Matt’s retirement again. How fun to enjoy marriage without kids and travel the world!

Right now I look forward to moving to Alpharetta and lessening Matt’s commute so that we can enjoy more time as a family. A husband home earlier in the evenings to help with the children means a wife with fewer gray hairs! And, of course, to make all of this happen, I have to keep the carpet spotless!

Except I don’t know that we’re moving to Alpharetta. God never promised me that everything I plan will happen as I hope. In fact, He hasn’t promised me tomorrow: “Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (James 4:13-14).

If it is God’s will, we will move to Alpharetta, but if it’s not, we better figure out fast how to make more family time with the time we have. I better smother my two-year-old every day with hugs and kisses because when she’s 22, I might not see very much of her when she starts her first career. I better find a way to treasure the stains on the carpet because they are a reminder that I’m blessed with healthy, rambunctious little children.

I better enjoy my new carpet. If we don’t move, I know very well that the carpet won’t look this pretty in a year, and it will be a looooong time before we buy any more. And I better not lose any more sleep over it; there are far more important things in life than stainless floor coverings.

It’s About Relationship

I took Caleb to the doctor today AGAIN. I’m not positive, but I believe I may have taken one child or the other or the other (or possibly two at the same time) to the doctor every week for four weeks. But who’s counting?

My poor boy has sported different shades of gray over the last six days, and his big, beautiful eyes haven’t carried their normal twinkle. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days with dark shadows underneath his big saucers, and the rims of which were lined in a more bright pink.

Today his color shone brighter, but his eyes still were not right. In fact, his eyes actually looked a little bloodshot. So, given the fact that he had a 103.6 fever last night and eyes that didn’t look like they should, I decided to make another appointment. Of course, right after I made the appointment, Caleb ate three bowls of cereal and asked to run races around the house.

Well, I’m glad I kept the appointment. Apparently, Caleb does not have the flu as he was originally diagnosed on Friday. Instead, he has a flu-like virus that often ends in an ear infection, and as luck would have it, Caleb has both an ear infection AND pink eye! What kind of Satan-inspired virus starts by causing one to feel like he’s been run over by a truck and ends with pink eye?!! My poor baby!

I had asked the doctor if we were safe from this virus since none of us had caught anything yet. His answer was not reassuring–no, we could incubate the virus for six days, so we aren’t in the clear until the middle of next week. As I was sitting in the parking lot of the pediatrician’s office, a slight panic swept over me. How was I going to prevent the other four of us from getting pink eye or this horrible virus? I was barely able to stay on top of my normal chores much less attempt the hard-core, virus-killing, deep-cleaning required to kill all of these nasty germs. My other two kids were too little to battle anything like this bug, and if I got sick like Caleb, how would I handle my three kiddos? Thinking about it made me nauseas.

At that moment, I started to pray, “Dear God, please don’t let…,” and I stopped. I didn’t want to bother God with my request. There were more important, real problems in the world. And almost immediately after I stopped, I felt God prompting me, almost as if He were saying, “Finish the prayer.“

I’ve had this problem before–I don’t want to say my prayers because I’m afraid they’re selfish. While I’m asking God for patience to deal with my kids, another lady is asking God why she isn’t able to have kids. It doesn’t seem right, and, yet, God wants me to tell Him what’s on my mind.

When I talk to my mom, I tell her how I feel. I’ve told her this week how tired I feel and like I’m going a little crazy having been stuck at home since Thursday. Well, God is my heavenly Father, and He wants to know how I feel, too. The beauty of Christianity is that it’s not a religion with a distant god who will weigh our good works against our bad deeds when we die. Instead, because of the sacrifice of Jesus, we have a God who doesn’t see our bad deeds and wants to mold us to do good while we live. But we need to remain in a relationship for that to happen.

And that means I need to have a true relationship with God–I need to pray honestly. Of course I don’t want my kids to get sick! Last night, Caleb woke up hysterical, Chloe was up three times before 11:30, and Hannah Grace wandered into our room around 10:00 eating a pear. That was our night with only one confirmed sick kid! Matt and I are exhausted, and for no one else to get sick, we definitely need prayer!

There is definitely a balance that needs to be achieved. God is not a genie in a bottle here to grant my wishes, and to treat Him as such is irreverent. However, He wants to hear from me, and to withhold my honest prayers because I think they are insignificant is also irreverent. God doesn’t need me, but He wants me FOR me. I need the relationship, and any good relationship starts with communication.

So as I sat in the parking lot, I finished my prayer: “Dear God, please keep us from getting sick. I’m scared of us catching this virus or pink eye because I don’t know how I can keep the kids away from each other. Please protect them. Please protect Matt and me. I’m afraid of feeling as miserable as Caleb was and having to take care of the kids.”

As with any prayer, God may answer mine with ‘no.’ He may let nature run its course, and in two days I may be looking through the slits of my gunk-filled eyes. And if I am, I will ask God for the endurance to get through the day. I’ll never tire of hearing my children share their honest concerns and prayers, and neither will my Father tire of hearing me.

The Thanksgiving Surprise

On Monday I had planned to write a Thanksgiving post on what I had learned this past year about giving thanks in all circumstances, but I didn’t feel well. Tuesday I didn’t feel much better. Wednesday rolled around, and I had horrible stomach pains, so I decided I would write a post-Thanksgiving blog the next night. The next night I was recovering from surgery.

For the first time in our lives, Matt and I didn’t gain a pound on Thanksgiving, and I lost an appendix. While fasting on Thanksgiving and going under the knife wasn’t part of the original itinerary for the day, I handled this change in plans much better than I normally do. Perhaps the reason I found myself going over my potential Thanksgiving blog days in advance was God’s way of mentally preparing me for the eventful day.

I had decided that I would write about all of the negative experiences this year that were actually mirrors reflecting all of my blessings. Through economic hardships and multiple physical battles, I found that I am an incredibly lucky woman. In the midst of all of these hardships, I was always extremely grateful for my loving family, healthy children, God’s provision, and countless other blessings, yet even though my mind knew these truths, I would still struggle with depression. My goal for future trials was to be thankful for my blessings AND of good cheer while going through the trial.

I should’ve known that the trial would come quickly as God follows up all of my quizzes with a final assessment. I would soon enough have a chance to practice Philippians 4:4: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!”. I have no problem rejoicing in the Lord–it’s the ‘always’ part that can be a little tricky.

With the exception of missing my children, I did well while in the hospital. I was thankful for family, thankful for an insurance deductible that had already been met, thankful for painkillers, and thankful for a hospital staff that didn’t seem to mind missing their Thanksgivings, either. But God wanted to drive home a point that He had been making throughout the year. There was a specific person for whom He wanted me to be thankful.

The woman who was on the phone with me while I tried to think clearly amidst stomach pains and changing holiday plans, suggesting different options for feeding my breast-fed baby who had never had formula.

The woman who showed up the next day with my mother, bucket in hand, a new supply of scrubbing sponges and Comet in tow, as she helped this team map out a strategy for tackling the filth that three small children can bring to a home.

The woman who had yellow gloves pulled up to her elbows as she scrubbed the kitchen chairs with Murphy’s Oil Soap and scowled every time my husband entered the kitchen, oblivious, as she tried to mop.

The woman who showed compassion as I admitted my embarrassment at my mother and her deep-cleaning the house while the kids were away and I was laid-out on the couch. She said, “I don’t know how you do it,” while I thought, “I must not know how to do it, either, if they brought their whole cleaning arsenal.”

She showed up again and again after my D&Cs to watch my children, and she showed up this morning–with a powdered jelly doughnut–to help until I am allowed to hold my baby on my own. I think she’s the only person who understands that I don’t like jelly doughnuts with the sugar on top, only the powdered kind.

She’s my sister, and we probably wouldn’t like each other if we weren’t in the same family. Heck, we don’t always like each other now; we couldn’t be more different. However, I am completely overwhelmed by the sacrifices she has made for me over and over. I knew I was blessed after she and her husband helped us during the ordeal after Chloe’s birth, but to see her scrubbing my floor without me even asking for help–she and my mom just showed up–I can’t even find words to express my gratitude.

I don’t know how to end this post without sounding over-sentimental or exceptionally cheesy. I just want to say, Lisa, thank you. I know you keep tally, so I owe you about eight weeks of babysitting and a few days of intense cleaning. Love, Jennifer

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A Romance I Can Live With

I had a realization today, the kind of realization that stopped me mid-step and forced me to think about a whole chain of related ideas. And to be honest, the realization scared me a little.

My realization came on the tail-end of all my thoughts relating to why I hate most romance movies. For one, I just can’t relate. No, I do not want to go make love with my husband on a whim in a field under the stars. First, we’d have to get a baby-sitter, and I’d have to pump a bottle for the baby in case she woke up while we were gone. Then, we’d have to find a field, and we’d have to make sure we had enough cash on hand to post bond in case we got caught. Who has the energy?

The main reason I hate romance movies, though, is that they do a disservice to the institution of marriage and give people a false idea about what it means to be ‘in love.’ I don’t know if Matt is the person God chose for me or if I chose Matt with my free will. I do know that loving each other isn’t about how we feel on any given day–it’s a choice we make daily.

As I was thinking about how stupid most romance movies are, I began to think how much hard work marriage requires of me. Every day I wear myself out trying to be a good wife and mother. I cook, I clean, I repeatedly grab socks and underwear off the top of the hamper and put them inside it. I affirm my husband that he is an excellent provider, and I close my mouth when I can sense Matt doesn’t want to talk. I watch football and have given up all rights to the remote. When I don’t feel like being married, I resolve that I will stick it out forever and find those lovey-dovey feelings, wherever they may be–Matt is so lucky! I am quite the catch!

While I was patting myself on the back for my commitment, it suddenly occurred to me that Matt might be committed, too. Just as I work hard every day for this marriage, he might feel he works hard, as well. Sure, he has the easier job of the two of us given all of the sacrifices I make, but he could just as easily walk out as I. Not that he would want to. I mean, who wouldn’t want to come home to a wife whose hair is standing on end by 5:00 every evening, her face somehow sloped downward into a permanent frown, her shrill voice piercing the ears of everyone within the walls of the house? Who wouldn’t want to come home to a wife who so thoughtfully points out all of the mistakes he has made in an effort to make him a better spouse? If Matt walked out, where would he ever find another woman who looked so good in baggy pajama bottoms, t-shirts, and wooly socks?

As I continued on in my thoughts, I became frightened. Why would anyone want to stay with me forever? Since Chloe has been born, I have not felt myself, and my emotions have been out-of-control. I have no idea what the word ‘sexy’ means. In fact, I had forgotten that I owned lingerie until I accidentally opened that unused drawer. I fall asleep any time we try to relax together, and if I manage to stay awake but Matt falls asleep, I get mad at him.

Suddenly, all of the ‘hard work’ I was doing seemed ridiculous compared to the hard work Matt was doing. For the first time, I didn’t see all the effort required of me to make my marriage work but, instead, the mental effort Matt must go through every day. I saw a man who is truly demonstrating unconditional love, and through his example, I saw what it means for God to love me, a sinner, as well. Despite all of my faults as a wife, Matt has chosen to love me every day, and having that realization today humbled me in a way I hadn’t felt before.

So…I going to stop writing now. I’m tired, and I’m not sure I even expressed my thoughts well, but my husband is upstairs waiting. I’m going to carry my baggy-pajama-pants-self upstairs and plant a kiss on my soulmate. And then I’ll probably fall asleep.