So Nothing Is Wasted

Wednesday night I pulled clean sheets out of the dryer only to put them back in the wash on Thursday morning, two out of my three kids having wet their beds sometime during the night. And as I sat on the floor in Chloe’s room, unrolling the t-shirts she had made into ‘hot dogs’ (I have no idea, but it’s one of Hannah Grace’s and her favorite pastimes) I acknowledged how much of each day is spent redoing tasks I had just completed. Many days I have complained to Matt that I feel like my efforts are for nothing, wasted since it is inevitable that the day I mop, one of the kids will immediately spill a glass of milk, smush a strawberry, or pee all over the kitchen floor (we have issues with pee in this family). And often, I have looked to the day when I can engage in more meaningful activities.

But as I sat on the floor turning hot dogs into t-shirts again on this particular morning, I did so without the normal level of frustration that I’m apt to feel. Instead, I recognized a thought not original to me: Cleaning up hotdogs and pee is my ministry.

I’m not sure anyone has ever written that thought precisely as I just wrote it, but I’ve encountered the sentiment many times. How I handle all the gross and mundane tasks, the chores that I do and then redo, is not wasted effort. Raising my children, complete with the tasks that accompany this role, is my meaningful activity.

I get frustrated when the activities director at the nursing home says I can volunteer, but my children are too young; I long for the day when I can travel with my church group to Mozambique to help build wells; and I sigh deeply when the baby who wouldn’t go to sleep last night wakes up early when I’m trying to write. But I have forgotten one important fact: Volunteering, building wells, and my blog are not my job.

But they are.

God gave me my passion to serve and to write, so I’m not dismissing my desires. When I can, I should pursue these passions, but I should not allow myself to fall into the trap of thinking that building wells is a more important job than washing wet sheets. I have to admit that even as I write those words they sit a bit funny. For too long I’ve allowed myself to gloss over the positive impact I can make on my children, that just as clean water brings life to a community my efforts at home bring life to my family.

When I make my children clean up the spilled milk on the newly mopped floor, they learn responsibility and the importance of caring for those possessions with which we have been blessed. When my children see me make a meal for a neighbor, they witness compassion and will hopefully embody a spirit who looks outside themselves to the needs of others. And when I fail them and don’t demonstrate love as I should, they understand that even family will disappoint, but there is One who will never fail.

The challenge for me is to recognize my every day as a chance to make a difference, not just those days that I have deemed more important. This challenge remains for everyone. Whether stuck in a crappy job or lamenting the one we recently lost, we each have a purpose. We can look to ‘better’ days when we fulfill all our dreams and desires, or we can embrace the life in front of us now.

I plan to do a better job of embracing my children and all the crap that I have to do over and over. Because, truly, my actions will speak louder than my words. One day my children will look back, and I hope they remember a mother who found honor and privilege in her ministry as their mother. And when they look back at their times of making hot dogs and peeing on the floor, I hope they remember how weird they truly were and what a saint I was for dealing with them.

Recognizing Full

Every night I sit down to dinner with my plate before me and I eat. If I liked the meal, I will get seconds. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think I need more food than I really need–that I don’t even recognize what full feels like.

Every day I live my life the best I can; I play with my children, I clean the house, and I try my hardest to show my husband how much I love him. But every day I have thoughts that swim in my mind, showing me a future that’s a little better. The future when we’re out of debt, the future when the kids are a little older and slightly less crazy, the future when somehow Matt’s work/life balance is more manageable. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think that the next stage will be a little better…I will feel full.

I fight this feeling because I know that I have everything I need right now to feel full. I’ve just stuffed my face so long with good things that I’ve stretched out my stomach, wanting to put one more bite in that will leave me feeling satisfied. Satisfaction is here. I have enough. I am full.

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday where we write for 5 minutes straight without editing. I have to admit–I really want to cheat this week and edit this post, but I’ll stick to the rules.

Learning Dependence

Sunrise — image courtesy of photobucket.com

Over the last few months, my mind has been wrestling with an idea. Many times in my life, I’ve asked to know God’s presence, for Him to feel close or real. I’ve asked for His guidance or to know His will clearly. And lately, if I’m honest, I’ve started to fear my own question a little.

I look at my friend who mourns the death of her husband. I listen to the young pastor at church who lost both his mother and father to debilitating illnesses within three months of each other. I read examples in the Bible like Gideon. And I know all of them truly experienced God.

This young pastor shared his own story of loss as we looked at Judges chapter six at church on Sunday. The Israelites were hiding in make-do shelters in the clefts of mountains and caves because the Midianites had so oppressed them and ravaged their land. Gideon is in a winepress threshing wheat to keep it hidden from the Midianites when he encounters the angel of the Lord. And after learning that God wants to use him, an ordinary man from the weakest clan in Israel, to deliver the Israelites from this oppressive hand, Gideon responds by building an altar to the Lord called “The LORD Is Peace.” And this young pastor, months after losing both his parents and struggling with questions, felt that same LORD of Peace is his own heart.

I want to know that peace. I want to have that intimate knowledge of God. But I don’t want to have to depend on God.

I know that God is available to all of us–we don’t have to experience extreme loss to know Him–but perhaps we feel Him most strongly in times of suffering because it is in those times that we can’t depend on ourselves to find the answers. Our own comfort is not strong enough. In those times, we truly lay ourselves at His feet and admit we can’t weather the storm alone.

I’m not good at depending on anyone. I don’t like situations out of my control. I try to act responsibly and make good decisions, which is good, but not if I let go of the hand that guides me.

I don’t think God hides himself until we suffer or that if I ask to experience God I need to first experience tragedy, but I do believe I need to learn how to surrender in the everyday. And if I learn to surrender in the everyday, when those times of suffering come because they will come I will know to whom I should turn.

Knowing to whom I should turn is the whole battle. The God who sends His peace out of kindness and love when we feel sorrow is the same God who wants to laugh with us when we feel joy. I want to learn to laugh with Him. I want to understand dependence. I want to want to lay myself down at the altar of ‘The LORD Is Peace.’ And I know when I do, He will be there.

Have you ever clearly felt the presence of God? Are you able to depend on God in times of sorrow AND joy? Linking up with Michelle and Jen this week!

Neighbors in My Jerusalem

I’ve lived in my neighborhood for almost five years. I know the names of my neighbors who live next to me and across the street. I know the first and last names of the homeowners association board members, and I know the first names of a handful of others. Some I recognize from repeated sightings at the neighborhood pool. But I’ve never had a neighbor over for dinner, nor have I been invited over to dinner at a neighbor’s house. On a few occasions, I have brought meals to those who were sick or just moved in, but the relationships ended there.

I remember living in New Jersey as a young child, sitting around the table with my mom at one of the neighbor’s across the street. I watched as the man brought his coffee cup to his lips, and I was intrigued by his pinky that he kept curling under. I eventually realized that he was missing part of that finger. Jim and Diane lived next door, and when I watch old home videos of Christmas, they are there. Jim was loud on the videos, fitting right in with family. Diane sat laughing at the goofiness. After seeing my mom push the stroller with my sister while I walked next to her in the cold one time too many, they donated an old Volkswagen bug to my family–the car that caused a few fights as my dad tried to teach my mom to drive a stick.

And there were other neighbors, neighbor kids whom my mom babysat, and neighbors who took me for a ride in the little box that attached to their motorcycle. And there were neighbors who were always ready to share cake and coffee.

I don’t know what made that neighborhood in New Jersey so different, but I don’t ever remember my family having those kinds of relationships again when we moved to Georgia nor have Matt and I formed those kind of friendships in any of our homes. Maybe life got busier for everyone. Maybe the newer houses without front porches and with attached garages encouraged people to drive in their homes and not come out. Whatever the reason, even though I was only a young girl at the time, I miss having those kind of neighbors.

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8, New International Version, 2011)

This Sunday our pastor explained that Jerusalem was the disciples’ neighborhood. Judea was the surrounding area, like people in our own area code. Samaria was an area full of people with whom they wouldn’t normally associate, people who made them uncomfortable. And, of course, the ends of the earth included lands they had never seen.

I know more about the little boy we sponsor in the Philippines than my next-door neighbor. I’ve done more to help people in remote African villages than those who are unemployed in my own neighborhood. But perhaps God would like to use me in my Jerusalem. Perhaps there is a little girl who needs to form the memory of sitting around a neighbor’s kitchen table while her mom enjoys a nice cup of coffee.

It doesn’t seem too hard…and while I don’t make coffee, I can bake a darned good cake. Maybe I’ll start there.

Linking up today with Michelle and Jen. Do you have childhood memories of your neighbors? Do you really know your neighbors now? How have you reached out to those in your neighborhood?

On Forgetting

I can’t remember anything. At least, the events I’d like to keep stored away in my mind. My mom will ask, “Jennifer, do you remember the time we went to ___ and you did ___” and I will answer, “No, mom; you know I have a horrible memory.”

What’s funny are the things that I do remember. I remember the time the boy in 7th grade made fun of my hairy arms (which incidentally, I never notice anymore but looked at in horror almost every day in my youth); I remember every argument my husband and I had while planning our wedding–conflicts over the guest list and comments that were made–yet we had never argued before.

And I wonder, if I could remove these negative memories, would I have more room for precious times like this…

and this…

The Baby Phat Coats — Mom tried to buy us coats for Christmas and bought us the exact OPPOSITE of what we'd like

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama today for her 5-Minute Friday where we each have 5 minutes to write on the assigned topic. (And now we all have proof that I’m one of the slowest writers in the world)

Rest

For anyone who reads my blog, figuring out those areas of my life with which I struggle probably isn’t too difficult. The longer I have been a Christian, the more I realize how far I am from perfect, and the longer I’ve been a wife, the more I wonder how Matt still wants (or at least commits) to being married to me.

And while I try to work on these many areas of my life that need improving, there is one area in which the guilt I feel for not already doing better gnaws away at me daily. I don’t even have to write it–you know. I want my children to have a better mother.

I pray daily, multiple times a day, for wisdom, patience, and whatever other attribute is needed to successfully raise these precious lives. And I’ll be honest–the last few weeks I confronted God with my frustration: Why don’t I feel like you’re answering my prayers? Why is parenting so hard for me? Why do I actually have to work to enjoy it instead of just enjoying it?!

I’ve already written about the first epiphany I had; I dumped my cleaning schedule. I feel the answer to my prayers is much in the same light as this first epiphany–I need to dump some more. And I need to rest.

There is no reason that I should walk around daily carrying a ball of stress within me. I’m not the CEO of a company, nor do I have major deadlines to meet. I’m a wife and mom, and I like to blog. I enjoy exercising. I try to cook from scratch, and I do my best to provide a healthy environment in which my family lives. All of these passions take time and energy, but they shouldn’t cause stress (or, at least, daily stress).

I had contemplated a few more things that I could do to achieve this rest, but I had to sort through my thoughts. I wanted to make sure fatigue wasn’t causing me to become lazy or apathetic. But I’m sure now.

The next thing I’m dumping, at least for now, is ‘Journeys.’ Let’s be honest; I didn’t have a line of bloggers waiting to link up with me, and that was never the reason I started ‘Journeys’ in the first place. I know if nothing else, God taught me, and I grew through the experience of deliberately writing on what He was showing me every week. And for months, I didn’t have trouble thinking of a topic.

As of late, however, this writing has felt burdensome, and not in a good way. Previously, I dreaded Thursday nights because, typically, the writing was painful for me. Now, however, I just dread having one more thing to do.

I never want my blog to feel that way, especially over a self-imposed goal. I still plan to write regularly, but I want to write with less of an agenda. I want to write because I enjoy writing, not because I have to write.

I may still place the ‘Journeys’ button at the bottom of a piece if I feel God has taken me along a certain path, but I am not going to sponsor a regular Friday link up right now. I may come back to it later, but for now, I want to rest.

I want to rest with my children over this summer break, and I’m going to continue dumping those tasks that are distracting me from focusing on them. I need to simplify, and as much as I hate to confront the facts, simplifying might mean taking a look at my blog habits, as well. I’d love to write as a career someday, and I’ll still work to hone my skill, but today writing is not my career.

I left a career I loved because I felt there is no job more important than that of a parent. My title now is ‘Mommy,’ and these crazy kids need to be my focus. And you guys know they are crazy.

Thank you for walking along with me on my all my journeys. I hope you will continue to do so. Just know that during the summer I have no intention of waking up at five a.m. so that I can tell you about them.

A big ‘thank you’ to Michelle and Kendal for consistently linking up on Fridays for ‘Journeys.’ I hope my readers will continue to stop by their sites, as well!

A Mother’s Strength

I often wonder how she did it, how she raised my sister and me states away from her own family, many nights alone while her husband traveled every week. I never felt unloved or neglected by my father, but I know now the added stress for a mother who feels like she is parenting alone.

I never knew she felt tired or lonely; I never knew of her aggravation or frustration. I saw unity from my parents and felt blessed to have a family held tightly together.

It is only now, as she reaches out to me as one who understands, that I understand the strength of my mother.

When I look to how I parent, how I love, how I cook, how I clean, I realize the imprint of my mother that I carry over me. I’ve sought her example and advice for issues ranging from fevers to family.

But my mother-in-law didn’t have a mother’s wisdom from which to draw. Having lost her own mother at a young age, she was not afforded the same opportunity to learn as I. Yet when I look at my husband, I marvel at the imprint she left on him. I marvel at the children she raised and the love that she shares.

And it is now that I share life with my husband and accept wisdom from her own lips that I understand the strength of his mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mothers who have taught me more about strength, not with words, but with their lives. I pray that one day my children, too, will see a strong woman when they look into my eyes the way I do when I look into yours. Love your daughter, Jennifer

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Rethinking My Thinking

It was 7:45 a.m., and I had already made three trips up and down the stairs. Little children, on a quest to find hidden Easter candy, would take turns sneaking downstairs while I was helping their brother or sister get ready for school. By the third time I pulled a toddler off the kitchen counter, my mood was wrecked for the day.

When is he going to install those baby gates?! If I can’t even change a diaper without a child climbing on top of the refrigerator, I certainly can’t do any tasks myself that would require power tools!

And with that thought I recalled every item on my husband’s ‘honey-do’ list. I began to organize the list into a book with chapters, and I wrote a mental preface explaining how hard my job as a stay-at-home mom to three crazies five and under was and how it was exponentially harder because my husband’s list had grown too long.

I know the power of thoughts. I can drive from 0 to 60 on the witch-mobile in two seconds flat.

So I really didn’t appreciate the sermon yesterday on Phillipians 4:8-9:

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. (The Message)

Think about the best not the worst? The beautiful not the ugly? Please! How can I not think about the four inches of hair my daughter clipped from her beautiful head?! And of course, if I think about that event, there’s no way I can stop myself from thinking about something on the ‘honey-do’ list that was the inevitable cause!

But then I realized that there was a time when I taught myself to think differently, to find thoughts full of praise instead of curses. For Lent, I decided to give up complaining about when Matt came home from work–and I didn’t plan on indulging in complaints once Easter arrived, either. I knew that my complaining was a sin, and every time I was tempted to do it, I wanted to remind myself that it was sins like this one that sent Jesus to the cross.

After all, Matt’s doing his job and providing for his family. He comes home right after work and can’t help it that he sits in traffic for an hour and half. We tried to move–it didn’t work–so now it was time for me to move on in my thoughts. I needed to provide a place of refuge in our home, not a storehouse for tension.

I don’t know if Matt noticed, but I learned to bite my tongue. And after biting my tongue enough times, I trained myself to not have the thoughts causing me to bite my tongue in the first place. I wasn’t perfect–I slipped right before Easter–but I saw how changing my overall thinking for 40 days changed my entire mood.

And I hate to admit it, but John Maxwell was right. In his sermon yesterday, he challenged us with the thought that “when we want to fix others, it’s normally we who need to be fixed.”

Ouch.

I don’t like thinking that way. I’d rather think about baby gates and cluttered attic spaces instead of the junk cluttering up my own mind.

The best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.

But, perhaps, there just might be something to not thinking about the baby gates after all.

Linking up with Michelle

and Jen

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.

http://www.simply-linked.com/listwidget.aspx?l=b9a1ed8e-958e-47e2-839b-429509d6a8af

I Take It Back

Cleaning Supplies — photo courtesy of photobucket.com

Over the past six months or so, I have analyzed myself in search of those areas in which I need to improve. I’ve done my best to find contentment in circumstances that I’d otherwise like to change, and I’ve tried to highlight the joy in the simple pleasures of life. I heap a lot of guilt on my shoulders when I find I’m not enjoying my kids, so in the midst of craziness and chaos, I’ve learned to take a deep breath and say, “I am blessed.”

Yet even with these goals as my mindset, I’ve noticed that I’m not content. I’ve tried to figure out why, and when I hear myself complaining, I find I’m repeating some of the same sentences over and over:

I need a break. I need some alone time. I just want to sit down for a minute.

But the reality of the situation is that I’m not going anywhere, and alone time is very hard to come by. However, this weekend I had an epiphany. I started asking myself why I couldn’t seem to get that minute alone or the small break that I needed. Why was I going to bed so tired every day, waking up more tired, and not feeling fulfilled?

And I realized it was because of that stupid cleaning routine.

Nine months ago, I wrote that I had found a cleaning routine that had changed my life, and for nine months, I followed this plan religiously. Every single day, I made sure to clean the rooms assigned to that particular day of the week, and if I didn’t finish or missed the goal for some reason, I made sure to finish on one of the other days.

Don’t get me wrong–the plan is good. If one follows the plan, one will have cleaned the whole house in a week. I liked the structure of the plan, and I liked feeling like I was giving my family a clean home, and it was the cleanest it had ever been.

But sometimes a clean house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

In order to achieve this clean house, during the one hour that the kids had their ‘Quiet Rest Time’ in front of the T.V., I scrambled to accomplish the task at hand for the day. If I didn’t finish, then I’d either extend T.V. time and feel guilty, or I’d try to finish at night after the kids were in bed and Matt and I had had our late dinner at 8:30 or 9:00. And if I decided I was too tired, I had extra chores the next day. Forget about extra tasks like sorting through random papers and organizing closets–there wasn’t any wiggle room in the schedule.

And what did I have to show for this effort? A messy house two minutes after I cleaned it and a frustrated spirit that I hadn’t finished a book for pleasure in about six months.

The problem is that I had become a slave to a plan, a plan created by a woman that I had never met, a plan that she had made for herself. And while the plan is good, it wasn’t working for me.

Who said that I needed to clean my whole house in a week? Why did I feel the need to take on this goal at the expense of my sanity?

When I reread over my post, I saw my good intentions. I wrote about the flexibility of the plan, how it was just a guideline, but I didn’t stick to those intentions. I, instead, let a cleaning routine control me and rob me of something I had never realized was so precious–a moment to do nothing.

And I’m sure I’m not the only one. Perhaps a cleaning routine has never dictated how you spend your hours, but maybe you are a slave to something else.

Perhaps you are controlled by the need to work out. No matter how you feel, whether or not you really should take care of some other items on your list, you feel guilt if you don’t hit the gym. It’s no longer a matter of obtaining good health and showing discipline–you have become a slave.

Or maybe you can’t say ‘no’ at church. Your family really needs you right now as you have a wife and house full of kids, one a newborn, but the church needs you. How can you tell your church ‘no’?

Many times, good things aren’t good for us.

Cleaning my house is definitely a good thing, and I still plan to clean every day–as I stated in my original post, I want to fight against idleness and take my job here at home seriously–but I also realize now that if I don’t occasionally take a moment for myself, I will continue to burn out. And if I continue to burn out, that joy that I am so desperately seeking will continue to seem elusive, out of reach.

And, frankly, I’d rather have my children suffer a dusty house than a cranky mama.

To what are you a slave? What is robbing you of your joy?