Matt took the week off from work to coincide with the kids’ Spring Break from preschool. He never said so, but I think he took the time off for me as much as for him. And it’s been wonderful.
Watching the kids look in pure wonder at a part of God’s creation that they never see, and seeing the whole family smiling together–I couldn’t ask for anything more.
And, yet, I want to ask for a little more; I want to know how to keep this joy even when Matt goes back to work.
I know part of the answer. When we work together and play together and choose to experience our days together, even if we’re not doing the same thing…
…life runs a little smoother, time-outs and the need for discipline a little more rare.
And so we spent our day outside, each engaged in a different task beneath the warm sunshine, amidst a butterfly or two who would dance its way across our backyard proclaiming to us that spring is here. Picking the black soil out of our fingernails or green Play-doh out of its little cylinder–we were free to make messes and revel in their goodness.
And as I walk this journey in a quest for joy, a peace and contentment with my children every day, I can’t help but ask God one more question:
Is there any way you could make it warm and sunny every day?
I sat in the middle of the floor fuming, absolutely fuming, as I picked up each card and slid it into the appropriate box. The anger burned inside my chest, radiating heat all the way up to my cheeks. My brow was permanently furrowed, my lips pursed as tight as I could hold them together, my jaw beginning to ache from clenching my teeth.
Every time I felt the first cleansing effects of a deep breath, all I had to do was look around me to find my fury. After all, everyone knows the expression: “Hell hath no fury like a mother left to clean up others’ messes” (Or something like that). And what a mess I was left!
I only have a picture because I wanted evidence of my rotten week for my husband, my husband who was out-of-town for the majority of the nightmare.
We had already cleaned up half of this mess once before. When I caught my son taking down his father and my games, I quickly admonished him to put them away. Of course he didn’t, as his little body was overtaken by a demon the moment his father walked out the door and headed to the airport, and his curious sister got into some of the cards from the various boxes. At this point, I joined them on the floor and began cleaning up the mess with them, lest things got too out-of-hand.
We stopped only to eat dinner, and as I packed away leftovers, they were to resume where we had left off. Apparently, my instructions were not clear, and they resumed where they had left off before I had intervened.
Every. single. card. of every. single. game. was on the floor.
Normally, I leave my kids’ messes for them to clean up, but this mess was too overwhelming, too vast, and I had to rid all evidence of this day before I tried to manage another day alone with them.
As I followed the kids upstairs, the anger burned inside me. And while I didn’t lose my temper, I definitely used it, reminding my son a half a dozen times how furious I was at him for his behavior this week, threatening the other two if they didn’t move quickly. I wanted them to go to bed and not talk to me until the morning. Of course, they didn’t comply with that request, either. We went upstairs at 6:30, and it was 8:30 before my kids were finished ‘getting ready’ for bed and another half an hour before the first fell asleep. My son decided that 10:30 would work for his bedtime that night.
And in the meantime, I sat in the middle of the floor putting card after card in its appropriate box, all the while fuming and steaming over all the reasons this mess was my husband’s, the man who had not been at our home for the last three days, fault. After all, who better to blame than the man who is out-of-town?
I had completely convinced myself that Matt was to blame for this mess, and as I sat for an hour and 15 minutes cleaning up these games, I decided that I no longer liked him.
Whenever Matt’s away, the kids act like monsters. Or if one of them is good (thank you, sweet Hannah Grace) the others make up for it. Who wouldn’t get angry at kids who behave this way?
I had enough sense to text Matt: “You know when I try to go to bed. Don’t call me.” Even though I wasn’t in bed, I didn’t think I should talk to Matt. Remember, I didn’t like him anymore, and I didn’t think I should tell him that.
So, of course, Matt called me. And I wasn’t nice.
But in my defense, I warned him not to call! I knew I was angry and couldn’t be nice, so he can’t really blame me for my less-than-loving tone.
As I lay in bed that night, I thought about how I allowed a mess of cards (albeit the worst mess of cards I’d ever seen) to create enough rage in me to kill a man. I allowed my fatigue and frustration to cloud my mind into thinking I disliked my husband. And I had created enough excuses to prove I was right.
In that moment, I had my first glimpse into how self-control really works.
Self-control isn’t just making good choices; self-control is eliminating excuses.
I lost my temper because my kids were out-of-control.
I’m so weary because my husband is out-of-town.
I’m having a cheat day today, but I’ll get back on my diet tomorrow.
These shoes were on sale, so it’s okay that I bought them (even though I already own 100 pairs).
And pretty soon, we believe the excuses and justify our behavior.
I lay in bed that night, nauseous and tired, holding on to my last thread of anger for one more moment. I thought about my husband whom I wanted to blame, my kids who were at fault for a mess (a huge one) but not for my anger, and I released them. If I wanted control of myself in the morning, I had to own up to myself that night.
I closed my eyes and said ‘goodnight’ to a horrible day and ‘goodnight’ to my excuses. And I drifted off to (a very short) sleep.
“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 are your go-to excuses for bad behavior? Leave a comment below, or link up your own post on ‘self-control!’ Thank you for joining me over the last few weeks as we explored the different fruits of the Spirit. I am worn out from God’s conviction! Stay tuned for more details as to what we’ll contemplate next in ‘Journeys’!
Sometimes I take my job as a parent to teach right from wrong so seriously, that I forget my responsibility is also to model grace. I allow my children’s acts of disobedience to ruin my day, erase my memory of all the good they do. Granted, sometimes they take disobedience to a whole new level, but I forget that even finger paint stains can be made clean (at least if they are of the washable variety).
Finger paint on chairs.
Finger paint on the carpet.
Finger paint on the sofa.
And various spots that will continue to surprise me throughout the week.
They will all wash clean.
Yet, it is on these stains that I tend to focus. I forget that these children who took the opportunity of Mommy using the bathroom to redecorate the downstairs are the same children who, earlier in the day, shared God’s love with the elderly at a nursing home. These children, on their first time meeting these men and women, most bound in wheelchairs, some with blank stares across their faces, others with sores or masks covering their mouths and noses, didn’t hesitate to walk into a room and share their smiles.
Caleb didn’t hesitate to tell everyone he is five now and share all the details of his life. Hannah Grace, my shy little girl, was able to work through her cautiousness to stand in between two people she had never met and shake the parachute with them during activity time. Even Chloe, once she got over her toddler anger that the ball in the middle of the parachute was not for her kicking enjoyment, watched in amusement at the game.
They were living examples of God’s love. And when they picked flowers lining the sidewalk entrance (to my horror) to give to the man enjoying the birds chirping and fresh, warm air on his skin, they shined the face of Jesus more clearly than any sermon explanation.
Yet that night, I only remembered finger paints.
And at the end of the weekend, as I rolled the steam cleaner from spot to spot, I had to ask myself why do I remember the stains my children make so easily when God willingly forgets mine?
While disobedience comes with consequences and must be addressed, it is not the whole of my children. I need to see them for the beautiful creations they are and the wondrous splashes of color they bring to life.
After all, that’s how God views me, and I’ve left more than my own fair share of finger paint trails.
Reflecting today on the ‘Puzzled by the Bible’ series at 12 Stone Church and the amazing dichotomy of God’s holiness and the offer of Christ’s forgiveness. Come back Friday for ‘Journeys’ and the last fruit of the Spirit topic–self-control.
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.
photo via photobucket.com
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!’
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.
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).
While I typically can write a blog post with relative ease, I struggle every Thursday night like my former high school students, not knowing where to start, not able to hit that first key on the laptop, staring at a blinking cursor. The past few weeks I struggled because I knew what I was lacking, and it’s hard to write about my own spiritual failings. However, this week I struggle because I know I haven’t done my subject justice.
I really had hoped to encounter the perfect story of goodness, perhaps an unexpected moment at the grocery store, or a random phone call from a far away friend. Instead, one person entered my mind from the first moment I contemplated this fruit of the Spirit. But I didn’t want to write about him.
I prayed to God for examples of goodness, hoping there was someone I was forgetting. I searched my memory bank for anecdotes involving loved ones and relatives whom I haven’t seen in years. I even looked up the definition of ‘goodness’ in the dictionary, hoping some word in the definition would trigger the inspiration I needed to write a different story than the one in my head.
But it was always him.
And I really didn’t want to admit that fact because I’ve been mad at him for the last week.
But if I’m truly to write on goodness, there’s only one person I know who is this good.
I wish I could say that I’ve never uttered an unkind word about another, but I can’t. I wish I could say that when I fight, I always fight fair, not hitting below the belt with careless words or rubbing salt in the wounds with a stone-cold silence. But I can’t.
And he can.
He doesn’t offend easily, and he is slow to anger.
He doesn’t choose jealousy as a garment but instead clothes himself in trust.
And he trusts with the words I type across the screen, even when they’re not pretty.
He isn’t perfect, but he does walk a righteous path.
And his heart is good.
And when he knows that I’m frustrated, that after nine years we’re still not on the same page, his heart hurts as he searches for ways to find common ground. Whether through a cup of hot tea, a cannoli on a Friday night, or a kiss sending me to bed amidst the clanging of dishes in the sink.
He’s just that good. In the little things. In the big things. All the time.
And even when we’re not on the same page, I know we’re in the same story, fighting for the same things, just focusing on different battles.
His goodness sets my heart at ease, my mind at rest, and when I see the goodness of my loving husband, I taste the goodness of our perfect Father.
“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.
When you think of goodness, is there one person who comes to mind? How do you see goodness in your own life?
Link up your own post on goodness below, and please link back to my post with either a hyperlink or my button (grab the code off the sidebar). Be sure to read some of the other posts who have joined us, and show some kindness by leaving comments on the other blogs! Thank you for taking this journey with us!
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).
than the ones you share with those who gatheraround your table,
more sweet than the morsels you deliver to the one who shares your bed,
then, perhaps, you have good manners.
But good manners are not a fruit of the Spirit.
“22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:23-23, New International Version, 2010) Emphasis mine
Why is it easier sometimes to show kindness to everyone but those living under your roof? Do you have this struggle, or am I alone in uttering careless words to my loved ones that I would never say to anyone else?
Link up your post on kindness below, and please link back to my post with either a hyperlink or my button (grab the code off the sidebar). Be sure to read some of the other posts who have joined us, and show some kindness by leaving comments on the other blogs! Thank you for taking this journey with us!
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).
Jennifer Vignola Davis 
