Forbearance

I pushed open the door and stormed out of the bathroom.

“I told you to get your pajamas on! Do not come out of your room again!”

And back in the bathroom I went, trying to dry the baby while the thick, moist air clung to my skin. I listened as giggles and little feet ran down the hallway into the bedroom next door, now two pairs of feet bouncing on the bed.

I sighed. I am so tired of this. I am so tired…

And, again, the fatigue and frustration manifested itself in a torrent of temper.

“I told you to get in your room and get on your pajamas NOW!!” The words, starting in my mouth as an angry threat, morphed into a desperate plea as I grabbed children by the arms, pulling them onto the floor.

I can’t take this every day. I’m tired of feeling like a single mother who’s married.

Then following the thought, the guilt came immediately as an image of a true single mother came to mind.

And I’m tired of feeling guilty for the feelings I have. What is so hard about letting me know what time he is coming home? I dragged one kid onto her bed and shut the door.

“Chloe, let’s go!” The toddler in the bathroom followed me down the hall to her room. I laid her on the floor and grabbed the orange diaper I had set out before her bath. My eyes began to burn with hot tears, and I blinked them away as I worked the velcro tabs before me.

Once she was dressed for bed, I pulled her onto my lap in the brown rocking chair, cream cushions dingy and worn from rocking with two children before her. And I prayed. I cried. And with each prayer for Chloe, with each sway of the chair, I offered up more venom to share with him.

We rocked and rocked. I heard bedroom doors open, laughter as a mattress hit the floor. And I didn’t care. I just don’t care.

The bedtime routine dragged on as I moved from one child to the next, trying to wash away the anger I spew on them with the silent hug I could offer. As I closed the last door, I picked up bath towels off the floor, mounds of wet cloth in my arms, and headed toward momentary solace in my room.

I flipped on the light, swiftly moving toward the hamper in the bathroom, and I noticed the pile in front of it.

How hard is it to put the clothes IN the hamper? I’ll just do this, too! I shoved the towels in and grabbed the mound of white undershirts that lay at my feet.

I’m not waiting for him to eat. I’m hungry now. I’m tired of waiting until nine to eat every night.

Seven o’clock used to be late; now it’s the norm. Our Sundays aren’t sacred. When has he worked enough? When is our day?

I vomited up more thoughts; the lava of pressure and frustration was rolling down the sides of my body as I descended the staircase. I was ready for him to walk through that door, and I would be waiting. No smile, no kiss, just discontent written across my face.

I headed into the kitchen and began working on the dirty dishes in the sink. I rinsed the filth off each plate but couldn’t wash clean the grime over me. I shoved the dishes into the dishwasher, the forks and knives in their separate compartments, and I heard the garage door.

I wasn’t even going to look up. He would know I was unhappy without my saying a word. But I was ready with words, and I wanted the fight. And, yet, I dreaded the fight that I would provoke.

I wanted to yell so that I could cry, and I wanted him to hurt so that he would know how I hurt. I wanted to point out everything he had ever done wrong, every sock left on the floor, every time he hadn’t returned my call during the day, every time he had come home late from work at night. And I wanted to be vindicated. I wanted to convince him our life had to change.

I held onto the dish in the sink without looking up as he walked through the door.

“Hi.” He came over and kissed me on the cheek.

Setting his computer bag down, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“Go sit down on the couch. I know you’ve had a rough day. I’ll make you some tea.”

I looked up, ready to turn around and face him, ready to rattle off the litany of offenses he had committed, but instead, I made my way to the couch.

I stared straight ahead at the T.V., not uttering a word, feeling the breath rise and fall in my chest. I listened to the clanking of tea cups, the high pitch of the kettle screaming that it was ready, the sound of forks and knives rattling in the drawer, and the wall of defenses I had built began to dissipate.

He walked over, tea cup in one hand, plate of food that had been waiting on the stove in the other, and he set them before me.

And in a rare moment of grace, I simply said, “Thank you.”

I waited until he returned with his own plate, bowed my head as he said the blessing, and rested comfortably with my husband on the couch. And, for the night, I allowed myself to forget.

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 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). emphasis mine

When have you displayed forbearance? What area of your life is God telling you to endure with patience?

Share your thoughts below by linking up your own post on forbearance! Copy the URL to your actual post, not just your homepage, so others can read your post related to this topic no matter the day of the week. You can link up any time through the weekend. Add my button or a link to my blog somewhere on your post, and be sure to comment on the other posts, as well. Thank you for sharing your journey with us!

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Learning

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 5:22-23). Emphasis added

I watched as that little boy made his way to the plate, slowly, not with the same swiftness he had displayed earlier in this first practice. For a moment, I was confused as he stuck his fingers in his mouth, holding his bat with the other hand. After only a second, he jammed those fingers into the pocket of his thick, blue vest. Back and forth his fingers would alternate between his mouth and his vest pocket, each hand having equal access to both places, and he struggled to balance the bat against his legs or in the palm of whichever hand was free.

What in the world? I thought. And then I realized what he was doing. His fingers are freezing, and his mouth is warm. Yet he continued. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and gripped the bat with both hands. He looked so small, so vulnerable. Rosy-cheeked, he stepped up to the plate without complaint, and he swung the bat with all his might.

And as I watched this four-year-old, tiny in comparison to the six-year-old giants, my heart swelled with pride each time the sound of the bat cracked against the ball. He was determined; he was committed. And commitment doesn’t wait for warmer weather.

His daddy knows this truth. He knew that the box of tulips delivered to the door during a week when my soul felt sucked dry would speak volumes more than a dozen roses presented on the obligatory holiday.

He knew that with each petal that opened danced the words, “Thank you,” and as the sweet fragrance wafted under my nose, a heart was restored.

He knew the power of a simple gift, an unexpected treasure, and the weight it relieves. And he knew that the perfect time for the perfect gift is the present.

His daughter understands this lesson. She greeted her brother as he exited his church classroom, her toddler arms wrapping around his body, conveying pure joy in their reunion. An unexpected gesture immediately reciprocated, any rough edges immediately smoothed over. And as she moved to her sister, not knowing that this sister had just been ill, her embrace brought healing, the two girls tightly woven together, their heads resting on one another’s shoulders. They didn’t move in the middle of the hallway, and as I tried to nudge them to the side, they remained in their hug, unaware of anyone but each other. A simple greeting in the midst of a crowd, causing the world to blur in the background as the siblings came into focus.

I want to love as they love; I want to persevere without complaint, even when my days or months or years feel dark and cold. I want thoughtfulness to consume my being, simple gestures never far from mind, and never remaining a mere thought. And I want to love passionately, not caring what anyone thinks except the recipients of my affection.

I thought I knew how to love, but I have so much to learn. My teachers set the bar high.

Now it’s your turn! What have you learned about love this week? Leave a comment below, or link up your own blog post. Grab the ‘Journeys’ button from the sidebar to link your post back to this site, and encourage others to join the conversation. Enjoy reading others’ blogs, and leave comments letting them know you stopped by today!

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Let the Little Children Come

“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'” (Luke 18:16, New International Version, 2010).

I’ve read and heard this verse many times, and every time I have visited it, I have come away with the same meaning–that we should approach our faith as a child would, accepting and believing without letting doubt steal away our hope in the Savior.

However, this past time I closed my Bible with a new treasure buried in my heart.

While we are to approach faith like a child, I believe Jesus is making another point–He truly likes children. I can picture Jesus calling the children to Him, laughing as they topple onto His chest, knocking Him to the ground. I can picture Him tickling and playing and kissing boo-boos on skinned knees, and I can picture Him holding their hands, gently guiding them back to their mothers’ care.

And what’s not to like?

Children are happy. They aren’t worn down with worry and stress, and they always wear a smile. They giggle and squeal often, truly embracing the moment.

And when sadness or anger hits them, they don’t hide their feelings as we adults have learned to do so well. They have their outbursts, but then they regain their composure and find happiness again, feeling better having purged themselves of the unpleasant emotions.

Children forgive, and not just in word. One minute a child could have been slapped by his sister, and in the next the two are having tea around a little table and miniature teapot with all of their distinguished guests. They don’t hold grudges that grow and fester over time, pushing those in need of forgiveness further away.

Some hug, some kiss. Others are more shy with physical touch but don’t let an hour go by without uttering an ‘I love you.’ Children aren’t ashamed or afraid or wrapped up in what’s an appropriate display of affection–they let those they love know it the instant they feel it, and they protect those they hold dear.

Children aren’t worried with what others think; they do what feels right. And while their impulses need direction at times, they live life with passion. They live life in color. They don’t lie awake at night wishing they could get their day back to do over.

And children show compassion. They cry when they see others hurting, their tender hearts not yet calloused by a world that offers so many examples of suffering. They take with them to bed images of a sick child on T.V. or a homeless man on the corner and tuck them under the covers alongside their teddy bears. They don’t forget as easily as we.

Yes, the kingdom belongs to them.

Perhaps, if we saw Jesus with those little children on His knee, we would see child-like faith a little clearer. And, perhaps, if we saw those little children with their smiles and giggles, we would understand faith in action.

Thankfully, God gave me little children of my own, and I think He would have me get down on my knees and have them come to me. He would have me put aside the bills for a moment, put down the broom. He would have me turn off the iphone and let them come. He would have me watch and learn.

And, perhaps, when my hand reaches to tousle their hair, my fingertips would brush the kingdom of God.

Now it’s your turn. How did you respond to this verse? Link up or leave a comment below! Be sure to visit the other blogs and leave a comment; you’ll make that person’s day! And if you are linking your own post, grab the code for my button on the sidebar, and invite others to take this journey.

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Walking in Little Shoes

I took a deep breath as I entered Chloe’s room, laying out her pajamas for the night. The day was almost over, and as trying as it had been, I hadn’t blown it with the kids. That fact gave me just enough strength to deal with whatever they would throw my way before they fell asleep.

However, as I walked into Caleb’s room and expressed my frustration that he still hadn’t picked up his socks off the floor, he responded with a question that caused me to take another look at the day:

“How many times do you think you’re going to be mean to me today?”

I stood bewildered for a minute and proceeded to ask Caleb what he meant.

“You yelled at me a lot today, so I wanted to know how many times you’re going to be mean?”

After I contemplated where he got such a grasp on sarcasm, I explained to him that he had been very disobedient today and that I did have to scold him a lot, but I hadn’t lost my temper with him.

Or had I? Now his comment had me doubting myself.

That comment and the comment his sister made earlier when she stated with disgust, “You just ruined my life.”

So during a day when I was praising myself for keeping my cool, I still had managed to ruin the life of a three-year-old and caused a four-year-old to think his mother was incredibly mean.

Sheesh.

I decided to take a minute to look at the day from my kids’ perspective. When I told Caleb that he hadn’t acted right today, he pointed out that he did do many of the things I had asked and only disobeyed a little. While he had spent much of the day defying me, he was right–he did help a few times, too. He got on his coat and shoes when we were trying to leave, and he put Chloe’s boot on, too. He cleared the table of his dishes at every meal, and he helped set the table for dinner. When I looked through Caleb’s eyes, I saw many tasks that were completed and a mother who was still harping about those from earlier in the day.

I had a slightly harder time looking through Hannah Grace’s eyes; it was probably all those bright colors and butterflies that got in the way. In any event, when I tried, I saw a mommy whose heart I could melt if I just caressed her cheeks while saying,”I’m sorry, Mommy. I won’t poke your bottom tomorrow.” And in her eyes, that apology erased all of the defiant behavior from the day.

Of course, if my kids stood in my shoes, they would have seen time after time after time children sneaking cookies and TV; ignoring requests to clean up; and that strange incident of running circles through the kitchen, poking my heiny every time they passed me while I was talking on the phone to Hannah Grace’s preschool teacher…just to name a few frustrations from the day.

Where they saw fun, I saw defiance. Where I saw defiance, they saw examples of obedience.

And I saw that while I was right, so were they.

Yes, my children need to obey, but I also need to see all that they do that is worthy of praise. I need to step inside their little shoes and take a look at me. Who do they see? A mother full of love, or a mother harboring disappointment?

Perhaps that paradigm shift will make the difference.

And if not, I’ll just embrace the title of ‘the meanie who ruins little kids’ lives.’

Turn My Heart

Prior to Christmas, I began reading through the book of Luke. I didn’t even make it past the first chapter when my eyes read over a verse that pierced my heart and has since convicted me daily:

“And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” (Luke 1:17).

The angel Gabriel is prophesying to Zechariah about the son whom he will father, yet when I read those words, every time I re-read them, I hear him speaking to me.

“to turn the hearts of the parents to their children”

I live my life for my children, and I sacrifice, but I also gripe daily, yearning for some time to hide away in a corner and read a book. Yearning for the day when I don’t immediately go from their prolonged bedtime to mine. Yearning for an hour to clean the bathrooms and then wondering what the heck is wrong with me that my dream is to clean bathrooms?

Where is my heart turned? Toward them or me?

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In case you missed it, this week’s journey is on peace. Come link up on Friday with your own post on this theme.

Reclaiming My Joy

I looked down the row at the tops of heads covered by the dark of the theater. Like bookends we held little ones in, keeping them from wandering in the aisle, holding them tight to our chests when the scenes were too intense for their impressionable minds. I caught Matt’s eye as Caleb formed a ball in his lap while I secured Chloe in mine, Hannah Grace nestled in the next seat, and my tummy grew warm with the liquor of joy. It was a simple moment, but the moment filled me, and the taste of contentment lingered on my lips for the rest of the evening.

Five days later, I was empty. A toddler bed was my undoing, and more than anything, all I wanted in the next moment was sleep. Sleep to bring stillness. Sleep to refresh. Sleep to wipe away the yesterdays of this week. I found irony in the situation that, during the week when I was supposed to contemplate the spiritual significance of joy, I felt anything but.

And I had to ask the question, where does it go? The Bible states that one of the fruits of the Spirit is joy, but so often I allow my circumstances, normally trivial, to dictate whether or not I bite into that fruit. I allow my own mind to deceive me into believing that my insecurities are reality, and slowly the joy evaporates from within.

But I wanted to reclaim my joy, and I scanned the Scriptures for any reference to the word, hoping to glean some insight as to how to scatter the dark cloud from overhead. I found some of what I expected and already knew: Experiencing the Lord produces indescribable joy.

As the exiles gathered to hear Ezra read the Word of God, they began to weep for they finally understood what they were hearing. Yet Nehemiah tells them, “Do not grieve, for the joy of the LORD is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10, New International Version, 2010). And they rejoiced.

Tasting the beauty of the Lord, understanding His law which in turns magnifies the sheer gift of His grace will produce joy. I have known this joy, but continually living in this state of awareness seems impossible. How do I rejoice in the LORD when the disobedience of my children has worn me thin? How do I rejoice in the LORD when I feel like a failure? How do I rejoice in the LORD when I feel ashamed to utter His name?

And as I scanned further, God’s Word began to illuminate answers to this question. Verse after verse tied righteousness to joy:

“Light shines on the righteous and joy on the upright in heart” (Psalm 97:11).

“The prospect of the righteous is joy, but the hopes of the wicked come to nothing” (Proverbs 10:28).

“Evildoers are snared by their own sin, but the righteous shout for joy and are glad” (Proverbs 29:6).

Perhaps my joy eluded me because I failed to live righteously. As I lost my temper with my children, control over my words, I lost my grip on joy. As I gave in to the fatigue that told me I was incompetent, I gave in to the sin that would have me rely on my own strength.

Perhaps Nehemiah’s words, spoken directly to a people celebrating the completion of the Wall of Jerusalem, are spoken directly to me, as well.

Jennifer–the joy of the LORD is your strength.

When your children defy you, the joy of the LORD is your strength.

When your husband disappoints you, the joy of the LORD is your strength.

When your coworker cheats you, the joy of the LORD is your strength.

When your friend deserts you, the joy of the LORD is your strength.

In His kindness, He has made known His expectations, and He has given us the strength to uphold them if we will so choose. And when we don’t, He has given us a net of grace to keep the fall from breaking us beyond repair.

And that truth is my joy. And that truth is my strength.

And that truth is stronger than any cloud that hangs over my head.

So I will claim it as I sigh a prayer of gratitude before I drift off to sleep, trusting that His strength will be waiting for me in the morning, holding the promise of a new joy.

Now it’s your turn! What did you learn about joy this week? Leave a comment below, or add a link to your blog post (not to your webpage but the actual URL of the post). Include a link back to my site, or grab the html code below for my button so others can join the conversation.

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When Your Efforts Feel Like a Waste

Sometimes your efforts feel like a waste.

Maybe your plans for productivity after waking up early were thwarted by a child who woke up even earlier…

Maybe your sacrifice of leaving work two hours early for your spouse was met by two hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic…

Maybe the hours you spent in the kitchen, swatting away children who kept appearing at your ankles, were for nothing when you left one of the bags with your accomplishment on the kitchen floor…

And maybe the time and love you put into a giant cookie cake was met with the disappointing news of school closing for the day…

and all of your plans and good intentions instead felt like a giant waste.

But in that moment, you had a choice because there’s always a choice.

Maybe you griped and complained how you’re never cut a break and don’t get the help that you need…

Maybe you pounded your fists on the steering wheel, and your body tensed as your mind anticipated the chaos awaiting you at home…

Or maybe you took a deep breath and savored the smell of the garlic you chopped and the lemons you squeezed in a friend’s kitchen, enjoying more the company of friends than the improvised dish you were making…

And maybe you looked in two very disappointed eyes and knew that there was only one course of action to take…

so you had cookie cake for breakfast.

Because even though the change of plans seemed a little strange at first,

it wasn’t long before you realized that sometimes a change in plans

represents a chance for new memories that taste oh-so-sweet.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland (Isaiah 43:19, New International Version, 2010).

When was a time that your improvisations made for a sweet memory? How do you cope when you feel like your efforts have been wasted? Share below for this ‘Focus On It Friday.’

The Wake-up Call

In the quest for greater productivity, I decided to start waking up at 5 a.m., a time I swore to never see again after my last round of teaching in a high school. However, I’ve tried this time for a week, and I have to admit, I don’t think I can go back to waking up an hour later. Getting the chance to read my Bible without rushing, writing a full blog post, putting on clothes and make-up, and possibly throwing in a load of laundry or making a warm breakfast all before the kids wake up make this hideous start time completely worth it. But for all the positives to this new routine, there were definitely some downsides, too:

– Realizing there was quite a bit more day left when I was ready to crash at 4 p.m.

– Having to adopt the bedtime of an 8 year old.

– Becoming that person who fell asleep at the church’s Christmas dinner while the speaker was pouring out her heart–hey, cut me some slack! She didn’t start talking until after 8:30!

– Contemplating giving my son the keys to drive us home. He is 4.

– Acknowledging that procreation is over for my husband and me because I will be sleeping (wait a minute–that one might fit in the positive category for now….)

– Welcoming the Mrs. Hyde version of myself who is scheduled to appear every Friday afternoon.

I may wake up early now, but I’ll never be a morning person.

The Shoes

Had I seen them on display in the store, I probably would have walked right past. Zebra-striped shoes that sparkled? Yeah, not my type. However, I saw these shoes on a friend, and I thought she looked sharp. I asked where she got them, and she replied from Target for $12 or $13–even better. So when I went into Target, and I came face-to-face with these shoes (should I have said soul-to-sole?), I bit my lip and doubted this decision.

They didn’t look navy on her. Do I really want shoes that sparkle? I’ve never been into animal print. Maybe I’ll just get these plain black ones instead….

I deliberated for a ridiculously long time in the shoe aisle of Target. I decided on the black shoes, walked away, and then came back. For all of my insecurities, I was drawn to these shoes.

I’m not very fashionable. I never know what’s in style until it’s been in style for months, maybe longer, and I tend to play it safe. I’ve always acted this way. My prom dresses were beautiful but standard colors, nothing trendy. The clothes in my closet hang in shades of brown, black, gray, with a few splashes of bright color that worked their way in as gifts from others.

I’m afraid to take risks. I don’t want to find out I was wrong.

But I bought the shoes. Even though I immediately had buyer’s remorse, I bought the sparkly, navy blue, zebra-striped shoes, and I got a compliment the first time I wore them. In fact, I get a compliment almost every time I wear them. My sister, the fashion expert, bought the exact pair after seeing them on me. The risk paid off with high dividends, especially since I really like them, too.

And I like this feeling of adding a little color, a little pizazz to my life. Perhaps this 31-year-old woman is learning a little late what others have known since they were five–that it’s okay to let my hair down a little, to run my fingers through paints, and roll down hills into piles of crunchy leaves.

I want to take a deep breath and relax. I want to open my eyes and see past the browns and blacks and grays and notice the beautiful colors. I want to worry less about whether every decision is practical and relish the moments we create.

I want to see more crazy zebra-striped shoes.

But I’m not ever getting a tattoo.

To Speak Blessings

Many times, I’ll hear a sermon at church on Sunday, and by Friday I have forgotten the topic. Other times, however, the message won’t leave me, and weeks later I am still pondering its significance in my life.

A few weeks ago, my pastor preached on the events in Genesis 27. Jacob deceives his father, Isaac, into giving him the blessing that was actually reserved for his brother Esau, the firstborn. When Isaac discovers his mistake, he trembles, and Esau cries out like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum, “Bless me—me too, my father!” (Genesis 27:34).

I’ve always found this passage peculiar. Isaac doesn’t actually give anything that exchanges hands with Jacob, and God, knowing everything, knows that Isaac had never intended, in fact, to bless Jacob. Why couldn’t Isaac simply fess up, “My bad, Esau. I thought Jacob was you. Here you go,” and bless him instead?

My pastor provided the answer that has wrestled with me for weeks: The ancient people believed that what they said mattered. When a person asked for God’s blessing, he couldn’t simply undo those words; the words carried meaning and power and were not spoken lightly. And this truth is no different for our generation, either.

Two thoughts continue to race in my mind. First, I’ve continued to think about my pastor’s sermon, the power of a blessing. As a Christian, I believe in God’s supernatural ability to take my words, the blessings I would speak on my children, and make them true. I believe in the power of touch, the power of taking my children by the hand as I speak words of confidence in what they will do and God’s presence in their life. And I believe when they hear these words, something will change inside of them, as well.

Second, I began to think about another lesson that wasn’t in my pastor’s sermon. If my words really matter, if I can speak blessings on my children that God brings to fruition, wouldn’t the opposite hold true? All those careless words, the negative thoughts that enter my mind and leave my mouth, do they hold power as well?

Since becoming a parent, I’ve tried to give extra hugs and kisses to my children, knowing that showing physical affection isn’t the first way that I show my love. I tend to be better at praising my children for their kind hearts, for their good character, for a task successfully completed.

However, after this sermon, I began to listen to my other words. What words am I using when I discipline? In an attempt to correct my children, am I actually heaping curses on their shoulders? Are my children inwardly crying out, “Bless me–me too, Mommy!” when my words sear their soft skin? Not only do my praises matter, but so do my criticisms.

I want my children to remember a mother who blessed them with her actions and her words. I want my children to remember my words for their ability to inspire creativity, to bring joy, to cause laughter. And I want to remember how much my children matter to me so I will choose wisely those words I want to matter to them.