Sleeping Through the Storm

I originally started to write this post for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. However, a late night watching the paths of tornadoes, early risings from the kids, and a canceled kid-swap day due to a stomach bug kept me from getting this post published Thursday morning. After contemplating the topic some more, I decided this post is actually perfect for ‘Journeys,’ but since Mama Kat gave me the inspiration, I’m linking up with her, as well.

3.) What is going on in the bedroom? Describe a memorable sleeper.

For the last five years, sleep has been a commodity. With three children came three more reasons that I would never be able to count on a consistent routine of a solid eight hours. Every night this week, my husband and I have either been stalled in our desire to go to bed or ripped from a deep sleep due to cries in bedrooms down the hall. Last night was different, however. Last night my own worry kept me awake, causing me to grab only a couple of hours here and there.

I had known all day that a storm was coming. The day before our trusty meteorologist warned through the radio that there was a chance we’d wake to thunderstorms, and even though that morning passed without those flashes of lightning, he warned that another system would arrive around eight p.m. I took notice, and I sent my husband an e-mail asking him not to work past six; tornadoes were supposed to accompany this storm, and I wanted him home with us before the fireworks began.

The kids were ready to make their way upstairs as Matt arrived home, and we had everyone tucked into bed by 8:15. I went downstairs to check my phone that had rung while I was rocking my daughter, and I noticed a missed call from my dad. I called him, knowing that he doesn’t usually call me in the evenings.

“I just wanted to make sure that you’re ready for the storm,” he said after I told him I saw I missed his call.

“Umm…no. I mean, we know it’s coming, but we haven’t done anything, yet.”

“Well, if you guys want to come over here and stay in the basement, you’re more than welcome.”

I got a little nervous after his suggestion. After all, Dad had never invited us to share the basement for any other storm. I told Matt the offer, but he didn’t think we needed to make the drive over there. We’d just take the necessary precautions here.

Together we pulled tray-tables and plastic bags full of party decorations out of the downstairs closet. I stacked plastic totes with red lids full of Dr. Seuss hats and paper Thanksgiving turkeys, butterflies and sundry other creations made in preschool. I found small boxes of pictures that had not yet made it to albums, and I retrieved around six blankets that Matt and I cuddled under on those rare nights when we watched a movie. And while I was preparing for the storm, I was performing a mental checklist of the items I would need to organize this closet.

Matt found all the bike helmets from the garage, and I grabbed a football helmet from the playroom. We had four helmets and five of us. I ran upstairs and threw down the massive pillows that adorned our bed and grabbed the flashlight from Matt’s dresser drawer. I remembered seeing Caleb’s little flashlight under his bed when I had hunted down the missing Easter candy earlier, and I got on my stomach, squirming my way under his bed until I could reach the little light. I set the two flashlights next to each other on my nightstand in case the power went out while we were asleep.

We were ready.

While sipping warm soup at the kitchen table, I sent my sister a text asking her to tell Dad that we were prepared now; he didn’t need to worry. She texted me back with Dad’s offer of the basement again and concluded with the words “good luck and god speed” if we decided to stick it out at our house.

Godspeed?

I had never in my life heard my sister or anyone in my family, for that matter, use those words. I reached across the table to show Matt the text, and I admitted that I was officially scared. What kind of storm did we need to expect?

After our quick dinner, I ran upstairs to take a shower before the thunder and lightning began. And as is typical for me, my thoughts took off as soon as I was alone getting ready for that shower. What if we’ve made a mistake and should’ve gone to my parents? What if we went to my parents, but the storm hit there and not here? If we have to take cover, how will I keep the kids calm? What would I do if anything happened to Matt or the kids?

I began to worry. I knew a storm was coming, but I didn’t know when, and I didn’t know exactly where. And while I didn’t want to dwell on morbid thoughts, as I kissed each kid goodnight again, I wondered if I would get the chance to do the same thing in that same room again tomorrow. I was assuming the worst–that the tornadoes would hit us–based on the urgent nature of the newscasters and the number of friends on Facebook heading for their basements. And I found it strange to know a disaster was coming and to have to sit tight and wait. And I found it unnerving to know that what I was waiting for could change my life forever.

But praying and waiting was all there was left to do. We made the best preparations we could, and now we just needed to see if they were necessary or not.

Storm Clouds — photo courtesy of photobucket.com

I pretended to read on the couch where we continued to listen to the excited weatherman and watch the giant red blob work its way across the screen. I peered over the top of my book as the weatherman gave the countdown for each city in the path of the mile-wide tornado. Floyd, you have two minutes to take cover. Sandy Springs, you have eight minutes to get ready–you are in the direct path of the storm. And I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight.

But I woke up an hour or so later on the couch to the boom of thunder and sound of rain beating on the windows. I immediately sat up and focused my tired eyes on the T.V., looking for the red blob and the small cities named on the screen. It was almost one a.m., and two different storms were nearer, yet they looked as if they would slide by us, one overhead, one below.

Matt was sound asleep. I tried to wake him, desperate to know if he had a plan for how we would hear if we needed to take cover. All of the preparations would mean nothing if we slept while the storm was knocking at our door. Matt said he’d turn on the radio on his nightstand, but I was not comforted knowing that I woke Matt, not his alarm, most mornings. But, alas, we didn’t have any other options, and from what we could tell, unless the storm turned, we should fare okay.

Good sleep was hard to come by that night. Chloe had acted upset at bedtime and awoke crying again after we had fallen asleep. And at five a.m., I again jerked awake to hear the conversation on the radio that the threat of dangerous weather for our area was now over. I no longer needed to be afraid; we were safe.

Even though I try to wake up at five most mornings, I decided to go back to sleep. I was exhausted. Unfortunately, my kids decided to wake an hour earlier than usual.

As I went about the morning routine of getting the kids ready for school, putting tray-tables and unused helmets back in their places, I thought about the preparations Matt and I made the night before. We didn’t know when or exactly where, but we knew the storm was coming. And while we hoped for the best, we didn’t know if we’d be counted with those who had lost something precious in the storm.

Almost 300 individuals lost their lives as a result of this storm system that swept through the southeast. As I poured milk in cereals bowls, I thought to myself that their end is no different than the one I’m going to face–I will die, too. The only questions are when and how.

And just as I prepared for a tornado last night with pillows and flashlights, there are preparations to be made for that moment when I will cease to exist in this life, that moment that we all know is coming.

I know I have areas in which I need to improve, habits I want to correct so that I’ll leave this Earth with no regrets. But I also believe that when I leave this world, I’ll enter another where I’ll meet my God. And when I see Him face-to-face, I will tell Him, “I tried to prepare, but I have done nothing that can make me worthy to enter into your presence, nothing except for one preparation–to love your Son who thought me worthy to die in my place.”

We all face the same end. The end of the story is not a surprise–it’s just the journey that’s different for all of us. So are you prepared? Do you know what you believe? And if not, when do you plan to prepare? The storm is coming while you sleep, and there is no guarantee that there will be time to get ready when you wake up.

Please keep the families devastated by this storm in your thoughts and prayers today. Click here if you’d like to make a donation to the American Red Cross to help these disaster victims.

Have you ever had to prepare for a literal storm coming your way? What thoughts ran through your mind? How much thought have you given to the fact of your own mortality? Are you ready if you died today?

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What I Don’t Deserve

A whisper broke the momentary silence, filling the black room.

“Did you have fun at Easter?”

“Yes!”

I reached over across the bed and grabbed my husband’s arm. After enduring a bedtime routine that started at 7, we thought we would finally get to go bed at 11 after bringing the two trouble-makers in our room, making little pads on the floor with the new blankets their Grammy made. But our three-year-old couldn’t resist the temptation to talk to her brother one more time before finally drifting off to sleep.

Randomly throughout the day Hannah Grace would order me, “Ask me what I did today in church,” and when I would comply, she’d scream, “Jesus is Alive!!!!”

I guess a day with that much excitement, that much candy doesn’t turn off quite so easily. And I have to admit, the frustration I would normally feel if my children were up for four hours after we began bedtime gave way to the warm sensation that filled my heart. The day spent celebrating did me good.

Many days I focus on what I don’t deserve–disobedience, totaled cars, fatigue–and those thoughts are never productive. But this day was different. I was consumed with my unworthiness.

I looked around and saw my parents and siblings, laughing and playing with five young children running around the yard. My heart ached for my sick nephew and my sister and brother-in-law at home with him, missing our celebration. I remembered the image of my husband, vacuuming and setting out chairs as we prepared for the day. And I smiled at the beauty of my two daughters dressed in purple flowing dresses, my son growing tall, but still my little boy in blue.

I don’t deserve this.

And I thought about my deeds that should leave a dark stain on my soul. And, yet, I am marked white as snow, pure in His sight because of this day, Easter. Of all the blessings I don’t deserve, His gift is the greatest.

Today was different. As I thought about all I don’t deserve, the greatest gift that I don’t deserve, everything was put in perspective. I realized the magnitude of my unworthiness, and my heart was glad.

Linking up with Michelle at Graceful and Jen at Finding Heaven. How did you celebrate Easter? What does Easter mean to you?

In the Dark Belly

As the days grew longer and my belly bigger, I began to marvel at this life growing inside of me. Crammed in this watermelon-shaped space were two little legs that would find the need to stretch, revealing just how tight my skin had pulled across my belly. Little fists and elbows used my insides like a punching bag, and Matt and I would look with amazement as one side of my stomach would bounce in and out in its quick rhythm.

And during this time, I wondered what it felt like to live as this developing fetus, crammed into a dark space, living every day rolled up in a little ball amidst warm water and the constant sounds of the mother’s heart beating, her voice echoing to down below. Frankly, to this claustrophobic lady, the concept seemed terrifying, yet we know that babies don’t enter the world with a mind full of phobias–they don’t want to be dropped or experience loud noises–but beyond those two conditions, they are at peace.

I’m always amazed where my mind travels during a sermon at church. As we were studying the story of Jonah, and the pastor was describing Jonah’s anxiety at finding himself in the dark belly of a fish, my mind traveled to when I was pregnant and recalled the three different times I pushed babies from within the darkness of my belly to the light of a new world.

In the story of Jonah, Jonah disobeys God and tries to flee from his calling but, instead, finds himself trapped inside a giant fish. The first time we see this prophet pray is when his anxiety is at an all-time high, when he has no where else to look but up:

The engulfing waters threatened me,^[b]
the deep surrounded me;
seaweed was wrapped around my head.
⁶ To the roots of the mountains I sank down;
the earth beneath barred me in forever.
But you, LORD my God,
brought my life up from the pit. (Jonah 2:5-6, New International Version, 2010)

Like Jonah, we have experiences in our life that bring us to the height of anxiety. Our anxiety over our jobs or lack of jobs in a tough economy, anxiety over parenting and rebellious children, anxiety over secrets in our marriages–all of these anxieties squeeze out our breath, leave us feeling like we are trapped in a small, dark place with no way out.

And my pastor pointed out that these times of anxiety in our life are a signal for us to communicate with God, a time to get on our knees in prayer and share our worries with Him.

But my mind kept traveling to the image of the developing baby, also in a small, dark place. This baby, kept in its warm home for the perfect amount of time until his fingers and toes are developed, his eyes ready to take in those first fuzzy images of the mother ready to hug him close into her bosom, his lungs ready to take its first breath outside in the new world–this baby who undergoes a traumatic ordeal to leave its small, dark home for a wide-open space. Yet this baby enters the world without fear.

While Jonah lay trapped in the belly of the fish, he grew. He learned there was no escaping the will of God, and he learned who is sovereign. And, perhaps, we are kept in our own dark spaces so that we, too, can grow. And we will grow, and we will learn until we can look up with peace at that wide-open space on the other side, trusting that we have a Father waiting to hold us close to His chest, whisper softly in our ear, a Father from whose arms we will never fall.

Linking up with Michelle today. What’s your giant fish?

What I Lack

I lack sleep, little girls staying up three hours past their bedtimes trying on leotards and baby oil, waking up twice in the middle of the night crying for lost binkies.

I lack space, never having a moment sans children, even my own bed not serving as a refuge against little bodies climbing in and taking over.

I lack patience, sometimes not finding the calm within me to deal with disrespect or disobedience, my last nerve chewed on and spit out by 7:00 p.m.

I lack ideas, not knowing the next fool-proof technique to get little kids to pick up their toys, having exhausted all the creative options I could find.

But, sometimes, I take a minute to look around at the round faces breathing heavy, listen to the raspy snores escaping tiny mouths, feel the thick bedding wrapping a cocoon of warmth around healthy bodies, and I realize

I lack nothing.

Participating today in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What do you lack? And come back tomorrow to share your own Journey!

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?

Ten Things I Won’t/Will Miss About Having Little Children

Some Things I Won’t Miss About Having Little Children:

10. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, sleeping horizontally with their little toes pushing into my spine.

9. The anxiety I feel if I go to the bathroom alone for a minute, not knowing what will await me when I come out.

8. Having to participate in every. single. game. outside, never getting the chance to sit on the porch glider and just relax.

7. The limited freedom to have a spontaneous Friday night date-night or attend a late-night outing, the availability of a babysitter or getting the kids in bed by a reasonable time always a prerequisite.

6. Temper-tantrums.

But I Will Miss:

5. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, wanting the security of Daddy and Mommy and another chance to snuggle.

4. The opportunity to guide my children’s impulses, teaching them right from wrong, while the consequences are small. One day they will be grown-up, no longer needing input from Mommy and Daddy, in a world where they won’t always get a second chance.

3. Being asked to participate in my children’s games outside, having been replaced by the neighborhood kids, or one day by boyfriends and girlfriends.

2. The security of having little kids tucked away in bed, replaced, instead, with Friday nights full of worry waiting up for teenagers to make curfew.

1. Hmm…I can’t do it…I won’t miss temper-tantrums.

Linking up with Amanda today for her Top Ten Tuesday at ohamada.com. What would you add to the list?

Excuses, Excuses

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’!

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Parting the Red Sea

As our small group meeting was coming to a close, I debated whether or not to complete the thought that was already pouring out of my mouth:

“I’m not saying that I have greater faith than Moses, but I’d like to think that if I saw my hand turn white with leprosy and then return to normal or my staff turn into a snake and then a staff again, then I wouldn’t doubt that God was in control. But I hesitate to say what I’m thinking because I know I’m going to be tested now….”

And shortly after, the testing began.

To be fair, the testing actually began before small group, and I failed miserably. While sitting for three hours with my daughter in a medical clinic open on Sundays, I began to unhinge. I was supposed to be creating 16 Jedi robes for my son’s 5th birthday party. I was supposed to be looking over my notes for Bible study. I was supposed to be replying to comments and reading the other blogs that I had neglected last week. I was supposed to be enjoying a leisurely Sabbath–not waiting for a strep throat diagnosis (again).

And I definitely was not supposed to leave that clinic without an antibiotic in hand and a daughter on the path to recovery. The unhinging was near complete. I cried on the way home. I cried on the way to small group. And I cried on the way home after small group.

I didn’t want to face another week with a sick kid, especially since I now would have to make a doctor’s appointment in the morning. I didn’t want to deal with the chaos of planning a birthday party during the same week my husband was to have his own out-patient procedure on the same day my son was playing in his first Tee ball game. I felt overwhelmed before Monday morning hit.

So I’m not quite sure what changed between 8:30 p.m. Sunday night and 6:00 a.m. Monday morning. Perhaps I actually received the prayer I asked for last night. Perhaps I knew I would be tested and tried to mentally prepare. Perhaps I relaxed when I saw that my husband put away laundry and cleaned the mess that reminded me of what would happen if a mailbox threw up on my countertops. Most likely, it was a combination of all three, but whatever the reason, I woke up calm.

I woke up calm even though a second child had climbed into our bed in the middle of the night, hot with fever. I remained calm on the way to our doctor’s appointment and as we left with our prescriptions in hand. I remained calm when my sick boy threw up in the Publix parking lot, and I remained calm when my daughter spit her five-dose total medicine all over the two of us. And I even remained calm when another parent responded to the invitation, and I realized just how many Jedi robes and light sabers I had to make by this weekend.

I wasn’t going to come unhinged, and every time I felt like I could, I heard God whisper:

I didn’t ask you to part the Red Sea; I asked you to love and comfort your sick children. I didn’t ask you to take on Pharaoh; I asked you to support your husband and remain calm for him.

I didn’t ask you to throw a birthday party or create Jedi robes–that was your choice. I didn’t ask you to write on your blog four times a week or respond to every comment that comes your way–those were your goals.

And I didn’t ask you to have a spotless house; I asked that you not give in to idleness but give your best at whatever you do. And sometimes giving your best is letting go of those things that aren’t as important at the moment.

God didn’t ask me to part the Red Sea; He asked me to be a good mom today. And even though there are times when I might think parting the Red Sea would be easier, I have to remember that the God over Moses is the God over me. He’s in charge, and thank the Lord!

Because when I look at the Christmas outfit my daughter wore to the doctor’s today, I know clearly I’m not!

I’m linking up with Michelle today. If you haven’t before, head on over to her site. You won’t be disappointed! And if you’re interested in linking up with me, come back with your own post on Friday for this week’s journey on faithfulness.

²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

The More Things Change…

One year ago today, I was scrubbing base boards and stressing over the combination of new carpet and three children under the age of four. I was staying up way too late trying to get in those last minute chores after a full day of being a momma. One year ago, we were preparing to put our house up for sale.

In a quest to lessen my husband’s near three-hour roundtrip commute, we took on the stress of selling a home in this lousy housing market. And my writing, which was very infrequent at the time, reflected my stress. And all the stress? It was pointless–the house didn’t sell.

When I look back at my writing from a year ago, I’m struck by the similarities between my life then and my life now. I was knocking myself out in pursuit of a goal that was unattainable. We were dissatisfied with the lack of time we got to spend together as a whole family, and we wanted our situation to change. I wasn’t happy with the person I was on the inside, and while I was giving my house a good spring cleaning, I was dusting over the neglected areas of my soul, as well.

Today, I’m still knocking myself out. I try to do everything–spend meaningful time with my children all of their waking hours, present a spotless home, create home-cooked meals every night–and my goal, while admirable, really isn’t attainable, at least not given the ages of my kids or the fact that my husband’s commute hasn’t changed. If anything, we see each other even less than one year ago, and I’m more dissatisfied with this fact than I was in 2010. And as far as the spiritual–I’m still finding more and more areas of myself that displease me.

And I’ve come to the realization that, while circumstances may change, life doesn’t. Every season of life will have its own challenges, and while they may seem small when looking back, they feel huge during that time. When I read how nervous I was about my ability to keep up a presentable house, I want to laugh. Who cares? But I did at the time. And looking back, I’m able to see that I did the best I could, but moving wasn’t meant to be. Life continued, and we make do.

Likewise, I’ll look back in a year on my writing from now, which is much more frequent, and I’m sure I’ll shake my head at the insignificant things that caused me to stress. I’ll wish that I could go back and visit my past self and whisper, “This too shall pass.”

So I have a goal–to take each day as it comes and live it fully; to acknowledge my feelings without allowing them to overrule my logic; to continue to laugh at myself and my follies; to rest in the grace of God; and to live in the present, not waiting for better days to come. Different days will come, but they will bring their own struggles. I want to be ready to meet them.

Come back tomorrow for this week’s journey on goodness. I’d love for you to share your perspective by linking up your own post!

Fighting Insecurity, Finding Contentment

Sometimes, I measure my days in urine-soaked princess panties, my weeks in previously unscheduled doctor appointments. My joy and excitement come from toddlers stating, ‘Poo-poo,’ and actually sitting on the potty before the aforementioned poo-poo hits the floor, and my challenges come in the form of recipes filled with natural ingredients but not more than five steps.

My current lot in life is different than I had anticipated. If I’m honest, I’d have to say that I’m not as good at staying home with my children as I’d thought I would be. I thought I’d find more contentment, peace, but I struggle.

Part of that struggle is the comparison game that I can play mentally with other women. When I was at Matt’s company Christmas party last year, surrounded by career women, I felt insecure. While in one breath I was proud of my choice to stay home with my children, in the other I felt the need to add something to my title–I stay at home, but I also….

And while I love to write and write because it is my passion, a daily spiritual experience for me and something that keeps my mind sharp, I have to admit that there is another element to my hobby. I want to be a prolific writer, not just because I love it, but because a small part of me wants to have an accomplishment to hang on my wall, to tout before other women at Christmas parties. I’m a freelance writer, and I stay at home with my children…

When I left the workforce, I received grief from other women, as if I had somehow pushed back the advancement of the feminist movement fifty years. Now, when I tell women that I stay home, I wonder if they’re judging me, if they assume I’m unintelligent. I want to convince them that I was successful before and challenge any preconceived notions they may have formed.

Part of my problem is that I’m used to succeeding. I don’t mean that arrogantly, but I’m used to doing well at those things that I try because I’ve always worked hard. But, many days, I don’t feel success in parenting. I’m not the mom whose Facebook status update consistently reads “I love being the momma to three kids!”–but I wish I were.

Perhaps, my insecurities in front of other women stem from my insecurities in parenting. If I parented with patience daily, if I knew every day my children learned some valuable lesson from me, if I didn’t feel like I was somehow harming them with every well-intentioned choice I make, sending them on the path towards needing therapy as adults, then, perhaps, I could say more confidently, I stay at home with my children, and I love my job.

Because, if I’m honest, I find more joy–literal cheers of excitement–in my toddler pooping in the potty than all the awards I ever received in my careers. And to those without children, that idea might sound ridiculous or indicate some lack of intelligence. Sure, I’ll admit that I have lost braincells as a result of moving out of the work force (I am the former English teacher who looked up the difference between ‘passed’ and ‘past’ the other day), but I can’t describe the warmth in my heart that I felt yesterday watching Chloe sit on that potty and the pride I experienced as her squeaky little voice chimed in, “Yay!!”

To be able to watch as my children learn the next step in becoming independent people is a blessing and privilege. So while it may seem unglamorous (and it is unglamorous), potty training is a big deal.

And so is the duty of molding and shaping my children’s hearts, teaching them to put God and others before themselves. Watching as they hung their heads in shame as they stood before their daddy, one quarter of his Valentine’s gift in their hands, the other three quarters in their tummies, was an important moment. They felt remorse on their own, and their apology came from within.

Writing is good for me, and if one day I can take my hobby and make it a career, wonderful. But I don’t want that career to form out of a need for security. I want to find contentment in the lot in life that I have now, not comparing myself to those with careers and those whom I deem better parents.

Because, while God (and my kids and my husband and everyone who reads this blog) knows that I am far from the perfect mother, I try pretty darned hard. And if every day I beat myself up over who I am not, I will miss the joy in who I am:

Their imperfect mother.

Do insecurities ever rob you of your joy in parenting? How do you achieve finding contentment in your particular lot in life?

On a completely different note, can you define ‘forbearance’ without looking it up in the dictionary? If so, give your definition below! Let’s see who are the smart ones in the group! ‘Forbearance’ is our theme for this Friday’s ‘Journeys.’ Click on the Journeys tab for more information.