Feeling Lost

Yesterday, I took my son to the library in the midst of a day full of errands that didn’t get completed on Saturday. While his sisters and, eventually, Daddy napped in the car, we returned a stack of children’s books and made our way to the back of the library to replenish the load we had brought with us.

Caleb had said he would help me pick out some books, but once his eyes caught the empty computers, he zoomed to fill in one of the vacated seats. I hate those computers. Educational games or not, I wish they weren’t there, distracting kids from the purpose of the building. But, wanting to choose my battles wisely, I surrendered to this issue, and began a search on the computer catalog system behind where Caleb sat.

Knowing my past luck, I wrote down the titles and call numbers of about seven Valentine’s Day books that were supposedly located in this library, hoping to walk away with at least one. I stooped down next to Caleb and told him I was going over by the children’s books. He answered me with a non-answer, the zombie, tunnel-vision look that he gets once entranced in an Elmo game had taken hold.

I walked through the open area to the book aisles, directly across from where Caleb was sitting. I looked at my list and quickly alphabetized it in my head, hoping to make fast work of book selection. As I worked my way through Z and W, I realized right away that my luck had not improved, not finding either of the first two books. I popped up from where I was crouching to look at Caleb, still making words on the Elmo game.

I moved on to the next aisle. More scratching off books on the list. I had started to suspect that perhaps I am incompetent on computer searches, or maybe I didn’t know how to alphabetize author’s last names, but I decided, no–the library’s computers are never right. At the end of the aisle, I looked up again at Caleb and continued on with my search.

As I had walked through the aisles, I managed to snag a couple books that looked cute, even though they weren’t on my list. I decided if I didn’t find any of the Valentine’s Day books on my list, I didn’t want to leave the aisles empty-handed. So, as I popped up for the last time, my crouching and searching through books not revealing one of the titles on my list, my eyes immediately zeroed in on the computer table where Caleb was sitting. Except he wasn’t there.

My heart skipped a beat, and a slight panic set in, but I walked toward the computer desk. Surely he was nearby, perhaps in one of the juvenile fiction aisles next to him. As I neared the desk, I noticed him walking away from me slowly, toward the front of the library. And then he turned around, and I saw the tears streaming down his face.

“Caleb!” I called, moving to him. “I’m right here, sweetie. Did you think I left you?”

He nodded, crying. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“I was right over there, looking for books,” I said, pointing to the book aisles. “I would never leave you, sweetie.”

And with my arm around him, I reminded him of what to do if he ever gets lost. I told him to stay put and wait for Mommy or for one of the library workers to walk by. If he walks away, then Mommy won’t know where he is, either.

While we were talking, I felt horrible. I remember getting momentarily separated from my own mother in the grocery store or a department store–I was never lost, but I thought I was–and my heart filled with guilt at causing my own little boy to feel helpless.

I should’ve made him walk the aisles with me. No more playing the computers unless I’m standing right behind him! I was only a few feet away, and I kept checking on him–he wasn’t even lost. But what if he kept walking, and I didn’t see him? What if the wrong person tried to help him?

As I have a tendency to do, I played out the mental boxing match in my brain, getting in a few jabs before I moved on to the next thing. The boxing match continued in the background while Caleb and I searched for a superhero chapter book, as Caleb wasn’t excited with the selections I had made. And he left the library happy, his mother’s arm around his shoulders, a Superman book in his hands.

But I wasn’t. I was dealing with my own feelings of being lost, not knowing what direction I should head next. The weekend ended on such a negative note for me, and I imagine I feel a little like Caleb felt for those few moments in the library–helpless. But as I type, I wonder if, perhaps, I should remember what I told Caleb: sit and wait. Sometimes the act of searching can make one even more lost than when one began. And, sometimes, one wasn’t even lost to begin with.

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Without meaning to, I had picked two fruits of the Spirit for our first two weeks in Journeys. While I deviated from that theme over the last two weeks, I thought that perhaps we could revisit the idea:

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 added

For this week’s journey, we will explore love. Next week, we will pick up with forbearance and move in order until the end. Be ready to share your post on love this Friday!

If you are new to Journeys, click on the tab at the top of the page for more information. I’d love for you to participate!

And if you have a topic that you’d like to submit, feel free to e-mail me anytime: jennifer at matt dash davis dot com

What I’m Leaving Behind

The other day as I was reaching to change from radio to cd in the mini-van, I had a thought that was very strange for me: I need to download some songs for my iPod to listen to in the van. Yes, you read that right; the thought of me putting songs on an iPod, something people regularly do every day and for the last few years, is strange.

Almost immediately after I had that thought, I thought of a post I wrote a while back bemoaning the loss of my handwriting as a result of using the computer. I admitted that I tend to reluctantly accept technology, mostly as a result of my incompetence. But as I thought through the similarities between my not wanting to use an iPod and not wanting to give up my handwriting, I realized there is something else going on that scares me for some reason.

I’m afraid I’ll have nothing to leave behind.

Yes, a morbid thought, I know, but I can’t help but wonder what my grandchildren will learn about me when I’m gone when all they have are computer gadgets as a source.

I love seeing old records and the album covers that go with them. Are they tattered or in pristine condition? Can I guess the kind of music simply from the cover? If anyone were to see my old cd cases, one would notice many with cracks or the door pulled off of them–I didn’t take very good care of my cds. If one were to look at the mess of cds my husband has, one would realize how important music is to him and how neatness is not his virtue. But that person would get a false sense of who we are–those collections stopped years ago as we brought in new technology.

As our collections age, they develop character, and what we own and how we display it tells the story of our character. Yet, I worry that over time, I will have less and less of my story to show.

I have no desire to buy a Kindle or an iPad. I want to hold books in my hand, feel their spines, smell the distinct smell of their pages. And I want to leave behind a massive collection that shows my passions, my curiosities at the world–not an iPad where one would have to look at the Recent list to see what I had last read (or however that works).

I like the idea of photos in albums but reluctantly gave in to the idea of photobooks. My children won’t have the experience of taking out photos and turning them over to see what their mother wrote on the back. Yes, they’ll see what caption I typed, and, now, they’ll actually have some proof of their existence as children since I wasn’t doing too well at printing photos, but they’ll also miss something that only an old photo can bring.

As I stated before, I don’t naturally understand technology–I’ve had to call my husband at work before because I couldn’t figure out how to play a movie for the kids (I never had problems using a VCR, by the way), so I know my fear influences many of my decisions. And I know that I never bought tons of cds in the past, being content to listen to the radio, so having long lists of songs on an iPod doesn’t fit my character, either. Yet, there is still that part of me that wants to hold on to the old ways, afraid of what I’m going to leave behind…

…or not.

Has anyone else ever had thoughts like these, or am I just a weirdo? What things of the past do you bemoan losing to new technology? Does anyone else think it’s time for Matt to take me on a date?–I’m depressing the heck out of myself, lately! 🙂

The Boy in Front of Me

Everyone says that I will miss the time when you were small. And sure, there will be those days when I miss squeezing that bouncing little boy–who wouldn’t? You were so cute and cuddly!

Yet, as I watched you take your bat in hand and walk in front of the row of coaches looking on from the outfield, my heart raced a little in excitement. We have entered a new phase of life. No longer are you my little baby, but you have grown into a little boy who makes me proud.

Perhaps Play-doh and preschool didn’t come as naturally for us, but Tee Ball we can do. We can play catch and practice and cheer from the sidelines. We can eagerly anticipate every game with you and assure you when you’re nervous. We can celebrate with you when you win and remind you to be a good sport when you don’t.

Yes, we can do Tee Ball, and we can do ‘Go Fish.’ We can do ‘Go Fish’ and puzzles and put on little plays. We can practice reading stories and writing our own ones (with illustrations!), too.

People said that I would miss those days when you were a baby, but I don’t know. I’m pretty excited about that big boy who is in front of me now.

Did you have a favorite phase in your child’s life? When was it?

And don’t forget about Journeys this Friday! The topic for the week is forgiveness. Don’t really understand Journeys? Check out the new tab at the top of the page, and tell me what you think!

The Sacrifice I Couldn’t Make

I remember standing on that stage, my fellow officers beside me. And while I can’t remember what was said at that moment, I’ll never forget the well-spring of emotions bubbling inside of me.

Some minutes before, I raised my right hand and promised to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States,” and the smile stretched across my face as I uttered, “So help me God.” The captain commented on how smiley I had gotten at the end, and the audience chuckled. And now standing there in the row, knowing that I had changed the course of my life by taking that vow, I felt a pride that I rarely feel for myself.

I was joining the ranks of those who sacrifice for their country every day. My dresses and skirts were now replaced with a blue uniform, my jeans with camouflage, and the career with discipline at its core was now mine to embrace.

And I was brought back to this moment when she called my name. Something in her voice as she called, “Mommy,” the desperate need for me to hold her, to comfort her as the doctor squeezed her arm.

Standing on that stage together, we all heard the little baby cry, “Mommy!” as she saw clearly her mother on that stage, the woman who was my roommate for the last twelve weeks. And all of the emotion I had suppressed gushed out of my eyes. The three months of stress I harbored as I worked under the watchful eyes of those wanting to catch us in a mistake, the three months of sleeping in my single bed instead of the arms of my husband, the three months of having to earn any freedom I had instead of deciding my own liberties–that three months of tension burst out from me.

I looked out and saw my own mother in the crowd, a veteran before me, and our tear-filled eyes connected. I cried like an idiot because I heard the word, “Mommy” and knew the tears that that mommy had shed; I cried because I couldn’t stop.

And as I held my own daughter yesterday, I remembered that officer who went months without holding hers. I thought of those who have gone years.

Before I joined the military, I knew this career would be a ‘before children’ career. I was willing to sacrifice for my country, even my life, but not them.

I held my daughter close yesterday and, with gratitude, thought of my fellow officer, my former roommate, and the sacrifices she had to make. The sacrifice that I couldn’t.

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.’

The Sacrifice of Convenience

The children ran inside with rosy cheeks and the bottom of their pants dragging with the weight of wet snow. As they began to strip off their wet clothes and run upstairs to find a drier alternative, I turned to the stove.

In a pan, I whisked the cocoa powder, sugar, and salt and then turned on the kitchen faucet and waited for the water to turn hot. I added the water and stirred, watching as the powdery mixture transformed into a thick syrup.

“Is it ready yet?” Caleb asked as he ran down the stairs in his new outfit.

“No, sweetie. It takes time.”

And I watched the chocolate goo in the pan until slow bubbles rose up and popped.

I carefully poured in the milk and stirred amidst the sounds of a football bouncing off the wall and a toy shopping cart rolling throughout the downstairs. I, too, felt myself growing impatient for the warm, chocolate treat, testing the temperature every minute or so.

Finally, the drink was warm, and I turned off the stove and added the final touch of vanilla. As I poured the beverage into our mugs, I noticed how smooth and perfect the liquid flowed, and I gathered everyone to the table.

At the request of the kids, I grabbed some cinnamon sticks for everyone to stir, and then we drank. I slowly sipped, and my body warmed from the chocolate goodness.

I looked around the table, at three faces with newly painted chocolate mustaches, and I smiled at how happy they looked. Why in my life did I ever drink instant hot chocolate? I wondered as I brought more of the treat to my lips. This tastes so much better.

I had had that thought numerous times before. Cinnamon rolls from scratch, homemade bread, salsa, macaroni and cheese–in a quest to avoid unnatural ingredients, I had tried my hand at making many recipes the old-fashioned way rather than popping a can or opening a jar.

And the taste–there was never any comparison.

As I sipped my drink, I wondered what other tastes I had sacrificed in the name of convenience. Sure, the time to make these homemade recipes was at least double the instant or pre-made version, but they were always worth the wait.

A lot of things in my life are worth the wait.

What else had I sacrificed because it just wasn’t convenient?

I sipped from my mug and smiled at the kids who looked like they bathed in their chocolate instead of drinking it, and I thought of the many things in my life that were a true investment of time. I moved the warm cup between my hands, now empty, and felt its testimony–that the best things in life don’t come in an instant.

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Don’t forget to join me on Friday for Journeys! Click here to find out more information, or click on the word ‘Journeys’ in the tag cloud for examples. This Friday’s journey: Faith

Simple

I used to think ‘simple’ and ‘easy’ were synonymous–that test was ‘simple,’ a back-handspring is ‘simple’ for a gymnast–but I realize now that to attain simple, hard is required.

I look at my life filled with gadgets and ‘stuff’ meant to make my life easier, and yet, it’s never been more complicated. On more than one occasion, I’ve felt stranded in my own home. The printer was out of ink, the Microcell meant to give enough signal so that I could make a phone call from my house wasn’t working, the Internet was out, or I had dropped and killed my cell phone for the third time.

I don’t know anyone’s phone number anymore because they’re all stored in my cell, and I rely on the Internet for every bit of information I want to uncover. I need the reminder to flash on my phone so that I know when to take my kids to their doctor appointments, and I feel strange calling on a neighbor for help because most of them work, immediately entering their garages upon arriving at home, insulating themselves from the outside world.

I watch my husband work and am amazed how easily he can e-mail or fax or schedule meetings or set up conference calls all with a phone and laptop, and yet I bemoan the fact that his customers and employers think that they can reach him at any time. Work hours are not confined to the time in a building anymore, and our family has to find a way to set our own boundaries.

Having a simple life is hard, and all the gadgets and gizmos meant to make life easier tend to just complicate it. I now realize that ‘simple’ is synonymous with ‘peace’ and want desperately to find it. I read Little House in the Big Woods and Farmer Boy with the kids, and I was impressed with the hard work they all do day in and day out, but every bit of their work has purpose and meaning, and they have peace.

They aren’t rendered helpless as I when a lightning storm knocks out the Internet, and they aren’t brainstorming ideas for quality family time. Their days aren’t filled with running back and forth to the school or deciding how many extra-curricular activities are too much. They work hard to survive, and at the end of the day, they sleep soundly.

Perhaps getting rid of some of the ‘necessities’ meant to make life easier is the key. Perhaps walking down the road filled with hard is the path to lead me to simple.

This post is linked to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.

Raising the Bar

I’ve always loved literature, reading stories that are completely unlike my life and living vicariously through the characters on the pages, getting the chance to understand why people make the choices they do even though they might not make the choices I’d make. Because of that love for stories that imitate life, even if it’s not my own life that is being imitated, I’ve had a fairly reasonable tolerance for reading or seeing topics on a movie screen that push the envelope. However, last week I was reminded of where I draw my line.

Last week GQ published a photo shoot with three of the stars from the hit show Glee. The young man and women in that photo shoot posed rather suggestively, sexualizing the high schools characters whom they portray. And while I found the pictures distasteful, I reminded myself that this man and these women were grown, not the teenagers that they portray on TV, and that GQ is a magazine for men.

I read some blogs that had posts on this topic and the comments that followed, and I found myself drawing my line, my standard for what is acceptable and what is not. I can’t say that I completely disagreed with those who didn’t find a problem with the photos, or at least with those who had participated in the photo shoot. Where I did find myself in sharp contrast with some of these individuals was in their rationale as to why these photos didn’t bother them.

Over and over again I read that we shouldn’t act so naively–there is nothing suggested in those photos that kids aren’t already doing in high school and that teenagers haven’t been doing for years. And while this point may be true, I had to ask myself whether or not these photos were an example of art imitating life or life imitating art.

No, I do not believe that teenagers who see these photos will be suddenly convinced to have sex, but I do believe that as a society we have lost faith in our children. We have lowered the standard so far that our children are meeting our set expectations.

Rather than accepting the constant bombardment of sexualized messages on TV, in the clothing choices for our children, through advertisements, and elsewhere, we can tell our children a different message. Even if we didn’t follow through with our own advice as a teenager, we can speak from experience. Isn’t that what being a parent is about, guiding our children and helping them avoid the mistakes we made?

We can tell our children that they should treasure their bodies, that they are not merely sexual creatures who operate solely on instinct. They were given emotions and a moral compass to guide them, and they shouldn’t discount those parts of their beings. We can tell our children, even if we didn’t practice sexual purity, that they can, they are able, and we have confidence in them. We believe that they are above the images thrown at them daily and that they will be the generation who says, “Enough. We’re tired of how society and the media treat sex as something that doesn’t matter.”

I remember a couple of years ago, I picked up a TIME magazine off the table in the doctor’s office. I was intrigued by an article on purity balls and the debate surrounding them having not been all that familiar with the concept. While there were a plethora of critiques against these father/daughter dances where daughters pledge to guard their virginity until they marry, the author of the article asked one question that has remained with me for the last two years: “Parents won’t necessarily say this out loud, but isn’t it better to set the bar high and miss than not even try?” (Gibbs, 17 July 2008).

Raising the bar isn’t about denying our children information regarding sex or pressuring them to keep a standard that we have set for them. Instead, it’s about giving our children value, showing them that even if the world doesn’t value their whole person, we do, and they don’t have to fit the pattern of the world. Raising the bar is about fighting for their purity and not accepting a decline in morals in our society simply because ‘everybody does it.’

We owe it to our children to have a better answer for why sex is everywhere in our society, why sex sells. Rather than blaming them, we should admit that we didn’t fight against it. But they can with their decisions. We’re raising the bar for them, and if they don’t reach it, we will still love them. But if they do reach the bar, or if they come closer, waiting to have sex a little longer than if perhaps we never set that standard, think how their life could be different!

Our children wouldn’t have to live with regret or the emotional scars that come with many of those early sexual experiences. They wouldn’t lament what they had lost, but instead, they could treasure what they had gained–self-respect.

Raising the bar for our children might not change the world–cheap, sexual images may continue to bombard us–but it might change one life. I’d rather raise the bar and my children fail than insult the capable people that they are by setting the standard too low. They are worth the high expectations, as are all children. Let’s set the bar high, and give them the opportunity to surprise us.

The TIME article I read was actually a print version, but the following link can take you to the on-line article for Gibbs, Nancy. “The Pursuit of Teen Girl Purity.” TIME. 17 July 2008.

I’d Never Do That

I remember sitting with my parents at their friend’s home, listening while this friend recounted an incident with his daughter. The Georgia heat was finally giving way to cooler breezes, and parents were trading shorts and t-shirts for jeans and light jackets for their children. However, this parent related the story of how his daughter, maybe eight or nine years old at the time, pitched a fit that she wanted to wear shorts to school. So he let her. “When she comes home freezing from school, she’ll realize that it’s too cold for shorts and wear pants tomorrow,” he explained.

He then went on to share the difference between his wife and himself. She would leave the house frazzled and frustrated as she tried to slide tights up the wiggling thighs of a two-year-old and deal with the strong will of the older daughter. “Who cares if they leave the house and don’t match? It’s not worth it!” he declared.

And I found my college-aged self feeling sorry for his wife. The judgment storm was swirling around in my mind as I thought of this mom trying to dress her children nicely while their dad chose to let them win. He’s the parent; if he says it’s too cold for shorts, shouldn’t that be the end of the it? Couldn’t his daughter get sick if he let her wear shorts to school and it really was cold outside? What’s wrong with a mom wanting to put her girls in pretty dresses?

And while I thought through this father’s logic, I didn’t feel comfortable with his parenting technique. When I became a mother someday, my children would learn to obey and do as I said simply because I said it. They wouldn’t be allowed to wear shorts if the weather were chilly–I would be the parent, not them! I’d never let them leave the house wearing an outfit that wasn’t appropriate for the weather.

It’s about ten years later. I now have three children. This past Sunday, the temperature reached 87 degrees, and I allowed my daughter to wear this outfit to church.

At least she ditched the tie-up black boots that she originally wanted to wear.

My daughter went to church, and she didn’t match. It was 87 degrees, and after church, she took off the sweater. I’m still her mother, and my daughter knows that she has to obey; I just choose to pick different battles.

It’s amazing how much we know about parenting before we become a parent, isn’t it? It’s equally amazing how much we know about parenting everyone else’s kids, too. The fact of the matter is that each child is different, and part of being a parent is figuring out which techniques work best for your individual children and which battles to enter.

The sweater battle wasn’t worth it. Even if I had to eat my words from ten years ago, I wasn’t going to go to church frustrated over a mismatched outfit. And I’ll never again judge another parent for letting his or her child wear shorts in the winter–I’d never do that.

What is something you’ve done as a parent that you said you’d never do?

The Pen to the Paper

Sometimes I don’t write for a couple of days, and I really want to. Children waking up an hour earlier than normal, an alarm clock malfunctioning, someone coming to the door as I sit down–life is full of distractions. Other times, though, I want to write about an idea, but the post won’t gel in my mind. I have this instinctive feeling that I shouldn’t write yet, even though I want to get my ideas down.

Some ideas are better recorded in my own personal journal, but sometimes I even feel a pull from recording my ideas there. The last couple of days I have felt this tension.

For two nights I have gone to bed under a fog of depression and feelings of inadequacy. Those previous days I was having difficulty parenting, not with issues like keeping my kids from peeing on the floor or from sticking their hands in the sugar jar, but with issues that were a little bigger. I was comparing myself to people that I don’t even know. Yes, I did compare myself to Almanzo’s parents in Farmer Boy. Don’t tell me that you’ve never done that!

Their children never questioned them, wouldn’t dare think of it. Of course, they also didn’t allow their children to speak unless spoken to, and Almanzo knew that if he defied his parents he would get a beating out in the barn. Matt and I have not created the same environment as the Wilder family, so I don’t know that it was fair to compare myself to them.

Yet I did because if there is one job at which I do not want to fail, it is parenting. As a teacher, I saw the results of failed parenting. I want to raise children who love God, who are productive members of society, who are respectful to others, who write thank-you notes…

…and I felt God say that I will fail because I’m not perfect. And they will fail because they will never achieve perfection, no matter how excellent I parent. Those words should have felt freeing to my spirit, but they didn’t.

I was too caught up in my feelings of fear, and I wanted to write down everything that I feared, but I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings.

So last night as I was trying to form the words in my mind, I felt God whisper again. Two days after my initial feelings of depression, the situation looked a little different, not quite as bleak. And two days later, because I didn’t have those feelings recorded down, they had no permanence; they were fleeting.

Because sometimes parenting takes faith–faith that the effort I put in now will not be in vein. Sometimes marriage takes faith–faith that feelings that come and go will never take the place of the foundation of love that is there. Sometimes facing every new day takes faith–faith that the strength needed to overcome any obstacle or challenge will not fail. The prayers I utter every night do not fall on deaf ears, and I will see those good desires come to fruition, for “he who began a good work in [me, my children, my husband, and] you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

I am prone to worry, but sometimes, I have to let my worries go. Sometimes I have to trust that God loves my family more than I do, and if I want the best for them, He does all the more. Sometimes I have to wait a couple of days before taking my pen to the paper, giving truth and permanence to feelings that will fade with the next sunrise.

And sometimes so do you. Give your children two more days. Give your marriage two more days. Give your circumstances two more days, for we should never write our future before God is finished with the present.

*words in bracket and emphasis added to Scripture reference are my own.