The Cost of $20

When I got strep throat, I began to fear my $25 copay multiplying if the kids got sick, too. And that was the extent of my worry. Last Friday I wanted to post another “Focus on it Friday” saying how thankful I was for the quality healthcare that my family can receive, but really my thanks goes beyond that.

When someone in my family gets sick, my mind rarely goes past getting a doctor’s appointment and the necessary medicine, but for moms around the world, sickness carries more terrifying consequences. According to a UNICEF press release, 24,000 children under the age of five die every single day from mostly preventable causes. I can’t even wrap my mind around that number.

Frankly, the number is too big, and sometimes big numbers have little effect on me. Then I read a post the other day by Billy Coffey with a smaller number: 20. For $20, I could give one person clean water for 20 years through the organization charitywater.org. Until recently, I had not really understood that there were people who lived in areas where clean water simply was not available and, as a result, were dying. My church began a project to build wells in Mozambique, and for the first time, my mind allowed this need around the world to enter in. But when I read this post, again, I was floored.

I don’t throw money around. I take my family’s budget seriously, and I rarely buy anything on a whim. Matt and I are trying to act responsibly, so $20 is not an amount of money that I would take for granted. Yet, even on a tight budget, I know that $20 is not a lot of money, especially when someone’s life is at stake.

I wrote in a previous post that my mind was in overdrive, that I felt God really working on my heart, and truthfully, I feel a little confused right now. So many ideas are rolling around in my head, and I don’t know where to start, and on some things, I don’t even know what to think. But I do know that God has taken my heart and is showing me the tragedies that break His.

This week a group of bloggers traveled to Guatemala with one of my favorite organizations, Compassion International. They will visit the child development programs set up by Compassion and share about the children whom they meet, children who live in poverty that we cannot imagine. Yet through the good works of Compassion and sponsorship, these children will receive medical care, basic needs, an education–things I take for granted. One of these precious children can be sponsored for $38 a month.

I went to Target today, and I spent a little over $20 on socks for the kids and a file box in an attempt at organizing the influx of artwork that comes in now that preschool has started. My kids genuinely needed new socks as their little feet have grown bigger, yet as I handed over the $20, I thought about a child without water, a much greater need. And as I took a shower tonight and felt the warm water roll off my body, I watched as the drops I wasted ran down the drain. As much as I want to, I can’t fathom a need this great.

My goal is not to cause myself massive guilt every time I make a purchase; however, I think feeling a little uncomfortable now and then is probably a good thing. It’s a good thing to evaluate how I’m spending my 20’s–how many children could I sponsor or individuals could I give clean water for the cost of the cable TV, iphone, or restaurant meals I purchase? After all, when I die I can’t take any of my earthly treasures with me to heaven for eternity, so shouldn’t I want to relieve a child who is living a hell on earth now?

While I don’t believe that God has called Christians to live a life of poverty for the sake of others, I know He would have us think about the money that we have and how we are using it. If you are like me, you might feel overwhelmed with the different problems in this world and not know where to begin. Perhaps, you are already giving to an organization that you love. Maybe you’d love to give but can only give to one cause at a time and need to wait until next month. I’m not asking you to give. I’m asking you to think.

I’m sharing my journey as I think about these issues and opportunities, deciding where to act in the hopes that some of you will take this journey with me. We can’t all give to everything, but some of us can give to some things. Perhaps some of us can find $20 to provide clean water for one person. Maybe others will want to sponsor and build a relationship with a child living in poverty. We all have different journeys, and we can’t change the whole world alone. But we can all think. And maybe today some of us will decide to change the life of one.

Please visit my sidebar, and visit the different links for my favorite posts on the web. Each of the links featured show a different way you can help change the life of an individual in need.

Four Hours to Clarity

Sometimes a girl has to drive four hours away to gain clarity about the realities under her nose….

As we sat every night sipping hot tea with honey and nibbling delicate cookies, our conversation fell right in step with where it had left off a year or so ago. I found comfort in my friend’s presence, in her home that I had never seen. I found comfort when I discovered she had three places in her kitchen reserved for chocolate–a section in the refrigerator, a corner of the pantry, and a space in one of the cabinets–and that the young teenaged girl who always supplied the treats for our weekend spend-the-night parties had not changed when she grew up.

And as we talked and reminisced about high school and friends whose paths we had not crossed in years, amidst the medicine cups and tubes that served as a reminder for my visit, I realized that I had my true friend for whom I was yearning. She just lived four hours away.

As I played with her little boy, I saw my son and my daughters in his face. In his laugh that filled his body with delight, and in his moments of defiance, I saw that while each child is a unique gift from God, each is also the same. I found comfort as a mother in these moments of watching him. I found comfort when I observed my friend hug her son tenderly and patiently guide him down the path of obedience, this young teenaged girl now grown up with her own child.

And as I watched and observed I realized things that I needed to do differently with my own children and things that could stay the same. I could see them and their little hearts clearly now that I was four hours away.

I hugged my friend tightly with bitter-sweet emotion the night before I left, not wanting to leave behind our chats over tea, but anxious to embrace three little people and their daddy. I loaded the car the next morning and began my drive down the interstate–four hours down a stretch of highway that looked a little clearer on the journey home.

Why I’ll Still Call Myself a Christian

Last week Anne Rice, the best-selling author of Interview with the Vampire and the subsequent sequels part of The Vampire Chronicles, stirred up some controversy among the Christian community when she posted to her Facebook status that she was quitting Christianity. Rice had previously been an atheist and later became a Christian, joining the Catholic church. In her recent decision, Rice states that she is still a follower of Jesus but refuses to be part of a community that is “anti-gay” and “anti-feminist,” among other reasons.

Many came out in support of Rice’s decision asserting that following Jesus and being a part of the Church are not the same thing. Some wrote blogs stating they made the same decision years ago. The comments sections of articles and blogs relating to Anne Rice were filled with discussions over the Church and Christianity.

I can understand Rice’s sentiment. Many times, I have felt embarrassed by the actions of those claiming the religion of which I am a part. I’ve watched different groups spewing out hate in the name of Christ, or others watering down His teachings until they were meaningless, and I’ve wondered how it was possible for us to be following the same Teacher. Yet, I will not leave this group.

On all sides of my family, I have watched as family members have made poor choices. Some of their choices have embarrassed me, and they served as a poor reflection of the family name. Despite their choices, however, they are still part of my family. I can legally change my name, but the fact still remains–we share the same blood. There is no denying that we share a common bond. And because of that family bond, I cannot help but care for and pray for the redemption of those family members, no matter how much I despise their actions.

As a Christian, I belong to another family, and whether or not I agree with the actions of every member, I cannot divorce myself from it: “Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others” (Romans 12: 4-5). And when I became a Christian, I didn’t join because of the actions of the Church; I joined because of the actions of Christ. He is the only one blameless, and because of His grace I can be forgiven. Likewise, because of His grace, I can also forgive, even those within this same body.

While the debates rolled on over Rice’s decision, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps her eyes were on the wrong people. Yes, there are definitely those who have embarrassed the name of Christ, and here’s the kicker–I am one of those who has brought embarrassment to His name on a daily basis. Any time I lose my patience with my children and utter an unkind word, when I don’t love my husband unconditionally but rather base my actions on my feelings for the day, when I choose comfort over conviction, I have tarnished the name of Christ. And because I know the depravity of my own soul, I cannot cast blame on others for the poor standing of Christianity in the world.

Instead, I choose to look to better examples, and I don’t have to look far. I see members of my own church heading to Mozambique to build wells and bring clean water to communities who have only known filth. I see those among the Christian community fighting to bring awareness and an end to sex trafficking within our own country. And across the globe, I see those dying to be part of the name that Anne Rice has cast off. When I look to these examples, I can only feel gratitude to a God who lets me be part of such a community, of which I am the least.

The Christian community is full of problems, but thanks to Jesus, it’s also full of grace. And amidst of all the problems, the Church is full of members whose eyes are locked on Christ’s, whose hearts are tuned in to His purpose and are doing good around the world. Rather than form my own island, I choose to look to the Teacher and the examples of those living right and hope that my actions will bring glory to His name. I choose to accept His grace and extend it to others because it is united as one body that we can do the most good for this world.

Yes, I will still call myself a Christian. I see the good and the potential for good that we are doing, and I want to be a part of this group. I see that while I can certainly believe and pray to Jesus by myself, Jesus never intended for me to walk this journey alone but with other believers. Yes, I will still call myself a Christian–I’m proud to.

Nothing Wasted

Last night as my birthday date came to a close, I lay in bed thinking about the last 31 years. I was overwhelmed by the goodness of God. I compiled a mental list of all my blessings, a list I have chosen to keep between God and me, and I realized what a full 31 years I have had. God has given me so much, so many good things, and in His kindness, He has used the ‘bad’ parts of my life to grow me and teach me, as well. He doesn’t waste any moments.

Unfortunately, I have a tendency to compare. Sometimes I like to peek at your list and question why God hasn’t blessed me with item #53 as well. God then has to walk down the aisle, tap on my desk with His hand, and firmly instruct me to keep my eyes on my own paper. He knows best. You see, we’re not taking the same test; your list won’t help me. And it is then that I have to rely on faith, faith to remind me that the items God hasn’t put on my list don’t need to be there, and those items that I don’t want to write on my list do. He doesn’t waste.

I have no idea what the future holds for me. God could grant me another 31 years, or God could call me home today. But no matter the length of time on earth, I want to always say, “There were no wasted moments.” And truthfully, having that attitude can be challenging for me. But it’s important to try because it’s true.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future”‘ (Jeremiah 29:11).

For this ‘Focus on it Friday,’ I am so thankful for all of the wonderful blessings God has given me over the last 31 years, and I am thankful for those trials that I normally wouldn’t see as a blessing. Thank you, Lord, for using those difficult moments to bless me, as well!

My challenge to you for this Friday is to compile your own list while keeping your eyes on your own paper. What blessings has the Lord given you? And just an important, what trials has He allowed to come your way? How has He shown you that He will not waste those moments?

More Beautiful With Age

It’s all downhill from here. At least that’s what a new study from QVC initially had me think. The study finds that women are most attractive at age 31, and since that big day is here for me, I best enjoy the year.

I can agree with part of the survey–at 31 I’m happiest with how I look than ever before. I’ve come a long way since last year when, instead of approaching 30 with assurance, I admitted how unattractive I felt, and in all honesty, unhappy. It’s amazing how hormones can warp a mind! But this year, I view myself differently, with more confidence and contentment. I am pleased with the progress I’ve made physically, but there is more to beauty than mere physical appearance. As I read over my post from last year after just having a new baby, I thought to myself, “How could I not find myself beautiful then?” There is nothing more beautiful than a mother holding a new baby.

And while I feel at my most beautiful now, I have no plans to peak at 31. I can’t put my stock in QVC’s survey; I know for a fact that a woman’s attractiveness only grows as she ages.

I look at my mother, a woman who gives of herself over and over, who takes to heart the example of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, and I am overwhelmed by such beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who spent the whole evening helping her daughter care for three children while her husband was gone, a woman who found the energy in spite of sheer exhaustion to laugh at a little two-year-old who scurried downstairs at 10:30 p.m. wearing two shirts, three dresses, and a pair of pants, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

I look at my mother-in-law, a woman who insists on gathering her family to her whenever she can, who strives to keep us all close to her heart, and through her love I see true beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who laughs and takes delight in the chaos of trying to snap one good picture with the grandchildren, a woman who knows that family is the greatest blessing God gives us, even while the rest of us (or just me) grow impatient inside, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

I look at Dot, a woman who exemplifies humility and grace through the unassuming way she serves her whole community, a woman who never draws attention to herself, and I doubt if I could ever attain such beauty. When I look at the face of a woman who has supported me throughout the years with her presence or words of affirmation, a woman who has shown me how to treat others kindly and sincerely, I know that women get more beautiful with age.

And when my husband looks back at a picture of me from our wedding day, I hope he can think, “I thought this day was when Jennifer was her most beautiful…

…but I was wrong. She only got more beautiful with age.”

On Any Given Day

I lay on her bed, frustrated at the events of the day. Sundays were supposed to be our day, our day for church, family, and relaxation. Instead, everything was in a constant state of frenzy from the moment we woke up until right then, as I was trying to get my daughter to go to sleep. The kids were horrible on this particular day, and try as I might, I couldn’t get them to cooperate. My nerves were on edge, and Matt and I were at each other’s throat.

“Hannah Grace, stop talking,” I reprimanded her. And I began my normal habit of introspection when the kids didn’t behave. Why had I failed at parenting again?

I closed my eyes, hoping that if I looked like I was asleep, Hannah Grace would copy me. The sky didn’t reflect the time of evening that it was, and light began to stream in through the cracks in the blinds. The thunder rumbled a low groan.

“I don’t like thunder,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“We need to go somewhere.”

“There’s nowhere to go, Hannah Grace.”

“I want to go to the mall.”

“You’re not going to the mall.”

The pitter-patter of rain began, while the sky remained light.

“I like the rain,” she said.

“I do, too,” and I silently thanked God for the rain I was craving all afternoon, the rain that kept teasing me but never came.

I kissed Hannah Grace as I warned her to stay in her bed, and I moved to the hallway. I watched the rain through the big window above the front door.

Hannah Grace began crying again, and Matt moved from Caleb’s room, where our son was now sleeping, to our daughter’s.

As the rain washed the dust and the heat down the street, my insecurities began to roll off of me in the big raindrops.

I thought about the play dates where a friend’s child blatantly defied her or another’s threw a tantrum. I thought about the mother who made a threat and didn’t follow through, yet had a well-behaved kid. I thought about the child who wouldn’t venture away from his mother’s side, afraid to make new friends, safe from getting in trouble. I thought about my child who was never content at my side and found a new friend wherever he went.

And I thought to myself they’re all different. It’s not all about me.

I thought how I must have been easy to raise. Afraid to get in trouble, I never did. I never got detention, but I never took risks. I thought about my sister. She was harder. She was the toddler who couldn’t control her curiosity. I identified one of my own children with her personality.

I thought about how I parented, how the good I did outweighed the bad. And I thought about my children, how they are good children. They’re just children.

The heavens opened and released the last bit of rain it had been saving. I watched the downpour and let out a cleansing sigh. And then the pitter-patter resumed amidst a greenish sky until the drops faded away to nothing.

Matt appeared at Hannah Grace’s door and moved into the hallway. He reached out a hand and pulled me up off of the floor. We gave each other the knowing look that spoke thank goodness that’s over, and we hugged.

Sometimes we have bad days, too, and we’re the adults. But we’ll be okay, and so will they.

A Lesson from Galarraga

I don’t watch a lot of baseball on TV. I love the sport, but I don’t want to devote three hours to anything, not with the mound of chores I always have to do. If I do watch baseball, I’ll watch an Atlanta Braves game, so the fact that I caught the ninth inning of the Detroit Tigers versus the Cleveland Indians is completely by chance. And I’m glad for my husband’s unusual change of the channel.

It was the ninth inning when we tuned in, and Armando Galarraga was pitching a perfect game. He had retired 24 batters in a row, no walks, or errors committed. We watched as the center-fielder made an amazing running catch to keep Galarraga’s once-in-a-lifetime dream alive. Out one. The next batter up swings and is thrown out at first. Out two. It was now time for Galarraga to make history–only 20 other men have ever thrown a perfect game in the Major Leagues.

It was a hard hit, and the first baseman ran to retrieve the ball. Galarraga ran to cover first base, arriving in time to make the catch. He stuck out his glove, extended his foot out to touch the bag, and he and his teammate turned excitedly toward the first base umpire to see the call: SAFE! The umpire extended both arms out to the side making the signal that forever changed the way this game would be remembered in history.

The replay was clear; the runner, in fact, was not safe. He was clearly out. It really wasn’t even a close call, but baseball doesn’t use instant replay, so it was the final call.

As I watched this play unfold, I literally felt my stomach turn queasy. I may not have any experience as a baseball player, but I know how rare a perfect game is. A no-hitter is an amazing accomplishment for a pitcher, but a perfect game–that’s more like a dream.

But what amazed me most wasn’t the bad call and horrible ending to this game. No, it was the events that happened since that call was made.

Armando Galarraga, after getting this call that blew his chance in history, didn’t yell. He didn’t throw his glove. He simply smiled at the ump. Yes, it was a smile that said, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” but it was a smile nonetheless. He then walked backed to the pitcher’s mound and faced his 28th batter. He got the out and won the game for the Tigers.

As he walked off the mound to the dugout, he was greeted by the catcher who hugged him. Galarraga was clearly disappointed. The rest of his teammates came to congratulate him and offer sympathy at the same time–Galarraga earned a perfect game, but it was taken from him. And then his coach and teammates went for the umpire.

I can’t imagine what it felt like to be Jim Joyce, that infamous umpire, booed by the crowd, surrounded by hostile teammates defending their pitcher, but it was clear he wanted to get out there. But, apparently, he didn’t get out of there and go home. After seeing the replay for himself, he sought out Galarraga and apologized. In the interview I saw last night on the MLB Network, Galarraga said the umpire came to him and said he was sorry with tears in his eyes, still in his sweaty clothes. Joyce knew he made a bad call that ended Galarraga’s perfect game.

And Galarraga hugged him. He hugged him. He said in his interview that Joyce was only human; mistakes happen. In fact, I heard that phrase many times that night. The coach, catcher, and center-fielder all said the same thing: Joyce was a good umpire. He made a bad call, but he was human. That’s baseball.

Galarraga smiled and joked with the reporters. Yes, he was disappointed, but he would show his son someday that he pitched a perfect game. It might not be in the record books, but he knew he did it.

After the game was over, the interviews finished, and the clock screaming that I really needed to get off the couch and clean up the kitchen, I continued to sit. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had witnessed and heard. I wanted to process what I had just learned.

Finish What You Start

Galarraga could have stormed off the field after the bad call, and while it would’ve been unprofessional, no one would’ve blamed him. He could’ve lost his composure and given up a hit with that 28th batter. Instead, he made the out and secured the win for his team.

Live in Such a Way that Others Will Fight for You

After viewing that final inning and the events afterwards, it was clear to me that those teammates surrounding Joyce weren’t just protesting a bad call. They were fighting for a good man, a man who deserved a perfect game.

Have the Guts to Admit When You’re Wrong

If I were Joyce, I would’ve run away and hid. Instead, he confronted this pitcher face-to-face, not in an e-mail or over the phone, but to his face, and in the same night he made the mistake.

Freely Forgive, and Keep Moving

Galarraga and his teammates all agreed; Joyce was a good umpire who made a bad call. They felt sorry for him–Galarraga suggested that Joyce might feel worse about the ending of the game than he did. After the fury of emotions immediately following the game died down, these players could acknowledge that the ump simply made a mistake, and they moved on.

Always Choose the Higher Road

Even after a night’s sleep, I’m still in awe of Armando Galarraga. What a class act. It’s not too often in this sports world that we get to witness men and women with true character, men and women who don’t barrage an official with profanity and insults after a call doesn’t go their way, men and women who keep their composure during and after the game. But Galarraga did, and he earned my respect.

When I want to teach my children about character, I hope to share this story with them someday. Life isn’t fair, and sometimes we don’t get what we deserve when we’ve done well, but there is a respectable way to act. And if we’ve lived a respectable life, we won’t have to fight when we’ve been slighted–others will fight for us. And the one lesson that hit me the hardest is that we shouldn’t care about getting recognition from others–Galarraga said he knew he threw a perfect game whether or not history acknowledged him–all that should matter is what we know to be true about ourselves. This lesson is one I have yet to master.

Before last night, I had no idea who Armando Galarraga was, and I wouldn’t have cared. Now, I am so glad that Matt changed the channel, because what Galarraga did changed me.

Wax and Wean

When she was brand new, her little hand would hug my pinky as our tummies touched. As she grew, she let go of my finger to slide her hand on my side, a hand that was always cold and would cause me to catch my breath and arch my back for a brief second. I would then relax and watched as she was soothed to sleep.

In the early months of her life, we would drift to sleep together. I’d catch myself, jerk awake at the pain in my neck from sleeping upright, to see she had unlatched and was sound asleep. Now, she stays awake and yells, “No!” when I begin to sing, my indication that bedtime has commenced.

For months, I have threatened my husband with plans for my weekend alone: “I’m leaving as soon as Chloe turns one!” Once one, I could begin to wean her.

One happened a week ago, and I have found myself ambivalent. How I want my freedom, yet, how I don’t want to stop breastfeeding my baby.

People say that breastfeeding produces a bond between mother and child unlike anything else. I’m not going to make the experience out to be something more than it was. There were definitely times when I felt an amazing warmth and closeness toward my baby; I can still remember the first time all of my babies successfully latched on to me. The apprehensive moments before, wondering if we would succeed, and then–he did it! She did it! She did it! We’re nursing! I knew I was blessed.

However, I know a mom can feel an amazing bond when feeding her baby with a bottle, too. To hold one’s baby and watch as she drinks, gulping down the milk that will produce those endearing dimples in her squishy thighs–how could one not fall in love?!

The magic of breastfeeding for me, though, was knowing that God had equipped me with everything my baby needed; she became chubby solely off of what my body produced, and she depended on me alone to nourish her in that way.

And so that magic day has passed, and I sit.

For five days I didn’t even make a game plan as I had with the other two babies–until two days ago. I was watching a friend’s two-year-old, in addition to my two-year-old, and the mid-morning nursing session would have been a little complicated. So we didn’t do it. Chloe was fine; she was distracted by all the fun of a new friend, but my heart ached a little.

Then, yesterday, we skipped that meal again. Caleb and Hannah Grace had their last-day-of-preschool picnic during the time I would normally nurse, so we didn’t.

And I look at the clock now and know that in a few minutes Chloe will wake up from her nap, and I don’t have any distractions for her today. She will want to nurse, and I will want to give in. Or maybe she won’t want to nurse, and that fact might bother me more.

Motherhood can be crazy–we long for our babies to crawl and walk and talk, loving the excitement each new age and stage brings, yet when they’re four, a small part of us wishes that they were still that chubby bundle of giggles that didn’t mind if we squeezed them and rocked them in our arms until they fell asleep on our chests.

I could postpone weaning–there’s no rule that says I must stop today–but how I look forward to no more days of children drinking ketchup and maple syrup out of the refrigerator while Chloe is drinking something a little more nutritious. I look forward to scheduling appointments based on the day that I’m available, not when a baby needs to eat. I look forward to a small taste of freedom.

And I feel so selfish admitting that fact, but I know I shouldn’t. For almost five years I have been pregnant or nursing; I only stopped nursing the other two when fitting them on my lap with a competing baby bump became uncomfortable. My body is ready to rediscover normal.

But to my heart, what I’ve done for the last four years is normal, and my heart knows that I might not experience this normal again.

So as I sit and tear up a little thinking about my baby growing up and how she might be my last to nurse, I also say a silent prayer to God, thanking Him for this experience. I’ve been blessed with three children who easily nursed and shared in this beautiful bond with me, but more importantly, I’ve been blessed with three beautiful children.

Sweaters and Rabbits

Today was a beautiful spring day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless, and the temperature was perfect. The kids had their good and bad moments today, but the time we spent outside playing baseball while admiring the flowers and little buds appearing in our vegetable garden helped those bad moments to fade…

…until bedtime. As the day came to a close, my level of fatigue rose, and my patience level dropped dramatically. Knowing that Matt wouldn’t be home to help with the bedtime routine made the day seem that much longer, added to the fact that the kids seem to unravel after 5:00 p.m. No one was listening, and I was tired of going up and down the stairs, corralling the kids back into their rooms. How I miss the safety gates that were screwed into the walls prior to putting the house on the market!

I felt helpless as I was nursing Chloe in her room, trying to settle her into bed. I knew every minute I spent in her room was one more minute that a sly child could sneak downstairs for Easter candy. There was one of me, and three of them–what could I do?

As I prayed with Caleb and Hannah Grace in their respective rooms tonight, I felt burdened and fought back tears. Why couldn’t I make my children obey? Why did I struggle–even my ‘fun’ clean-up games failed–repeatedly when others seemed to triumph?

Caleb finally calmed down and was reading on the floor in his room, so I propped myself against the wall across from Hannah Grace’s room. I knew she would try to escape many times. As she took a nap this afternoon, I didn’t expect her to actually fall asleep before 10:00. True to form, she made her appearance in the hallway a half-dozen times or so, and I, as patiently as I could, redirected her to bed.

The last few times she came out of her room, she requested that I go rest in my own bedroom. I assured her I would as soon as she stayed in her room. That answer did not satisfy her.

A few minutes later, this little two-year-old appeared in the door frame with a heavy, crocheted sweater buttoned up to her neck, her strawberry-blonde hair falling in her face.

“Mommy, you make my feelings,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I had no idea what she meant. Many times she had told me that I hurt her feelings, typically when she was in trouble, but she had never said this particular phrase before.

“Hannah Grace, I don’t know what that means,” I answered.

With a straight face, and without missing a beat, she replied, “I don’t like rabbits. Because you make my feelings; that’s why you need to go in your room.”

I immediately started to giggle. What in the world was she saying?! And at that moment, I realized she didn’t have a clue. Her brother and she were little and probably had as much an idea of why they did the things they did as I.

In that moment, through her cryptic message, I had a moment of clarity. The good of the day, the accomplishment of beds (finally) being made by all, sweet moments when the kids all played nicely together, baseball outside in the warm sun, was still there. And tomorrow would be another day full of more good, and probably a little bad, too, because, after all, there are three of them and one of me.

I pulled Hannah Grace to me, and we snuggled together down on the floor in the hallway. And as we lay quiet, together we drifted off to sleep.

Enjoying the New Carpet

4 spit-up spots

3 pee-pee accidents

2 poop stains

1 pink silver polish incident

10 reasons why we should not have gotten new carpet!

Of course, Matt and I knew what we were getting into, and in fact, always said that we would NOT get new carpet until all of our children were housebroken. However, when we decided to put our house on the market during this terrible housing crisis, we knew our only chance to sell without giving our house away would require our house to look as close to perfect as possible.

And our old carpet was anything but close to perfect. We can’t take sole responsibility for it’s condition–the carpet was original to the home, and the home is 13 years old. I will say that we did more than our fair share to speed up it’s deterioration in the last three-and-a-half years that we have lived here!

When I was scrubbing out the pink stain from the silver polish that my two-year-old so lovingly spread onto the carpet (this polish only appeared after getting the new carpet, of course), I began to cry. That evening, I had a nightmare that I was having a party with a group of women that I didn’t know, and someone spilled salsa on the new carpet. One of the ladies curtly spoke, “We couldn’t get the stain out.” A huge pinkish red circle tarnished the beautiful carpet. A few nights later, I had another bad dream, and one more involving marker all over the walls and furniture followed.

So a couple days ago, when I was cleaning spit-up out of the carpet, I thought to myself, “I wish I had my nasty carpet back. This stress is not worth it! This house better sell fast!”

A few minutes later, there was no evidence of the spit-up, just as the previous poop, pee, and silver polish stains vanished before it, and I scolded myself. How could I even think that I wanted my old carpet back? It was disgusting, and I had always looked forward to the day when my children would choose the commode over the carpet to relieve themselves so that we could live in a house that didn’t look yucky.

I realized that I did a lot of looking forward and not enough looking around.

When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to get out of college and get a job. Then I couldn’t wait to get married. Once married, I would wonder how life would change with children. When I had my two-year-old, I looked forward to retirement, and then when he hit three, I changed my mind and looked forward to him starting school so I could have a little break during the day. Then his sister turned two, and his other sister was born, and I looked forward to Matt’s retirement again. How fun to enjoy marriage without kids and travel the world!

Right now I look forward to moving to Alpharetta and lessening Matt’s commute so that we can enjoy more time as a family. A husband home earlier in the evenings to help with the children means a wife with fewer gray hairs! And, of course, to make all of this happen, I have to keep the carpet spotless!

Except I don’t know that we’re moving to Alpharetta. God never promised me that everything I plan will happen as I hope. In fact, He hasn’t promised me tomorrow: “Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (James 4:13-14).

If it is God’s will, we will move to Alpharetta, but if it’s not, we better figure out fast how to make more family time with the time we have. I better smother my two-year-old every day with hugs and kisses because when she’s 22, I might not see very much of her when she starts her first career. I better find a way to treasure the stains on the carpet because they are a reminder that I’m blessed with healthy, rambunctious little children.

I better enjoy my new carpet. If we don’t move, I know very well that the carpet won’t look this pretty in a year, and it will be a looooong time before we buy any more. And I better not lose any more sleep over it; there are far more important things in life than stainless floor coverings.