A Goodnight Story

For us, it's late.  We are not night owls by nature.  Josh gets up at four in the morning for work.  I get up in the night with a nursing baby. So sleep is all we want come nine o'clock.  And yet we seem to have a few children born to stay up late.

They seem to have a lot to say when all I want to say is "Goodnight, I love you" and turn the light off.

They have stories to tell, ideas to share, questions to ask.  Requests for water or the blanket left downstairs.  Sometimes I feel so bone-weary I just want to cry.  Sometimes I just want a few precious moments to myself and I don't think I can take any more talking, any more needing me.

There are nights like tonight when I get the baby to sleep, nursing as I watch an episode of Reading Rainbow with the older kids.  The oldest goes to bed with a request to turn his light off.  Brown-Eyed Girl goes to bed surprisingly easy.  But Petite has tears in her eyes. She's wants to color, to draw, to do  anything but turn the lights off and go to sleep.  And I'm so tired, I'm so in need of a few moments to myself.  But she snuggles up to me and I know that she needs me.  My little one who seems to get left behind so often.

So I lay the baby in his crib.  I choose a few stories to read.  And we snuggle up together and share the familiar stories.  I see her grin and hear her laugh as I read Kitten's First Full Moon.  After Mama, Do You Love Me? she asks "Is that how much you love me?"  She asks for more.  One more, I say.

Two more?  she counters.

Just one.

She brings back two, saying she can't choose between Goodnight Gorilla and Merry Christmas, Stinky Face.  I give in and read both.

I think of how this is the second copy of Goodnight Gorilla we have had. It's always been one of her favorites.  I can't remember now if one copy was lost or destroyed, but I remember finding a replacement at Goodwill at just the right time.  And she still loves it.  She still grins.  She still loves to see the animals following the zookeeper to his house and up to his room to go to bed.

I am tired.  But so thankful God gave me the grace, the nudge, the last bits of energy to grab a few books off the shelf and spend these moments with my little girl.  I think that these are moments she will remember, maybe not specifically, but generally, someday, remembering how mama always read to her.  How she might be in Goodwill herself someday and come across a copy of Goodnight Gorilla and grin as she thumbs through it, remembering all the times we read it, knowing it by heart.

And I think that I made a lot of mistakes today as a mom.  But that this wasn't one of them.

Goodnight, sweet girl.

Goodnight.

Dear Homeschool Mom:Your Kids DON'T Hate You

Dear Homeschool Mom,

I know it seems like it to you (it sure does feel like it to me), but your kids don't hate you.  They roll their eyes, yes.  They moan and groan, yes, yes.  They don't even try to hide the fact that they hate this school thing you do.

But they don't hate you.

They just don't get it.  They are young, immature, and primarily concerned with having fun, so they don't get how important all this school work is.  They have no idea how useful it will be to know how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide some day.  They have no clue the great treasure  there is in knowing the story of this world or what makes things work in this world.  Even if they secretly enjoying learning history and science, ask them to write a sentence about it, and the sighs and complaining begin.

You may try to deal with this through discipline. Be like me and withhold use of electronic devices.  Or settle it in your mind that this is the way it is.

And don't take it personally.  They don't hate you.

They hate what you are making them do.  They resent the work they have to do, cause, hey, it's hard.  It interferes with all the free Lego play and conquering the next level of whatever the latest video game is.  It mean less time on Mindcraft.  It interrupts the reading of the book they can't put down for the book they loathe.  In short,  you are trying to teach them to deny themselves. To prioritize responsibilities.  To learn early on the value of hard work.

And they haven't learned any of this yet.

But they love you. They love that you make them dinner  and drag them into the living room to hear another chapter of a great story.  They love that you are there to drag their butts out of bed in the morning.  They love you even when you get cranky and frustrated and want to quit.  They love you when you have to remind them again to do their chores.

They just don't like what they have to do.

It's so very hard feeling like they hate you. It's so very hard to be the "bad guy".  I know you dream of just having fun with your kids and you might even think that would make your home the happiest place on earth.  No chores, no school work, no responsibilities.  Just letting everyone do what they want to do.  Maybe it seems to work for some of your homeschool friends.  Maybe it seems like other families are happier. And other kids don't hate their parents.

But they all have their moments.

You need to remember your moments.  The precious ones.  When the kids beg for another chapter.

 

When the big kiddo helps the little kiddo. When your girls get along and your son rocks the baby to sleep for you.   When they say "thank you" for taking them to McDonalds. When they come up and put their arms around you for no reason.  When they plant a kiss on your cheek and say "I love you mom".  All the times they don't put up a fight.  There are lots of precious moments.  Don't let the Jonah days get you down, Mom.

They love you.  Someday they might even thank you for making them do all this hard work.  Until then, love them dearly.  Be the one to apologize. Be the one to give the hug that bridges the gap. Be the one to remind them you think the world of them.  Let them have hot cocoa right before dinner.  Talk to them about something other than what they should be doing. Don't forget they are your children and not your students.  

Agape love is doing what is best for the person who is being loved, even if it doesn't seem best to them. All this work seems miserable to your kids, but don't let that deter you.  It is an expression of your love to teach them.  

Remember that they need you to be tender and tough.

And remember that they love you.

Now go give them a hug.

Love, 

Steph

The Small Days

I have just a few minutes as I sit on the deck with my coffee.  School is done.  I am tired. We are all grateful for a break.  I escape outside, to this fall-ish day, already cool with a hint of crispness.  The leaves are still green but soon it will be a colorful wonderland back here.

I am thankful.

Thankful for these few small minutes.

I pray the baby doesn't wake up. He doesn't like to sleep much during the day, but oh when he does... it's just a little bit of heaven.  We adore him, of course, but we all appreciate a little nap.

The introvert in me needs these small moments.  As I sit out here, I pray. I thank God for this day, because if I don't, it all seems like a crazy mess.  But when I do, it all seems just as it should be.  I pray for my best friend. For Pastor Saeed and his family.  For my baby. For my Petite who I feel is getting lost in the busyness of our days.  I pray for our upcoming trip. The flying, oh how I hate it. And I'm leaving my three oldest babies behind.

I tear up when I think of it.

I see a wispy little cloud float by.

And I think of how these are the days of small things.  Small moments like this when I get a chance to think, to breath, to savor a moment with my Savior.  Small moments of remembering that this is life and it is good.  Small moments in the midst of small things.

Nursing a baby.  Wiping the counters.  Reading lessons.  Making dinner, again.  Dust flying. Fingerprints on my mirror.  Half-eaten cookies on the table.  Floors that need to be swept and that rarely get mopped.

These are just little things I do, day in and day out.

I remember the days of big things.  Like planning our wedding.  And starting a Bible study in our home.  Of selling our house and settling into our new one.  Of special vacations.  I remember the days of our babies coming into the world and God's fingerprints over every single moment.  And the day I met my best friend who was brought to me by Him.

Those days and seasons when the Lord showed up in a big way.

But I find most days are like this.  Just little moments that require me to look harder to see that He is here.

That's why I need my coffee on the deck.  And that blessed hour after everyone has gone to bed.  And as many minutes as I can grab first thing in the morning with  my Bible and my journal.

To thank God for these small things.  And to be reminded that small doesn't equal unimportant.  These days matter, just as our youngest family member matters.  These days of throwing in wood, changing diapers, flushing toilets for those who forget, matching up socks,turning off the lights that always get left on, and reading books aloud, are no less significant than the wedding days, the birthdays, the holy days.

"Do not despise these small beginnings, because the LORD rejoices to see the work begin..."

Zechariah 4:10

The Planned and the Unplanned

I am staring at the sweetest little thing I know.  My darling baby boy, who will be five months old tomorrow.  These are precious days.  I am thankful for all the milestones he hits, like rolling over and laughing, but it is bittersweet because it means he is growing up oh so quickly.

Perhaps it is this little guy, his life, that is waking me up to the issues going on right now with Planned Parenthood.  See, I have always been pro-life.  I was raised that way.  I never doubted it was wrong to kill a baby in the womb.  I never doubted that, even as a "blob of tissue", it was alive.  And that it was created by God.  I have not always been a devout follower of God. Far from it.  But I always believed in letting life live.

I remember in my younger years, wrestling with so-called Christian views of what it means to be a woman.  It seemed so gross, so derogatory, things like submission and women not allowed to lead in the Church.  And it seemed like the world was so hostile to women, with its wage inequality, and images of beauty which produced vicious results in young girls and women.  Young and immature, not really knowing the extent of the term, I considered myself a feminist.  My freshman year of high school, in English class, this issue of abortion came up and I stood up for life.  A female classmate was appalled.  "Stephanie, I thought your were a feminist!" (oh, doesn't that sound silly now, between fourteen-year-old girls?).  My response," I am.  But abortion is murder."  I wasn't afraid to speak the truth back then.

And I'm a little ashamed that I haven't been speaking the truth, out loud, for anyone to hear, as an adult.

Yes, of course, I am still pro-life.  But I have let fear of man hold me back. I've let this become a complicated issue, when essentially, it isn't.  And I have silenced myself.  While many issues swirl around abortion, things like reproductive health and access to birth control and life of the mother, etc, the bottom line is that abortion is murder. It is destroying life that is made in the image of God.

I watch my young son smile at us. He follows us with his eyes. He thrives on our affection and attention. He laughs at us.  He longs to be held.  He knows instinctively how to suck to get nourishment, even fresh from the womb.  He has an emerging personality (extrovert, we think).  He is just so very precious to us and it is breaking my heart to think of the millions, yes millions, of children that have not been given the chance to live.

And let me be honest.  I have had an unexpected, and even unwanted, pregnancy.  The summer we were preparing to move, I was surprised by feelings of morning sickness and the smell of everything curdling my stomach.  A very familiar feeling.  I bought a Dollar Tree pregnancy test which confirmed my worst fear- yes, fear.  I had been married for 11 years, had three children, thought our family was complete, and was devastated to see two pink lines appear on that test stick.

I did not want any more children.

I didn't know how on earth I was going to handle having a new baby without the support of my friends and family in Lincoln.  We were moving to a new town, Josh was starting a new job, we hadn't sold our house yet.  This was terrible,  horrible timing.  I cried my eyes out when I told Josh I was pregnant. I felt numb when he prayed for our unborn baby that night.  I had absolutely no happy, joyful feelings about having another child.

So I understand, maybe just a little, about how it feels to be confronted with an unexpected pregnancy.  I understand how it feels to wish it wasn't so, to feel stuck with a circumstance I couldn't change.

Only, there is that option, that choice to change the circumstance of an unwanted pregnancy.  It is all too easy to find a local Planned Parenthood, or another women's clinic, and take care of this problem.

To be sure, having a baby is HUGE.  Pregnancy is not always glorious.  Infants are not always calm and easy going.  Neither are toddlers, tweens, or teenagers.  Children are not cheap to raise.  They change our plans, interrupt our nights, they  require massive change on the part of the mother (and involved father).  It is no light thing to carry life and then raise it.  And it's not just irresponsible women who find themselves pregnant without planning it.

But what I knew, is that my child was alive. I couldn't feel him or her yet. I hadn't seen an ultrasound picture. But I knew it was life.  And that while this life was interrupting my life, I would, eventually, love this child.

I realize not every woman who finds herself pregnant unexpectedly seems "qualified" to raise a child.  We have an overflowing foster care system because so many men and women are not able or unselfish enough to raise a child in a healthy, safe way.  I realize the teenage pregnancy rates are high and that high school and even college will be interrupted if they have a baby, even if they don't keep it.  I am not ignorant to how difficult it is to carry a life and raise it!  But none of that means it is okay to destroy a life.

Today, I reject what is commonly referred to as the feminist movement, because, honestly, it has served women so ill.  I reject the idea that  Christianity has a subservient view of women.  Perhaps religion does, but Jesus Christ does not.  Over and over again in the gospels, I read how Jesus set women free.  Women who were being used by men.  Women who were prostitutes, illegitimate, in poverty and medical distress.  He set them free!  He memorialized some of them! And this is where modern day feminism has it so wrong.

Abortion doesn't set a woman free.  It sounds so good, the ability to get rid of an unexpected pregnancy and all the complications it will bring. But it's a lie.  It's a sorrow women carry, sometimes their whole lives, because they know, yes they know, that this is life.

I have always been so confused about this.  If a woman wants her baby, it is fully alive from the very start. If she doesn't, it is merely tissue, a blob that can be disposed of.  Surely, if Planned Parenthood is selling body parts, doesn't that imply that there is a body, and if a body, a person?  And as a woman who believes we are created beings, not objects of random chance, I also believe that our bodies have souls.  And to kill a body is to kill a soul.

I know there are gazillions of arguments surrounding abortion.  I know it doesn't seem as easy as making it illegal, and I would agree with that.  Making abortion illegal would not end the practice.  It wouldn't change the hearts and minds or the behavior of anyone.  It wouldn't keep a woman from an unexpected and unwanted pregnancy.  It wouldn't solve all her problems.

But I also know that abortion only causes greater problems and does absolutely nothing to truly set a woman at liberty.  Abortion, itself, is a grave injustice toward women.  That there is nothing better to offer a woman who is pregnant and doesn't want to be than an abortion is a disgrace.

The truth is, there are other options.

Back to my story.

It didn't end well.

I carried my unexpected baby for twelve weeks and then had a miscarriage.  I had a miscarriage many years before that, yet very early on, but this one was so much worse.  Even though I had not fully embraced the idea of having another baby, even though I wasn't emotionally attached to that baby, losing it was a devastating process. It may sound crude, but it felt like I was delivering my baby in a toilet.  It was so, so wrong.  And yet, it was "spontaneous", as the doctors describe miscarriage.

I can only imagine how much more wrong it is to deliver your child at twelve weeks on purpose.  Planned.  Sold a lie that it will lead to freedom.

If we want to talk women's liberation, then abortion as the first prescription for pregnancy needs to end.  The alternatives may not be easy, but they will protect babies AND women far better. I don't have all the answers.

Yes, crisis pregnancy centers.

Yes, birth control.

Yes, caring for women in marginalized areas.

Yes, sex education.

Yes, it's going to take money.  Tax money, private money.

Yes, Church, wake up and reach out and dig in your pockets and adopt and foster and love like crazy.

Yes, support life after birth as well (education, food programs, child care, etc.).

My story of babies and pregnancy doesn't end with that miscarriage four years ago.  As I said, today I have a five-month-old baby boy who is an absolute delight to our family.  He has taken over our life.  He wants to be held at inconvenient moments, he wants to nurse all the live long day.  But he just loves to smile at us, and be loved by us. He brightens our home in the most incredible ways.  My children are experiencing the gift of life through this child.  They felt him moving in my womb. They saw his pictures while he was still in the secret place.  Their young hearts and minds knew this thing inside of me was fully alive. And they were fascinated.

How heart breaking to me that the fascination of bringing life into the world, one of the very things that  make us as women so very feminine, is so long gone in our culture. While surely women are made for more than bearing children, we were never, ever made for abortion.

Ducks Out of Row, Trying to Go With the Flow

This morning I made a list of twenty things I wanted to get done today.  Yes, twenty things.

Blogging wasn't one of them, but here I am.

Vacation is over. Well, our week away full of late nights and fun to the max is over.  And my hubs is back to work (thanks for that, Babe!).  And that means I have a very, very messy house. How is that possible when you've been away for a week?  I don't know, but it is.  And hence, my list of twenty things, which could easily be fifty.

But I'm devouring a salad and trying to type at the same time.

Truth is, I'm a little overwhelmed by my kitchen and the inability to get it cleaned up.  The same is true of the living room and the dining room (which still has blue painter's tape on the walls).  Goodness, I'll just admit I'm overwhelmed by  this whole house.  I can't get a thing done, or when I do, it quickly gets undone.  My list of twenty things includes tiny, minuscule items like marinating the roast for tomorrow night.  Things like using up the leftover frosting from the Fourth of July cupcakes and reading aloud to the kids.  Little things to check off to make me feel like I got something done today.  Because I sense that even when the lights go out tonight, the kitchen will still be a wreck.

I know in the grand scheme, these things don't matter.  But I am Ducks-in-a-Row Mama.  I make my lists and I check them so much more than twice. I like order, predictability, and clean countertops.

Why then, four children?

Why then, do I homeschool?

Because I've come to this place- wait, I'm still on a journey to this place- called Surrender.  My life isn't my own.  It's God's. And He has a plan for it that will stretch me and make me need Him like no one else.  Four kids is part of it. Homeschooling is part of it.  And apparently, all my ducks out of order is part of it, too.

And all the crumbs, lest we forget.

I think my lists are something the Lord smiles at. After all, He made me this way.  An ISTJ, according to Meyers-Briggs.  I think my lists are part of my way of bringing glory to Him, just like this unexpected blog post.

But I think He smiled a little bigger when I put everything aside and sat at the kitchen table with Petite today. I had to stack up the laundry that was covering it and move aside a pile of coloring papers.  I had to dig out some of my scrapbooking supplies.  And together we made a birthday countdown chart so that she will know exactly when her big day is.  We put Sleeping Beauty stickers on it and of course the paper was pink.  It wasn't on my list, but it was important.

I don't think I will ever be Go-With-the-Flow Mama.  But I hope that I learn more and more to take a time-out from my schedules and lists and let the frustration over the messy house go.... and just enjoy this very, very short season.

Of four kids.

And homeschool.

And everybody interrupting everybody at the dinner table.

It is all good, if not orderly.

There will be other days for order.

June 22, 2013

My sweet little promised one.

Two years ago, God whispered a promise in my ear as I read 2 Kings 4.

"About this time next year... you will hold a son in your arms." vs 16

This sounds sort of mystic, perhaps, or maybe you know just what I am talking about. When God speaks to you.

In this verse, the prophet Elisha is speaking to a woman from Shunam.  She and her husband had built a little apartment for him to stay in when he was travelling through and he wanted to do something kind for her in return. She asked for nothing, but Elisha's servant mentioned that she had no children.  And no doubt the Lord told Elisha, I'm going to give her a son.  Tell her.

A couple thousands of years later, God's Word spoke the same promise to me.  Like the Shunamite woman, who said "Don't mislead your servant, O man of God!", I wondered for over a year if the Lord really had promised me this.

I had decided to leave it in my husband's hands, for one. I prayed that if this was true, he would be the one to say, "Hey girl, let's have a baby."  I tentatively broached the subject maybe twice, but got very little feedback from him.  So I let it go. 

And I wondered if I was just being a little emotional about this whole promise.

Because just a month before the Lord even spoke these words to me, I really had no desire for another child.  We had lost a baby at 12 weeks in late summer of 2011.  That baby was a complete surprise, coming at an extremely difficult time for us as we were in limbo waiting for our house to sell so the whole family could move to be with Josh near his new job.  The loss was very difficult physically and emotionally, and I vowed I would never ever go through it again.  We both felt our family was complete.

But at a ladies retreat that year, the Lord began to stir things up in me.  At first, I just surrendered and said "Okay, Lord, if you want us to have another child, I will. But I don't want any more."  Within a week, everything I was reading, circumstances around me, so many things were softening my heart and making me say "Yes, Lord, I do want another child."

 I remember thinking "But we don't even  have the crib anymore!  All our baby stuff is gone!" And thinking we so didn't have a plan!  But also thinking, who cares?  

Last spring, I started running outside.  I would pray and dream for this baby. I would doubt that I really heard God right. But deep inside I knew I had.

So strong on my heart was this truth: that the only thing we could possibly carry into the next life with us is our children. Everything else would be left behind. And Josh agreed.  And then... we got pregnant.

I look at this little boy of ours, the son God promised me two years ago today, and I am just blown away that He speaks to us.  And that He puts desires in our heart and then fulfills them.  I am reminded how personal He is.  And this promise fulfilled gives me hope that the others not yet fulfilled... one day will be.

These Are My People

My little family of six, we sit in the back row.

No pews here, just chairs linked together, sitting on a concrete floor.

This is where the shy folks tend to sit. The visitors, or the ones who aren't quite sure they belong.  The ones who want to escape out the door as soon as the last song is sung.

But my people are fidgety and they whisper and they often have deep thoughts to share (about Minecraft or Pokemon) just as soon as you raise your hand in worship.

They can be distracting, so we sit in the back row.

Our church doesn't look much like a church.  It's a building with fake windows and a log cabin with bathrooms.  There is no steeple. No bell.  It's not even white.

But here my people meet.

This week we had visitors. They sat in the front row.  Some of them were up on the stage leading us in song.  We sang words like "I need you Lord"  and "I want to be like a tree planted by the living water".  I had tears in my eyes.

My son asked me if I was crying and I nodded slightly.  He was very concerned and he wondered why.  I shrugged it off.  I assured him I wasn't sad.

Several of our visitors shared with us their story.  The young lady leading our worship, she said she was so broken, even doctors didn't think she could be fixed.  Another young lady, a local girl, the daughter of one of our church family, she told us how she decided to stop trying to please everybody and she descended to the pits of hell using alcohol and drugs.  The man who taught us from the Scriptures out of Mark 4, he was from Jersey. We knew it before he even told us.  Yeah, he had that accent.  He told us about all the crazy stuff doctors and experts and other people trying to help had him do to try to cure him of his addiction to dope and not one of them worked.

The turning point in each of these people's lives was Jesus.

Yeah, these are my people.

In that room were addicts, prostitutes, murderers, thieves.  Sinners and saints, every single one of us.  There's not one of us that hasn't done something that we're ashamed of, something so bad we don't want anyone to know.

But we sing of our redemption- how the terrible things we've done have been forgiven.

And that's why the tears are in my eyes.

Because I sometimes, often, forget the depth of the pit I was pulled out of.  I become a stone-thrower instead of grace-giver.  But that morning I remember.

These visitors up front, they remember.  They know how terrible they were, how messed up their lives were.  And now they sing of the mercies of the Lord, who wiped the slate clean and made them a new creation.

These are my people.

We call ourselves Christians. Not because we are perfect, but because we are so very messed up.  But we have been made a completely new person in Christ. So we bear His name.

What a bad deal for Him, I think sometimes, to have us  representing someone so perfectly lovely.  Because even as Christians, we mess up big time. We don't always reflect His loving heart and His grace-filled life.

 We are liars, thieves, murderers, addicts, prostitutes, immoral,  but He calls us His own.

We are HIS people.