When You're in Your Second Adolescence

After three days spent with my three best friends from high school and college, hopping from one Iowa home to another, I feel like I've run a verbal marathon, which is exhausting for this introvert who usually measures out her words in hour-long chats, not days-long.  

They wasted no time with shallow filler.  

"Becky, your new home is beautiful!"
"Thanks, what would you do if some of your close friends were in the middle of a nasty divorce?"

Seriously, we had only made it as far as her mudroom.  

The cathartic thing about this near-annual trip is stepping back from my year and trying to articulate it when they give me their "how are you, tell the truth" look.  At home in the dailiness, I move from one chore to another, from one shade of emotion to the next, quick prayers, brief conversations with in-and-out children, mealtime chats with my husband before we do our own thing in the evenings. Occasional heart to hearts, but not big summaries of my life.  

Phrases like "identity crisis" came out of my mouth.  Becky described it as a "second adolescence" without the pimples. Well, there are some pimples, too!  As I think about that more, I think she is right.  In my first adolescence, I was bucking for self-rule, trying to figure out my personal identity.  I figured it out, became a believer in Christ, then a wife, a teacher, then a mother. I relished being in charge of these little, impressionable lives.  

Now my teenager is bucking for self-rule, not in a disrespectful or destructive way, just not exactly what I would choose for him.  I find myself nitpicking and chiding him, knowing that is NOT the graceful way to parent a teenager.  I'm bucking for power again, when I need to be coaching and cheering.  

That's where Tracy, my oldest friend, who knew me through my first adolescence, says wryly, "He's just like you were."  

Gulp.  That's right.  And then she adds, "I always admired you for that independent streak."  Really?  Did my mom lay awake at night worrying that I would choose the hard path and suffer for it? Probably.  I'll have to ask her.  

If the first adolescence is about finding your identity separate from your parents, is the second adolescence about finding your identity separate from your children?  

Mara, whose 17-year-old daughter runs the State Center, Iowa, farmer's market, and whose 14-year-old son has a blacksmithing forge in the garage, always inspires me with her choice of a simpler, non-materialistic life.  She is still the same girl who, as an RA in the dorms at Iowa State, put this sign on her door:

"I had no shoes and complained until I met a man who had no feet."

Being around her makes me not want to complain about the petty things but care about the important things.  That's what I have been trying to discern lately.  The petty versus the important.  

Old friends help you see the difference and accept you, pimples and all.  

Buying Vowels

I have a friend who recently made a humorous quip about hating when contestants on Wheel of Fortune buy vowels right before they solve the puzzle.  They are just throwing away money! she ranted.

I wonder if I would buy the vowels, just to know for sure it would all work out.  Pay for the guarantee.  God has a different economy for our lives, though.  He turns the letters as we need to know them. He leaves some blanks.  He occasionally gives us $1000 spins, where we must make a choice that is pivotal in our journey.  

Today, a $1000 letter was turned for me.  My daughter wandered over to me in the den, looking  a little sheepish.  "What's up?" I asked.

"I'm nervous to say this," she offered, wringing her hands.

"Just say it," I smiled, wondering what was going on.

Then the tears started and she became choked with emotion.  "I want to be baptized."  I felt my own heart rise to my throat and tears leak from my eyes, and in my mind, I jumped up and down and clapped while Pat Sajak gave a sideways grin at the camera and Vanna swished her pretty dress.

I wasn't expecting this.  We hadn't talked about baptism in ages.  It was clearly God's work, not mine, which is how I'd always prayed it would be.  

A feeling washed over me, like the gratification of solving the puzzle.  Like winning the jackpot.    

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap the harvest if we do not give up.  -Galations 6:9

In the Afterglow of a Mother-Daughter Trip (Passport to Purity)

My almost 13-yr-old spent yesterday with her sister and two friends in circa 1850's dresses and bonnets, sitting in the rain with "parasols" in a little fishing boat they pulled into our front yard. They called themselves Jo, Beth, Amy, and Meg (from Little Women) and designed many adventures.  Ginger the cat was in every scene.  

I don't think this is normal 2013 tween behavior.  I would have more likely been calling up boys with my friends and giggling uncontrollably at this age, so my heart was warmed by their wholesome, imaginative spirit of play. Just to bring it into the 21st century, there were several moments when their little bonneted heads were gathered around the laptop looking up vintage dresses on Etsy.  

Megan and I spent Thursday and Friday on our Passport to Purity Trip.  She navigated us to antique shops, thrift stores, and consignment shops in Minneapolis.  Her favorite was Steeple People thrift store because the price was right for her pocketbook.  She spent $2 on some soft fabric.  Her souvenir was a $5 rusty old horse bit from Art and Architecture.  She has a thing for horses and bits.  

I thought it might be fun to juxtapose the old with the new, so we stopped by the Walker Museum and sculpture garden.  

We liked the garden, but the museum was head-scratchingly modern and abstract, which led to comments like "I could paint that in the dark" and a very brief visit.  The Minnesota Institute of Arts is more our style.  Lunch was at the ultra modern Melting Pot fondue restaurant.  It was yummy and inspired me to almost buy a fondue pot at the Salvation Army.

The Pratt-Tabor Inn in Red Wing was a perfect ending for our day.  Its Italianate architecture and crystal chandeliers in every room mesmerized us.  

Deb, the owner, was delightful.  She line dries and irons all the sheets and linens, for pete sake.  Friday was mostly spent biking and thrifting in Red Wing and Lake City, and we ended with horse back riding with my friend Karen at River Road Riding.

All along the way I slipped her letters from women in her life.  She loved them all, basking in the glow of love and encouragement in each letter.  In the car, we listened to Barb and Dennis Rainey teach on everything from puberty changes to God's design for sex and dating.  I loved the interviews with teens.  We pulled off to the side of the road to complete object  lessons with water balloons, matches, and play dough.  We both now have a good definition of dating and a beautiful vision for purity.  It is a high calling in this sex-drenched culture, but it is not impossible.  

The message was simple.  "...that He might be preeminent."  That Christ might take first place in every area of our lives.  

What a sweet opportunity to bond and cover important topics in a fun way.  Highly recommended!

A Mother-Daughter Trip (Passport to Purity)

I often have an ache within that time with my children is slipping through my fingers like a kite string on its long ascent.  I can feel the friction of the string's momentum against my grasping hands.  It's vaguely painful, but the kite rising is glorious to watch, and truly there is no stopping it, so I might as well hold loosely and smile.

Hold loosely, but celebrate milestones.  Next month my daughter will be 13, and in our family, we mark this age by taking a trip using the Passport to Purity (P2P) curriculum, because here is what is important to us:

• That we set God's standard for purity before our children, giving them something to aspire to, while teaching them of grace and forgiveness
• That we open the doors of communication about awkward subjects like body fluids and sex
• That we begin to affirm who they are becoming and address character flaws before they become too ingrained
• That we show them they are worth the investment of time and money to take a trip together

My husband took my son on a long roadtrip to Cedar Point Amusement Park in Ohio, stopping along the way to do projects from P2P.  Dave still refers to some of the object lessons from that trip in conversations with Noah.

Megan and I will be staying closer to home.  The destinations are a surprise to her, but I tried to think about going places she would love, so here is our itinerary:

Minneapolis:

Art and Architecture

Steeple People Consignment

June Clothing Consignment

Melting Pot for lunch

Walker Art Center

Red Wing:

Pratt-Tabor Bed and Breakfast

Lake City

Bike Ride on trail

Zumbro Falls

Horseback Riding at Karen Whitaker's

In between our activities, we will listen to the P2P CDs and complete the projects and conversations.  For some development of life skills, Megan will navigate and will help keep a budget sheet.

What I'm most excited about is giving her a series of letters written by women in her life who took the time to  write down what they see in Megan and how they are praying for her.  I think this will be a watershed moment in her life.  

Honestly, my sweet girl is a little nervous about this trip and so am I.  There will be some awkward moments as we listen to frank teachings, but I want her to hear this stuff from me.  Homeschooling has kept her pretty insulated so far.  It's time to open the doors with truth from God's word so that she can be discerning and hopefully avoid some of the regrets I carry.  

I'll let you know next week how it went. 

Spirituality and Service: Inseparable Twins

My friends and I often refer to Marys and Marthas.  In the well-known story from Luke 10, the sisters choose differently in responding to a visit from Jesus.  Mary sits with him and soaks in his presence.  Martha tends to everyone's physical needs.  

We sometimes debate who was right, which is silly, because both are right, both are needed, both are a sign of maturity.  Spirituality and service are inseparable twins that need to rest at the heart of each of us.  My best days are spent being Mary in the early morning hours and Martha the rest of the day.  If I sit in quietness and pray God will show me how to meet people's needs the rest of the day, I must be careful not to begrudge the opportunities to serve.  

And each thing is an opportunity:  to quiet the children's quarreling, to be the teacher and cab driver, the encourager of friends, the helping hands for those in physical need, the open purse for those in financial need.  The key is not to let the pendulum swing too far to either side so that we exhaust ourselves in service or cloister ourselves in self-care.

We need to teach and model this for our kids.  Some are natural servants, others must be forced into it.  Some are inclined toward spiritual things, others must be taught the discipline of it.  Both are rewarded in the end because they are taught what matters to God.  Growth in these areas is a process requiring much diligence and grace...for all of us.  Don't shame them for their perceived inadequacy in either area.  Always encourage!  (I'm telling this to myself, first!) 

Last week I had the privilege of serving my beautiful friend, Emma.  As I and many others painted walls in her new home, we talked about her vision for her home, where it could be a gathering place and a stop-by-anytime kind of home.  I know it will be like that.  She sits and listens to you like Mary, but she makes sure you have coffee in your cup like Martha.  She does all this while living with breast cancer's harsh effects on her mind and body.  

I love the bothness and oneness of God's design for our lives.  

Listen then to this wonder!  How wonderful it is to be both outside and inside, to seize and to be seized, to see and at the same time to be what is seen, to hold and to be held. 
-Meister Eckhart

On Teaching Children to Be Magnanimous

In our homeschool, we have spent much time discussing new words we encounter in books, reviewing science terms, and using vocabulary cartoons.  I encourage my kids to come up with better words than "that thing-y over there" and to name the emotions that they're feeling during some weeping and gnashing of teeth session.  In writing, we grab thesauruses.  In reading, we pull up online dictionaries.  

Every now and then I come upon a word that is so loaded with meaning and import that it becomes a devotional for the day.  Today the word is magnanimous.  We came across it as I read during lunch yesterday from Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court and I kind of stumbled over the pronunciation and skipped the discussion.  Today I plan to readdress it.  

A magnanimous person is high-minded and big-hearted.  He is chivalrous and generous of spirit.  She has a high moral code and is not easily offended.  Forgiveness comes quickly.  The word encompasses a sense of dignity, a delight in benevolence, a humility in victory, and a refusal to be petty. As I address character flaws in myself and my children, I think the quality of magnanimity is worthy of aspiration.  

And, of course, it is an excellent description of Christ.  

CS Lewis says the chest of a man is the seat of magnanimity.  

Now that just makes me breathe a little deeper and stand a little taller.

Messy Worship

I came across a word today that caught my attention:  messy worship.  I could have followed the internet bunny trail to see what the blogger was referring to, but I thought I'd stop and just consider it myself.  

My pastor reiterates often that we are created to worship and we all worship something:  God or idols.  In 1 Samuel, the people are told (loose translation,) "If you want to return to God, throw your idols in the river."  They threw them in the river, alright.  Then they ran to the place where the tide washed them back up on the shore, and they took them back.  

Now, that's messy worship...and oh, so familiar.

Then I think of my son, who is enamored with a genre of Christian music that is, well, messy in its sound and approach.  He passionately wants me to understand the power of it and insists that it draws him to God in a way that "traditional" worship music does not.  Is there a line in the sand of what is God-honoring worship?  Is it better to listen to Taylor Swift croon about her break-up than it is to hear For Today's gutteral battle cry for the Lord?  Noah had me watch a video of For Today's drummer.  He quit the band to become a missionary in South America.

Worship can be messy.  

I stood on the stage of our church last night, rehearsing a solo with a glorious orchestral and choir accompanyment.  I sang these words:  "Make my heart your Bethlehem...be born in me."  I long for God to reign in my heart, and yet my heart is deceitful above all things (Jer. 17:9.)  

It's messy.  Forgive me, God.

But I will sing through the mess.  I will cast my idols down as many times as I need to.  I will find beauty in the messy, screaming battle cry.  I will accept that the mess comes with choosing the MESSiah.  I will worship.  

H.A.B.I.T.S. for the New School Year

I was out wogging this beautiful morning.  I used to be a runner.  Four miles a day.  That was the month before my 20th class reunion.  I've taken extended, intermittent breaks from the concrete and treadmill.  I'm trying to get back into the routine.  When I'm outdoors, I'm a wogger.  Walk the hills, jog the rest.  Oh, somewhere in there I gained back the 15 pounds I had dropped when I was a runner.  Funny how that works.  I need another reunion on the horizon!

Wogging outdoors can be a highly creative time for me.  I've composed songs and come up with all kinds of homeschooling ideas while burning calories.  Today, I was talking to God about the upcoming school year, which begins on Monday at Riverwood Academy, when I looked at a neighbor's mailbox and saw the number 1111.  I hadn't noticed it before.  I love that number.  I don't know why, but I often see it on clocks or on the treadmill and it makes me smile and think of God.  Like He's winking at me. 

My idea came just after 1111.  I was thinking about some of the unproductive habits we've formed in the lazier hours of the summer and how we need to focus on developing or rediscovering good habits.  So here's my idea:

• During our family meeting on Sunday, we'll brainstorm words that begin with the letters in HABITS.  Health, Attitude, Benevolence, Inspiration, Training, Service, perhaps.  I want the whole family to pitch out ideas. 

• Once we settle on a word to represent each letter, we will take some time the next week to find Bible verses that correspond, and they will become our memory verses for the first part of the school year.  I am planning to use this wonderful notecard review system this year. 

• We'll talk about how to apply each concept as issues arise. 

• I will buy big wooden or cardboard letters spelling "Habits" at Hobby Lobby and spray paint them silver.  We'll write the chosen word on each letter along with the verse reference.  Then I will hang them in our living room.  Giant letters are so trendy right now, anyway.  This will serve as a daily reminder of what we are striving for.  When we stop noticing them, I'll spray paint them blaze orange.  Ha!  I found this example on Pinterest:

I'll post the final project when we're done.  In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the last 4 days of my loosy-goosy, messy, lazy, sugary summer. 

Godspeed to my fellow homeschoolers.

Drips, Stains, and Restraint

This is the story I read the morning I stepped out on my deck and screamed.

I am a child and it is nearly Christmas.  I stand on a kitchen chair pummeling cookie dough with a rolling pin.  I wallop the bag of flour right off the counter and it explodes in a cloud of white dust.  I do not move, waiting for my mother's reaction.  "What's your favorite cookie shape?" she asks.  I find my voice.  "A star."  Smiling, she hands me the tin cutter.  "Make lots of stars while I clean up," she says. -Sue Monk Kidd, Firstlight

This story seared my conscience.  How I've shamed and belittled my children for much less than a flour bomb. 

Later that morning, I stepped into the lovely dappled light on our deck and looked down.  Then looked again.  Then let my eyes trail down the steps and across the lower level.  Then hurried down to look across the length of the deck.  The deck that we built last year.  The NEW deck.  Then I screamed through clenched teeth. 

From one corner to the other, up the stairs, and across the top level, were splatters of dark red stain, like the drips across the driveway from a sprinkler-soaked child.  For a moment I thought someone with a severed limb had run to the kitchen, but no, it was not blood that stained our blond wood.  It was, indeed, stain.  The color of the newly stained playset. 

I saw the can of stain and the paint pan neatly placed on the rocks where they should have been.  And then it dawned on me.  The sponge brush was tucked in its Ziploc bag in the refrigerator, waiting to be used for final touches on the playset.  Someone who shall remain nameless did not realize how drippy a stain-drenched paintbrush is when carried from playset to kitchen.  Gulp.

I had a choice to make.  Somewhere in my brain was an arsenal of shame-based words that no parenting book ever had to teach me.  But those go-to words had been covered over during my early morning quiet time by a story of a wise and tender mother who chose the path of love and grace. 

I went inside and drank some more coffee and washed up the morning dishes.  Then I took my beautiful gift of a child onto the deck and said, "We're going to figure out how to clean this up the best we can.  You can help." 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't know.  I'll help."

Do I Matter?

I have taken a breather from blogging and immersed myself in research for homeschooling next year.  I am enthusiastic and a little frightened about entering the high school phase with Boy Becoming Man, while teaching my middle and elementary school girls, but we seem to figure things out as we go.  Preparation and flexibility: my motto. 

A worthy topic has captured my heart and pulled my attention away from the Ancient History syllabus and Biology labs: three teen suicides in one week in my area of Minnesota, with much buzz about bullies, school responsibility, and social media. 

My heart aches.  I want to shake everyone, from the precious child about to end her life, to the parents, the administrators, the media.  Don't you understand?  What lies beneath it all is a lack of understanding of the value of your soul.  I would throw every school book to the wind if I knew my kids were wondering, "Do I matter?"

My job as parent and teacher would be worthless if I could not tell my kids over and over:  you were created by a loving God, you have a purpose in this world, you have access to God's mighty power and healing comfort, you were designed to reflect His glory. 

But so many parents don't tell their kids this.  They don't believe it themselves.  Public school personnel can't say it, whether they believe it or not (though the good ones do!)  Children can't hear it enough.  So they believe the lies from their peers, the media, themselves. 

I get it.  I grew up believing my value came from pleasing others and succeeding in the task before me.  I craved male attention.  I see in my children something different.  A solidness, even as they experiment with fashion and music and figure out their talents and interests.  I know there is and will be wrestlings, wanderings, and mistakes made, but we have given them a foundation that is not made of the shifting sands of the world.

On Christ the solid rock I stand.

The Laundry Psalm

Dirty laundry.  It's a very real part of my life with three hard-playing, dirt-loving children. 

Monday is laundry day at our house: the kids sort it, I run up and down the stairs six or seven times to transfer the loads, fold or hang, and place the warm, clean items in one of four baskets. On Tuesday, the kids match socks, fold towels, and put it all away.  We have a slick system, and in the middle of the homeschool day, I don't mind the occasional retreat to the laundry room. 

I wish I could say I pray for my children as I fold each shirt and try to figure out whose underwear is whose, but I'm more likely to play a Miss Piggle Wiggle game...to imagine how efficiently I can get the job done before the sinister queen comes to analyze my work.  Miss Piggle Wiggle has been more inspiring to me than any of the self-help authors I've read on home organizing.  Truly.  She's a psychological genius. 

But what about the other dirty laundry?  The inner-grime.  The dirt I can more easily hide.  Did you know God wrote a laundry psalm on David's heart?  It's not a particularly fun one to read; you won't be thanking the good Lord for knitting you in your mother's womb or for creating the firmament with His mighty hand or for leading you to quiet waters.  Instead, your face will be right up in the smelly armpit of your own stench. 

Now don't x-out of my blog quite yet! 

You get to read of being washed clean and snowy white, like the warm, fluffy towel load spilling from the dryer. 

I sometimes like to memorize whole psalms.  I chose this one, Psalm 51, to write on the tablet of my heart on Monday.  I am memorizing the NIV version, but this morning, I opened up The Message version out of curiosity.  Wah-lah...the laundry metaphor.  Eugene Peterson, you were thinking of all us laundry washin' mamas when you translated this passage, weren't you?

Psalm 51

^1-3Generous in love—God, give grace! Huge in mercy—wipe out my bad record.
Scrub away my guilt,
soak out my sins in your laundry.
I know how bad I've been;
my sins are staring me down.

^4-6 You're the One I've violated, and you've seen
it all, seen the full extent of my evil.
You have all the facts before you;
whatever you decide about me is fair.
I've been out of step with you for a long time,
in the wrong since before I was born.
What you're after is truth from the inside out.
Enter me, then; conceive a new, true life.

^7-15 Soak me in your laundry and I'll come out clean,
scrub me and I'll have a snow-white life.
Tune me in to foot-tapping songs,
set these once-broken bones to dancing.
Don't look too close for blemishes,
give me a clean bill of health.
God, make a fresh start in me,
shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
Don't throw me out with the trash,
or fail to breathe holiness in me.
Bring me back from gray exile,
put a fresh wind in my sails!
Give me a job teaching rebels your ways
so the lost can find their way home.
Commute my death sentence, God, my salvation God,
and I'll sing anthems to your life-giving ways.
Unbutton my lips, dear God; 
I'll let loose with your praise.

I think I will print this version and post it in my laundry room.  Won't that upset the wicked queen!

I Will Try Harder

My son is reading a heady book as part of his Starting Points Biblical Worldview curriculum: C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianty.  He's a little behind in his reading (and frustrated enough to snap a pencil in half!), so I offered to read a couple of chapters to him yesterday and help him complete his questions. 


What I didn't expect was to nearly cry in relief at the sage words of this great atheist turned-Christian philosopher.  Noah looked at me strangely as I read the words, then hugged the book to my heart and said, "Thank you, Lord."  I don't think it was an accident that it was Book III, Chapter 11, p. 109  that I read to my boy yesterday.  I believe it was God's provision for me, a tired, striving mother. 


You see, I have set loftly spiritual goals lately, and the more I grasp for them, the more they elude me. 

In December, I chose my three words for the 2012:  thrift, nurture, decrease (fasting.)  After two months, I'm painfully aware of how unthrifty I am, how many opportunities I neglect to nurture people in my life, and how quickly I can talk myself out of a fast.  I recall with a wince how enthusiastically I shared my three words and associated goals with a group of women in January.  I was inspired and trying to be inspiring.  Now it's halfway through February, and I am instead clinging to these words Lewis wrote many years ago....

"(We must) make some serious attempt to practice the spiritual virtues.  A week is not enough.  Things often go swimmingly for the first week.  Try six weeks.  By that time, having, as far as one can see, fallen back completely or even fallen lower than the point one began from, one will have discovered some truths about oneself.  No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good." (p. 109)

"All this trying leads up to the vital moment when you turn to God and say, 'You must do this.  I can't.'" (p. 113)

-C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

So I will not stop trying to be good.  I will pour myself out trying to be good...and this will lead to the truth, that I am a weakling who is personally bankrupt.  And then I will know that I know that I know why Jesus had to pay.

Her Little Rended Heart

Rend your heart.  These three words from the Book of Joel draw me deep this morning.  Rend is not a word we use now.  It means to tear into two pieces, like the curtain of the temple splitting supernaturally, so that the barrier meant to separate, now falls away and we step with awe into the holy of holies. 

It's how I stepped into my daughter's heart the other night, when she came home rended and trying bravely to hold back the tears.  I quickly surmised her evening had not gone well when she shed her coat and lunged into my arms.  I felt my own throat catch with her pain. 

But the blessing that accompanied her rended heart was that I could cross the threshold, her little holy of holies, and hasten the healing, whisper words of truth in her ear, hold her close.  It came quicker than I expected, the healing.  I could see it in her eyes as she turned up her sweet little face and gazed gratefully at me.  I could hear it in the words that began to flow from her..."Maybe next time, Mommy." 

She told me that when she was sitting in the middle of the disappointment, she remembered a poem she had read, about how to find one, good thing, when everything is going bad.  She said, "I thought about how I had made a basket at my basketball game on Saturday, and it made me feel better." That's right, girl, you are learning "eucharisteo," the hard thanks.  

Tomorrow is the beginning of Lent, the season of fasting and reflection before Easter.  It's a time to rend my own heart, or allow it to be torn, broken, spilled out for my Savior, who did the same for me.  How do I do this?  I think about my heaping pile of sin.  I count my flaws and repent for all of us who turn our own way and twist every good gift from above into an idol.  Yeah, it's no fun.  I'd rather watch TV and eat ice cream.  But the sweets will go for Lent and the bitter taste will settle in for awhile.  And healing will come.  And Easter morning will be GLORIOUS!

Crossfire on the Homefront

One child:  peace.  Two children:  squabble.  Three children: warfare.  In our home lately, I have had to dodge the crossfire of words, angry looks, jabs and pokes.  I never know if it's going to turn into grumbles, tears, whines, or blows (no blows yet!), or how much to intervene.  Dr. Lehman suggests putting them together in a confined space until they work it out.  I might try that.  Is the coat closet too tight?  Another parenting expert said, "If you just spend 30 minutes a day with each of them doing what they want to do, they will not misbehave."  I wish I had an hour and a half every day to leisurely play.  Not on Planet Pearson!

Nurture.  One of my three words for 2012.  How can I nurture them through this?


The best I could come up with this morning was to revisit Galatians 5:22-23.  We gathered in the living room, opened our Bibles, and read together,  "And the fruit of the Spirit is:  love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." 

The kids copied down the verse and then made a column of "opposites."  Hate, sadness, turmoil, worry, impatience, cruelty, evil, betrayal, harshness, impulsiveness.  I wish I could say they all put on their haloes and started sprouting fruit, but in the very midst of the devotional, they engaged in sharp responses and finger-pointing. 


I lit a candle and reminded them we have the Holy Spirit in us like a fire.  It can shed light on all this beautiful fruit in us. Then I blew out the candle and told them that our attitudes can snuff out the flame.  We become dark.  We leave behind the stench of smoke. 

We each chose a quality to work on for the day and prayed about it.  One chose kindness.  The second chose peace.  The third chose self-control.  I chose gentleness.  Our prayers were sincere.


By snack time, they were already quarreling, insisting they were innocent and another was causing the trouble. 


"She's whistling again." 
"He's being mean."
"She's asking dumb questions." 
"Moooooooom!"


I quickly felt my own flame sputtering.  I could smell the tendrils of smoke.  My eyes darkened with all that is opposite of Spirit fruit.  I turned my back to them, placed my palms on the cool counter, bridled my tongue, breathed deeply, and prayed the kids would hear themselves.  See the sin.  See the need for more of God. 


And then, suddenly, they were laughing big, hearty laughs.  Is that a flicker of a flame I see?  Is that a drip of sweet nectar I taste?  I joined the laughter as I swept off crumbs from the counter and told them, "This is Joy, kids, this is Joy.  Let's live here for awhile."  And we did.  For awhile.

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen

Riddle:  what singular thing can bring us great benefit and massive discouragement?  Well, it's all in the semantics.  Great benefit:  emulating a person and family you admire, otherwise known as role modeling.  Massive discouragement:  comparing yourself to a person or family you envy, otherwise known as idol worshipping.

My husband and I had a discussion about this last night over burgers and fries at Newts.  I wanted to pick his brain on which men in his life he admires and seeks to emulate.  He wanted to eat his burger and keep abreast of the 49ers/Patriots score.  But he humored me and mentioned a couple of names, pointed to some parenting classes we've taken, and praised the fact that we are a tight team when it comes to guiding our family. 

"Do you ever get down on yourself because you're not more like so-and-so?" I probed. 

"Nope."

"Oh." 

Maybe it's a female thing.  Maybe we more easily turn role models into idols.  All I know is that I have to be extremely careful in this area.  In the Bible, which is my instruction manual, there is no step-by-step recipe on how to do life and raise a family.  God has provided the ingredients of my family in one big, handsome face, one quickly-wrinkling, almost 40-year-old mug,  and 3 sweet, ever-morphing faces.  He says, "Child, this is My provision for you.  There are a million fine ways cook.  Just trust Me, and I will be your guide and soothe your worries." 

What happens when there are too many cooks in my mental kitchen?  

It leads me to think things like: why don't  I have her ingredients?  How come I can't have a kitchen like theirs?  How do they cook with a well-developed recipe, while I just cook with a pinch of this and a palm of that?  How did they get nice, brown bread while mine is burned on the bottom? 

Suddenly, my mind hits fast-forward through the Food Network.  Do it like this!  Do it like that!  Stir the pan!  Put on the lid!  Take off the lid!  Turn up the heat!  No, turn it down!  Follow the recipe!  Throw out the recipe!  Oh, look at his perfect turkey.  Oh, look at her beautiful cake.

Stop.  STOP!  Turn it off.  We are the Pearsons.  God loves even the worst things about us, because they keep us humble and seeking Him.  God loves the best things about us because they make Him look good. 

Now, I think I'll go join my family for our own little breakfast in our own little kitchen, even if someone burns the toast.

Awake When I Should Be Sleeping

I suppose I have never had a better reason to lay awake at 3 a.m.  Three-fifths of my family has gone in three directions.  Boy Becoming Man is on a mission trip to St. Louis, one of the most dangerous inner-cities in the country.  Nature Girl is at horse/Bible camp, 4 hours north, where it has been cold and rainy all week, and she has never done something like this, Miss Reluctant To Try New Things But Coming Out Of Her Shell.  My husband is in New York on business, so I couldn't be lulled back to sleep by his peaceful breathing. 


I laid there, awake, with their three faces flashing in my head, wondering if they were laying awake, too, longing to be home.  I prayed for each of them, which I have deemed the best use of insomnia. 

All along, this homeschooling mom has had the nagging worry that she is not preparing her children well for life...these children who all three clung to her legs in new situations when they were younger, who wouldn't look adults in the eye and clammed up when spoken to. 


But I have prayed and gently nudged, cajoled a bit, perhaps.  Eased them into unfamiliar territory. I have tried to fertilize their roots and hope they sprout wings.  I have emphasized character more than test scores and serving others more than satisfying themselves.  I have tried to lead their eyes past idols and onto the Kingdom of God.  

But will it stick?  Will they care as much as I?  Will my own struggles with selfishness and idols speak louder than my words? 

My spinning mind walks through these tall, unchartered jungle grasses of worry, and I push them aside, only to feel them snap back, razor-edged.  I am searching for the "ancient path."  As a parent, I want to take this God-challenge seriously...

This is what the LORD says: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls. -Jer. 6:16

Ah, rest for my soul.  The holy grail of laying awake at 3 in the morning.

Bang, Bang, I Am a Worrier

There was a song recorded by Pat Benatar in the 80's called I Am a Warrior.  I remember jamming to it in my bedroom, my finger guns smoking..."shooting at the walls of heartache, bang, bang, I am a warrior." 

Since we love a good parody, my husband said I should rewrite this song for my concerts.  How about...


I Am a Worrier.


I didn't used to be a worrier.  I've always had an innate confidence in my abilities (except, ironically, that I can never confidently spell the word "confidence."  Is it a c or an s at the end?  Thank you, spellcheck.) 


I grew up pretty fearless, always game to try new things and usually finding a decent amount of success.  Fearless, that is, until I had kids and became a stay-at-home mom and home school teacher. 


A strangling fear creeps in that I am blowing this precious opportunity.


It is the biggest gift God could give me...the freedom to be home with my kids, teaching them, learning alongside them.  In the beginning, I painted a Monet dream of our lives, soft brushstrokes, idyllic scenes, homey and relaxed.  The books I was reading fed into this vision.

 

I think, though, we more often look like a Picasso. 

You could come hang out with us for a week and think we're a quite normal, cheerful group.  This battleground is mostly in my head, where what I imagine doesn't line up with what is. 

"We should do things more like this family" can stick like a burr. 

"I am not enough for this job" can take root like a thistle weed in poor soil.   

The worries branch out to poke my kids and my husband with the subtle, unspoken message that "This is not how I want you to be."  They are most pronounced when I'm laying in bed, not quite asleep or awake,  my mind a fertilizer.

The closer my children get to growing up, the more I worry.  Poor habits I used to dismiss are becoming ingrained in them.  Fruit I'd hoped to see is not there yet.  I'm just not sure how to do all this.

Wisdom says,

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. -2 Cor. 10:5.

I lean hard into this.  It's all I have, really.  The ability to tear out weeds and plant seeds of truth.  To surrender to His abundant grace and walk the best I can on his weedless path.


To find beauty in the sharp lines and strange angles of this picasso-life.