Skin Deep, Part II

I have naturally curly hair... very curly hair. It has been my companion and my nemesis since the moment my mom gave me a very short haircut (when I was about 10 years old), and it grew back in tiny ringlets all over my head. I started those first few months by brushing it out - the way I had always brushed my hair "B.C." (Before Curls). As you may guess, that ended in a ball of frizz the likes of which clowns were undeniably envious. In the years that followed I vacillated heavily between "working with" my curls and battling them with fervor. I most often hated them.

In my junior high years, I started trying to grow out my locks, which, as most of you know, had it's bad days and its worse days. It has never ceased to astound me how the same hair on the same person, washed in the same water, dried in the same fashion, styled with the same hair products, and finished in the same way can fluctuate so absolutely between utterly fabulous and completely grotesque. This has been my unfortunate experience, and when I had a "bad hair day", it didn't effect just me - it effected the people who were unfortunate enough to have to sit behind me - within 110 degree arc - in geometry class or english class or Spanish class or the movie theater. Furthermore, those kinds of days became more and more frequent as a T.V. show called Friends became popular and ushered out the popular "big hair" of the 80's and ushered in the stick straight, perfectly placed, unbelievably smooth and shiny 90's hair. I agonized in front of a big mirror for years - trying to tame down the God-given mane into something more popular. I have done the same thing, off and on, for many years since.

My curly hair was the object of many an obnoxious boy's teasing. In fact, one fateful day in the fall of my 8th grade year, an unfortunate fellow-student ended a humiliating day of his own, with a red handprint, the size of my hand, on the side of his face... all because of my hair. In Bible class, of all things, he had decided to call me "afro chick" - the way he often had - whispering it into my ear as he sat behind me. However, on this occasion, he topped it off by spitting wads of paper mixed with his saliva into my hair also. As I struggled to pull these wads out of my mangled coiffure, I began to be less and less inclined to "turn the other cheek". So... I warned him that he'd better stop or be sorry he hadn't. This deterred him for a while, as we both worked on our tests. As I finished early, he began in again with his teasing and spit-wadding, and my mild manner could take it no longer. I stood, turned around, looked at his smug face, wound up, and slapped him with all I had in me. He proceeded to promptly and completely black out. I turned around and sat down. The teacher, whose view of what had happened was blocked by several desks and students, asked, "Who did that?" I raised my hand and said, "I did." He called me to his desk asking, "What was that noise?" I said, "I slapped Jake." He said, "You did what??" I replied, "I slapped Jake." He said, "That was one of the loudest sounds I've ever heard. Is he okay?" I looked back at his lifeless figure on the floor and declared, "I don't think so."

I couldn't tell you what happened in the moments that followed aside from the fact that I was sent to the principal's office (for the first time ever), and that I was made to apologize to Jake. It made it easier as his smug grin was replaced by a rather swollen, red likeness of my own hand. Had it not been for my hair, he might have had no reason to tease me at all.

As an adult, I tried several times to have hairdressers "fix" my hair through a new cut and/or style, only to be completely embarrassed or disappointed or both when I walked out of their doors. In fact, on one occasion, as an adult, I participated in a friend's wedding. She sent us to a particular hair studio in town to get our hair done. We were instructed to arrive with our hair freshly shampooed and ready to be styled. I did as I was told and arrived, along with 6 other women, to have my hair styled for the wedding. I waited eagerly to see how they would style my hair - hoping for some new tip or hope for my hair. The three stylists glanced from woman to woman and called each over in turn to style her hair. As it came down to the last of us, the stylists turned to one another and argued over which one "had to" take me. The one who lost the coin toss reluctantly called me to sit down in her chair and proceeded to brush my hair out. I looked like Troy Polamalu. My hair was huge and frizzy. To make things worse, she found some tangles that she could simply not brush out of my hair. She then proceeded to take scissors and cut those chunks out of my hair. She then re-curled my hair in a "nicer" way, and charged me $45 for her time. I didn't look horrible, but I had again received the message that my hair was too curly and unruly and imperfect.

I have felt convicted, off and on, for several years now about trying to cultivate a more natural beauty, in acknowledgement of and appreciation for what God has given me. After all, He never thought when he was creating me, "I'll give this one freckles and frizz, because they can't all be beauty queens." He took pride in what He made and "saw that it was good". He gave me all of what I needed to be unique and to glorify Him.

I once found a placard in a dollar store that said, "God loves each of us as if there were only one of us." It was a sweet thought, I guessed, and I bought it to keep in my kitchen, as a pleasant thought. Only recently, however, have I rediscovered how true that little statement really is.

My husband had a "Holiday Party" for his work last Saturday night. It is pretty much the only night of the year when I feel like it's okay to get a dress to wear and to look a little fancy. Every occasion I've encountered in my adult life when I've wanted to look extra pretty or fancy has never turned out the way I had hoped. The hair dressers would get my hair wrong or the dress wouldn't fit right or both. Last year, at this same party, one of Mark's co-workers came over to be introduced and declared, "Oh, you're Mark's wife? I thought you would look younger. Your picture on Mark's desk looks younger." I can't quite explain how I felt (aside from the fact that the photo on Mark's desk had been taken only 3 months earlier), but it was a mixture of confusion, annoyance, and sadness. I doubt I'll ever forget it - or stop mentioning it from time to time when Mark talks about this guy from work. "Oh, yeah, the guy who said I look OLD!" to my husband's refrain of, "He really is a nice guy." I'm sure he is, but an etiquette session wouldn't be lost on him.

Anyway, this year I have lost about 10-15 pounds from last year, and I think that I felt a little better about going - feeling I had a little less to be self-conscious about. As I was preparing to go, I prayed that I would feel pretty, but that people would see God in me. I prayed that I wouldn't feel so self-conscious. I felt very sure of His presence with me as I went through the usual steps of getting ready. I felt completely reassured and calm. I kept getting a feeling I can't describe as anything more than a "nudge" to try wearing my hair curly and going light on my makeup. As I went with a light foundation, I began to search for a compact of eyeshadow that my hairdresser sold to me a few months ago. It had some dark colors and a brush to help get a more heavy application. I couldn't find it anywhere, although it's always been in the same place. I felt as though I would find it, but only after I was obedient to lightly apply a more natural shade, which I did. I was certain I was going to find it, and trusted it would turn up eventually. As I went into the bedroom, I bent down to get something, I looked slightly up and saw, under our bedskirt, a black compact. It was the makeup that had gone missing from the bathroom. The odds of me 1) looking under our bed, 2) seeing it was there under the bedskirt, and 3) that it had happened within seconds of making the right decision, made me know that it was God's doing. It was as though He was courting me - making me know He is proud of what He made in me - even when I'm not.

A few months ago, I taught a class on planets and the solar system. In completing research for the class, I rediscovered that there are thought to be billions of other galaxies aside from ours. However, from as far as scientists have been able to find in our universe, no other planet in any planetary system of which we know, is able to sustain life. There are very definite, very finely tuned and balanced, very particular sets of perfect circumstances that have to be in place in order for life to be sustainable. Earth seems to be the only planet of which those things are true. I found myself wondering why God would go to the trouble of creating all those other galaxies if He only intended to place life on one, small planet - third rock from the sun. I have concluded that it is because He wanted to give us a very real understanding, maybe when we need it most, that what that placard I bought several years ago was saying, that He loves each of us as if there were only one of us. Although there are billions of people on our planet, He provides carefully for the needs of (and desires an intimate fellowship with) individual people. Similarly, as there are billions of star systems, planets, etc. in the universe, He chose just one on which He would accomplish His purpose of companionship and redemption. The relief it provides me to know I'm not a cosmic mistake (and neither is the planet on which I live) is simply unquantifiable. The blessedness I feel from knowing that God cares for the silliest things in my life - that He's fixing even those ridiculous insecurities and healing those long-set-aside hurts - is beyond my ability to put into words.

The absurdity that God cares about what I wear or my outward appearance doesn't escape me. However, I think there was more to it than that, at least in my case. I think it was because He knew that I cared so much about it, that He was choosing to show me that my worth was much more than what I see in the mirror each day, or what Mark's co-workers see standing next to him at a Christmas party, or what a hairdresser sees when I sit in her chair, or what an 7th grade boy saw when I sat in front of him in Bible class... it is determined by Him alone.

Skin Deep

Beauty... it is a struggle for me. I see it ebbing away a little more every day - as a new wrinkle or gray hair makes its first appearance. I vacillate wildly between two desires: just giving up and letting nature take its course and fighting it with every dollar in my wallet. It's not an uncommon struggle, but I know that some women care about it more than others, and I'm not sure why.

I have experienced the distinct financial woe of having two children who have braces - with another three probably around the corner. I had braces, and so did my husband. It's amazing to see how messed up the human mouth can become. Teeth start growing in all kinds of places they shouldn't. In Claire's case, teeth aren't appearing where they're supposed to at all. It makes me think...

What was creation like in its first days? How perfect were Adam and Eve? I bet they didn't have snaggle teeth. I look around me at the wonders of creation... the vivid colors of a sunset, the intricacy of a seashell, the beauty of an eagle in flight... and I wonder how they could possibly have been more perfect than they are, but I know that they once were. They are only trace reminders of what God is capable of creating. I have been on some sight-seeing trips - the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, the Smoky Mountains, the Pacific cliffs, the Gulf of Mexico. Their beauty was breathtakingly remarkable. However, there is something very clear to me when I look at them. They are broken. The ocean, for example, no matter how pretty, has brownish water, washes up various smelly dead things, and reeks an undeniable odor. The Grand Canyon is a giant hole in the earth... a beautiful crater, no doubt, but still a void where something even more beautiful used to be. Even in my own back yard - which is fantastically beautiful especially in the winter, when snow is on the trees - dead tree branches litter the landscape. Dust from our gravel road settles over everything - making it seem ordinary again.

However, even the most marred of creation often strikes me with such beauty and awe that I can scarcely contain it. I can see that it is not the way the Creator meant it to be, but my fallen mind cannot fathom a more beautiful perfection. Or can it? It is just outside my grasp. My reach is simply too short. It makes me ache inside... much like I do over my own inability to grasp the beauty that has always been so illusive. I wonder what it was like to live with a mind - not fallen - that could bear to see the wonders around it with fresh eyes. Over generations of fallen vision and reduced perfection, we have become farther and farther removed from that for which we were created.

And us... the pinnacle of the beauty He made... the zenith of His creative genius... the reflection of His own image and glory... we are the farthest fallen of creation. Even the most primitive of human emotion is beauty in action. The showing of it - anger, fear, trust, joy, strength, exhaustion, sadness, grief, desolation, wonder - all hold the possibility of a dignity not our own. We were made for a greatness we no longer own - a glory we find difficult to reflect.

As life continues to overtake me, my greatest prayer is that I can better reflect the glory I was created to reveal... not that I am seen, but that I disappear as Christ is seen. I pray that any favor I receive will be supernaturally obtained and therefore that the glory will be given back to Him to whom it is due. Our bodies and our souls suffer many things. They groan, as does the rest of creation (Romans 8:21-23), as we await the redemption of our bodies.

Romans 8:18 - 19

¹⁸ I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. ¹⁹ For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.

2 Corinthians 4:9-12

⁹ [We are] persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. ¹⁰ We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. ¹¹ For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. ¹² So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

Romans 8:21-23

²¹ ...the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.

²² We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. ²³ Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies.

Cars Are People Too

For as long as I can remember, I have personified cars. What I mean by this is that I think of the cars I see as seeming like people. For example... a new pickup is like a "weekend warrior". An old pickup truck is a guy in flannel. A station wagon is a person with a large rear end. A Land Rover is a hiker. A sports car is a guy with gold medallions tangled in the midst of an excessively hairy chest, etc. An Oldsmobile or Buick 4-door sedan (whose turn signal lamps, incidentally, need frequent replacing) is an elderly person . The car with the open gas cap has its fly open.

I know that personifying vehicles is not something that only I do. In fact, if you've seen the movie CARS (like I have about 3,000 times), you know that they've pictured a Hummer as a drill sergeant and a VW van as a hippie. I'm not saying any of this in a "this is what your car says about you" kind of way. Obviously, people from many different walks of life own and drive many different types of cars. It's more like what I see when I look at a car.

Cars that bear the evidence of crash are "sick". I steer clear of those cars, for fear of getting "sick" too. My van is a mother, after all and can't be taxiing children all over town when she's sick. Cars with tape over a window or tail light are bandaged and not generally contagious.

I get more and more comfortable with my van. The more dings, dents, and dimples she has and the more she sags and squeaks, the more I identify with her. She's dependable and quite reliable. She hasn't let me down yet. Tonight, I discovered that one of the van's headlights was burned out, and it seemed as though I was wearing an eyepatch all over town. I felt quite conspicuous. Fortunately, the police car who followed me for quite awhile on my way back home didn't pull her over for it.

My husband has had a little fun at my expense with regard to all of this car silliness, but his driver's side window doesn't roll down in the cold weather and has been the source of my own embarrassment on more than one occasion. So his car is as crazy as I am. Either that, or it likes to frustrate me - much like my husband does.

It's a blessed wonder that God doesn't look at people the way I look at cars. He takes no stock in the outward appearance. In 1 Samuel 16:7, God talks to Samuel about how to choose Israel's next king and says, "Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature... for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart."

I am most thankful that God sees my heart... and loves me anyway.

The Way We Were

I just finished watching the movie The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I am a little late; I know. I have had it on my Netflix list for over a year, probably, but other things just kept bumping it. I really enjoyed the movie, and my husband, who was in and out during the movie, didn't seem to mind that we had to watch it during our nightly workout. If you haven't seen it, it is about 4 friends who find one pair of pants that fits each of them perfectly, which is a "miracle", because they are each a different body-type. They pass this pair of pants around amongst themselves by mail during the summer of their Junior year... when they are all separated from each other for the first time in their lives. Each of the girls is very different from her friends. One is a provocative, blonde, sports star. The other three are brunettes... one is a prudish artist. One is a vivacious writer, and the third is a rebellious filmmaker. At one point, my husband turned to me and said, referring to the blonde one, "I just don't picture her being friends with those other girls." I thought about it for a second, and then I assumed that he meant that he couldn't picture 3, sensible, creative brunettes being friends with the athletic, haphazard blonde. I responded, "Well, when you're young, you get thrown together with other girls and you pretty much get along, and, if you grow older with these same friends, it doesn't matter what type of person they become (whether or not they're different from you), because they have always had your loyalty, and they always will."

After he got in the shower to get ready for work, I got to thinking about the friends I had as a child. When I was in early elementary school, I had friends who were boys and friends who were girls. I had friends in every spectrum and type of lifestyle. Most of my friends were what I would have thought were better off financially than we were. I remember one friend whose mom was a dance teacher. They lived in a subdivision. She seemed to have the perfect life. She had all the cute, dance costumes and got to dress up, for real, any time she wanted. She was blonde and always had her hair curled in just the perfect way. At the school programs and on picture day, she always wore the cutest, most fashionable clothes, beautiful earrings (yes, she had her ears pierced), and her blonde curls were in perfect place. Her perfect teeth glowed when she smiled, and she always smiled. I was a brunette myself - with freckles and corduroy knickers (thanks, mom) and teeth that were completely the wrong size for my face. I also another subdivision friend whose mother was a Mary Kay lady. Her mom had a pink cadillac. This friend had the most amazing collection of play makeup under her bed that we could use whenever I spent the night there. I had another friend who had a huge, beautiful house on the nice side of town. She had Elvis movies and dry spaghetti noodles. Whenever I went there, we could watch TV (which she wasn't nearly as impressed with as I was), eat sugar cereal (which my parents were against), play with Barbies, sneak down at night to eat dry spaghetti noodles, and eat at McDonald's - each getting our own meal Happy Meal. (My dad was a big believer in sharing and was the first conscientious objector of the Happy Meal.)

I had a German friend - whose parents were immigrants who spoke very little English. They lived near the cement plant in town, and had one whole wall missing from their house. It was very cold there in the winter. Her toys were few and simple, but she was one of the happiest friends I had. I also had a friend who was a boy - whose mom invited me often after school to their home on our side of town (the south side). Their home was plain and older. She had an odd quirk - which didn't disturb me that much as a child, because I wasn't sure how uncommon it was, but she fed her own children food when I was at their house, but she never fed me. If I was there over lunch or supper, she fed her own family and left me to sit at the table without food. I always tried to figure out if I had done something wrong or if I wasn't even supposed to be sitting at the table and should just be off playing. If she brought popsicles out to the little treehouse in back, her two sons both got one, and I received nothing. I always wondered if it was because she didn't like me or if they didn't have enough money to feed me, but I was afraid to tell my mother, because I didn't want her to tell me I couldn't go back there anymore. I thought about packing my own food sometimes, and I'm not sure I didn't, once or twice, sneak a box of raisins or something in my schoolbag if I knew I'd be going there.

I had laotian friends from our neighborhood also, whose culture and lifestyle were completely different than my own. One of my friends didn't have a mom around at all, and her dad was a car dealer. She only had brothers, and it seemed she didn't have any interest in being a girl at all. One of my friends' parents were caretakers at a summer camp, and we had great adventures playing there. One was the boy who was our backyard neighbor - whose brother was mentally handicapped. We spent hours pretending the basement stairs were a Firebird or a T-Bird or a Camaro or a Mustang, and that he was a cook and I was a waitress and my sister was a teacher. We dressed him up in chocolate hair mousse and barrettes.

I had friends whose parents were married and friends whose parents were divorced. In fact, the girl whose mom was a dance teacher eventually moved out from her dad's house in the subdivision and lived in an apartment over the dance studio - which, as a child, I thought was so much cooler, because now we could go play in the studio whenever we wanted. I never imagined how difficult it was for her to be going through the transition she was... until she told me. I remember crying with her about it and then crying privately with fear that my parents might someday do the same thing.

All of these friendships bring back sweet memories - no bitter ones - no, not even the kid whose mom didn't believe in feeding, freeloading child guests. Each held a special place in my life at that time and will live in my heart forever.

I guess the apex of all my thinking tonight came down to one thing. The diversity of my friendships then was so much more than it is now. Most of those early friendships dissipated for one reason or another - many moved away. Many changed schools. We moved to the country when I was 10 and left many of my friendships in town. One way or another, things changed. Our lives led in different directions.

Today, I love my friends, but I have to acknowledge that many of them are people with the same life path as I have. They are stay at home moms. They are middle class. They are Christian. They are married. Don't get me wrong, I do have a few friends who work. I have a few who are other religions and some who are single, but they surely aren't the majority. It's not something I have worked at. I haven't tried to narrow down my friendships. I haven't cut off people who work. I haven't alienated single people. I haven't hung out a Christians Only sign. I just think that it happens to us as we get older... if we're not careful. As people get older, they become "lactose intolerant" or find out that certain foods don't agree with them, but I think we also become "different intolerant". We just don't have the time or want to make the effort to develop friendships outside our sphere - our comfort zone. We find that certain people "don't agree" with us, and then we minimize contact with them for our own convenience.

This realization almost made me long for more complicated days... filled with the richness of different types of people. Don't get me wrong. There is a most certain blessedness in the comfort of people who I know will understand me and with whom I can confide and in whom I can trust. However, the simplicity of the way children generally relate is something I envy. They don't see all of the things adults see which "turn us off" to what we perceive to be a certain type of individual. They don't see economics. They don't care about race or creed. They have a flawlessly objective viewpoint that gives them the opportunity for simple, gratifying relationships with a multifarious blend of people. Much of it is my vocation, I understand. When I worked outside the home more, I came in contact with a larger variety of people. This is one of the reasons that I am enjoying the opportunity to volunteer - in kind of a selfish way. It benefits me, because I am getting to meet and know a much grander variety of people. However, even within my vocation as a "SAHM", I see cliques that form based on personal preferences, etc. How far do we have to segregate ourselves, as adults - down to the point that even those within our own profession are strangers to us? Those who are the most familiar with our plights, our frustrations, our joys, our fears... still remain strangers over issues as small as what they believe about pacifiers, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, etc. The sadness is palpable but remains. I suppose we are destined to narrow our viewpoints even further by sticking primarily with the like-minded.

As a child, I didn't balk for a second at sleeping in a house with three walls and a plastic sheet, freezing cold, in the middle of winter with a friend whose parents only spoke German. I was just glad to be with another girl - one who liked My Little Ponies and Rainbow Bright and who liked to climb on the monkey bars... one who liked to sled in the winter and run through a sprinkler in the summer. I felt proud when she taught me to count to 10 in German, and I was proud of her for being bilingual... something that seemed so hard to me. Life was simpler then, and I wonder if I would be so quick to befriend someone like Monique today. I imagine my daughters would be.

Back to the movie... some things are fairly universal to personhood in general, but this movie focused on girls/women. Many of us know the rejection of a parent... a difficult relationship with a father... fear of saying we are angry... the desire to be known but the fear that it will bring us only desertion... the exhilaration of new love... the loss of someone dear... the desire to rebel... the will to create... the need to compete... the ache of emptiness... the desperation of loneliness. All of these things - so universal - yet we remain separated. I guess tonight I find myself longing for a little bit of the way we were.

Water Parks and Mother Hens

My little guy is 3. I grew up with 2 sisters. My first children were two daughters. I know I've said it before, but boys continue to be a mystery to me. I'm not saying that I think males are mysterious. In fact, I tend to like what I perceive as the way that they are basically uncomplicated. When they say something, they pretty much mean it. When they do something, there isn't a particular, unobservable motive behind the action. I often find myself looking for a motive of some type only to realize that there truly isn't one. This simplicity doesn't, by any means, equate to a lack of intelligence. It just makes them often more dependable and predictable. It makes conversations less complicated, because I don't have to wonder if there is something covert or implied. I don't have to "read between the lines". When dealing with the men and boys in my life, I just have to listen and trust.

Last week, we went to an indoor water park. It has become a tradition of ours to go on a Christmas trip to the water park, or, as Levi calls it, the "park water". I find the dynamic of the water park amusing. The lifeguards are always teenagers who range from very bossy and conscientious to very laid back and permissive. They have ambiguous rules. For instance, the sign near the children's slide stated simultaneously: "Single riders ONLY" and "young toddlers MUST be accompanied by an adult". As my husband was trying to coax our one year old daughter down the slide, he decided to take her up and let her ride down on his lap. I told him this was a "no-no" according to the rules and suggested that he take her on the side-by-side slide, holding her hand. As usual, he decided to do what he wanted to do. As he got to the top, he sat down and put her in his lap. At just this moment, a teenaged girl who was in charge of that area walked by the slides. Her attention was drawn to this major rule infraction. She blew her whistle at my husband and yelled that he needed to put her down, and that she couldn't ride with him. I watched in amusement as the turmoil churned within my husband. I could see that letting her tell him what to do was truly a struggle. After all, he didn't let his 32 year old wife tell him what to do, now he was supposed to let this teenaged girl tell him? Knowing the eyes of all the children around were on him, he reluctantly set Violet on the slide in front of him giving her hand to me and letting me guide her down the slide. We didn't speak about it. :)

This year Levi was able to go up to the bigger kids section of the park. I followed him closely, and he felt "big" as he led mom around the park. We stayed under the sprinklers mostly until I asked if he wanted to go down a slide. He said he didn't want to, but I asked if he would watch me go down one. He agreed and followed me to the top of the slide. I went down the short, tube slide and out of his sight. When I stood up at the bottom, I turned to look up at him, and he wasn't there. I started to wonder where he had gone when I heard a splash behind me. I looked, and there he was. He had decided to go down after me. I was proud of him. It was an exciting milestone that turned into his leading us down the same slide a dozen more times. Then we decided to try the medium-sized tube slide. He led me down that several times, and then we graduated to the big slide. I followed him down that slide 50 times if I followed him down it once. My arms were aching from hoisting myself out of the basin at the end of the slide, but he was thrilled to lead me around and find new adventures together. When I finally needed a bathroom break, he told me he'd show me where the bathroom was. When he led me into the women's restroom, I asked if he had to go too, but he said, "No. I just went already. I'll wait for you right here." (I wondered if he meant he had gone in the park somewhere or if he was referring to when he had gone when we had first arrived.) He stood outside my stall for my return, and he directed me to the sinks for hand washing. I found, during this outing, an interesting thing about Levi: the more I let him lead me, the more mature he acted. There was nary a tantrum or a lost temper or a disrespectful word. He blossomed under the weight of my trust in his capability to lead me. He rose to meet the challenge and then some.

A few minutes ago, here at home, Levi hollered from the bathroom, "Mom! Can you help me? I need more paper toilet!" I got him a roll of toilet paper, and helped him clean himself up. As I did, he said, "That's my girl. I'm proud of you." After I was done, he said, "I need to wash my hands." He stood atop the bathroom stool observing his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He said (half to himself and half to me), "I'm a big boy. I don't hit people. I don't say 'shut up', and I don't point at people - like this..." (as he proceeded to point at me about three, different ways). He said, "I obey my parents, because that's a good idea." I agreed emphatically with him - enjoying the self-involvement of a three-year-old.

Learning how to fall into my role as a mother hasn't always been easy. Fighting my selfish instincts is a daily task. However, learning how to mother my son has been more difficult than learning to mother the girls. I feel that I usually understand the feelings and motives of my daughters, but boys don't work the same way. Babycenter.com has sent me e-mails updates once/week for each of my children since they were in-utero - a "your baby this week" email, telling me what to expect of my fetus, infant, or toddler that week. It never ceases to amaze me that most of the time they have it right, down to the week, what the baby/toddler will be doing. In that way, most of my children have mostly followed what is apparently an accepted, "normal" pattern. In another way, they don't fit a pattern at all. Each individual is so unique - their personalities and quirks so completely distinct from one another - but it's my task to be consistent with each one... loving them the same, treating them the same, handling each situation that comes my way -whether they are reading quietly or climbing the walls - with consistency and fairness, no matter my own mood or feelings.

A few weeks ago, the girls had Matthew 11:28 as their memory verse. I have them write the verse out and tell them they can illustrate it if they want. As you see below, Sadie illustrated her verse the following way:

The illustration shows "mom" saying the words, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened; and I will give you rest," but, in the Bible passage, Jesus is the One who says those words. When I asked Sadie if she knew that, she said she did, but that she thought the best way to illustrate it was with a mom saying it to her family. (What look like pets in the picture are actually crawling babies.) The dad is yawning and hanging up his coat. Looking at this drawing was a defining moment for me in some ways. It showed me what she thought a mom's role should be... giving rest to her family - being a "soft place to fall".

Author John Eldredge states in his book Wild At Heart that he believes that men and women both display unique attributes of God and that one of the attributes of God that women display is nurturing. In Psalm 91:3-5, the Psalmist writes about God giving us refuge "under His wings" and covering us "with His feathers". In Matthew 23:37 and Luke 13:34, Jesus says of Jerusalem, "how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing." These passages say to me that Sadie's portrayal of Jesus's words in Matthew 11:28 are not all that far from God's feelings for us - that He longs to show us His tenderness - if we are only willing. He will no more force us to be receptive to His affection for us than we can force our children to accept our love. However, not unlike our children, sometimes our circumstances force us into a place where we are more willing to accept the loving kindness of God. Violet, for instance, is fiercely independent. However, a tumble off a chair or the presence of a stranger will usually propel her into my arms. Likewise, our own difficulties might be an opportunity to turn to safety in the arms of the One who promises "I will give you rest".

All Male

Lately our youngest son, Levi, has been becoming more and more conversational. He is just 3, and, being a little tall for his age and quite talkative, often gets mistaken for an older child - that is, unless he throws himself down on the floor and wails... and ends up giving his toddler-hood away.

This morning, I was putting some designs on the walls of the room he shares with his nearly two year old sister. I was enjoying the work - despite the manifold interruptions - and the occasional "terrible two" who enjoyed peeling the vinyl back off the wall after I had applied it.

Levi is at an age when he likes to dress himself. He prefers, of all things in the middle of winter, shorts and t-shirts. This morning he was looking for a particular dinosaur t-shirt. I had found one with dragons on it, but it wasn't the one he "needed" to wear. As I had my back turned (working on the vinyl), he had, unbeknownst to me, emptied his entire shirt drawer onto their bedroom floor. Once I finally noticed this, I hollered that he needed to come in from the living room to clean up his shirts off the bedroom floor. I still find myself surprised, for some reason, when he is actually able to comprehend and complete a chore that I ask of him. He seems, in fact, to enjoy chores, and I often use sometimes meaningless chores to distract him or to keep him busy.

As it so happens, while he was cleaning up his shirts and putting them back in his drawer (considerably less folded than they had been before), his dad walked into the room. He looked at Mark and said, "Yeah, dad, I was in the other room and mom yelled to me (insert exaggerated, whiny, feminine-imitation voice here), 'Levi, you get in here and clean up these shirts!' So that's what I'm doin'." I was a little incredulous that he imitated my voice. This, evidently, is how I sound to him. I glanced back at Mark to see the wide grin on his face quickly fade to a smirk. I could tell he was amused, and I pretended to be a little annoyed at all this "making fun at mom's expense". However, I couldn't help but find it funny too... the little man he is turning out to be.

As Levi ran out of the room, Mark looked at me, and he said, "He's wearing shorts?"

I said smiling, "Yes. He promises he's not going outside today."

He said, "Those shorts are dirty too. He must have dug them out of the dirty clothes."

I said, "I'm not surprised. You know, I blame you for all this male-ness."

He said, "What?"

I said, "You know, all the male-ness: dirty clothes, shorts in the winter, dumping his dresser on the floor, the mock female voice... It's all your fault."

Mark responded, "Ah... okay."

I said teasingly, "He is half male, you know."

To which Mark replied, "Oh, no, honey. He's all male."

Last night, before I put him to bed, Levi told me that he had a dream. He said, "Dad was the little boy, and I was the dad. He said that, in his dream, Mark had gotten a "hurt finger". He said, "There was blood, and I looked at it, and it was cracked off." I asked, "Did you take care of daddy?" To which he responded, "Yeah, I went and got him a bandaid." I said, "Did that help his finger that was cracked off?" He said, "Yeah, we just threw it in the garbage and he felt a lot better." I guess, since dad's all male he can get a "cracked off" finger and, with a little help from a bandaid, just walk it off.

We get a good chuckle out of many of the things our children say or do... especially the youngest two at their ages. But, having had only sisters and then daughters for so long, I am constantly amazed at what my little boy does and says.

When Mark made the "all male" comment, we laughed, and, as he left the room, I started to think about the wonder of that. A male and a female got together, and, from their union, God made one or the other who is equal parts of both yet only either male or female. Now, if you ask anyone, they'll say that he's mostly Mark from the looks of things, but I can tell, from the temper and some other less desirable traits, that he is also me.

At this time of year, my thoughts turn to another little boy - One who was born of a virgin in a stable in Bethlehem a couple millennia ago. I've always had a little trouble with the concept, or maybe rather the visualizing of, the "fully God, fully man" that Jesus is. He was all Mary yet was all God. And in life, He was truly perfect - being all God. And this conversation, although completely obvious, made things a little more clear to me. Just as Levi, being born of both me and Mark, is fully male; Jesus, being born of Mary and God, was fully God in human flesh. Neither of those little boys would have ever existed, had it not been for the bond between the entities that combined to bring them about. Just as Mary's bond with God was something He used to bring forth life - vitality - from her, my bond with God is something He uses to bring forth life in me... not just living - but vitality, vibrance, and purpose. My own life is meaningless without that bond. Yeah, I could still exist, survive, and plod through my days, and sometimes I do... but I miss out on life if I don't stay connected to the life giver.

⁵"I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing. - John 15:5

Hope Floats

I haven't blogged in a while. I'm feeling a little bit rusty, in fact, but here goes...

About three weeks ago, I started meeting with the dietician at our local hospital. I have been suffering from some back problems for a couple years now, and it was the pain in my back that motivated my trips to the dietician. I am hoping that if I lose some weight my back will feel better and I can avoid more long-term treatments and surgery. The dietician was quick to inform me that I am not "on a diet". I am, in fact, "living a new lifestyle". This makes it considerably harder to avoid a complex explanation when people ask me why I'm avoiding sweets or bingeing on rabbit food. "I'm on a diet" has a more noncommittal, less haughty, more slacker-friendly ring to it than, "I've chosen a new, healthier lifestyle." (Take it from a perennial slacker.) Anyway, I have only lost three pounds in three weeks, according to her scale, but I'm down from a size 12 to a 10. So I'm okay with that.

Along with my new lifestyle comes time-consuming tasks like reading labels at the store, hunting for foods that are healthier, and finding the time for exercise during busy days. I am discovering so many new types of foods that are quick, easy, and healthy. I didn't know there was a such thing as chicken sausage. I didn't know a person could make brownies using only a can of black beans and a brownie mix. I'm not saying that these discoveries have made my life more fun, but it is my hope that they will begin to improve the quality of my life.

I decided to make turkey chili this evening, and threw in some hot dogs and a chicken sausage for me. When it came time to put the hot dogs in a bun and turn them into chili cheese dogs, I had to search for the hot dogs - which had sunk to the bottom of the pot of chili. My chicken sausage, on the other hand, was floating on the top. I still can't tell you why it was less dense than the other entrails-based food products in the pot of chili. It just floated. I decided that's because it was "light", and I hoped it was going to make me light too. I mean, I already float just fine. But I guess I don't want to float so easily anymore. Anyway...

This is the week of Thanksgiving. We have decided to try to start a family tradition in conjunction with the upcoming holiday that involves making a strip of a paper chain each night - on it is written one thing for which we are thankful. Each of us writes on a chain link each evening at dinner time. We plan to keep doing this until Christmas and to use it to decorate our house for Christmas.

Tonight was our first night of paper chaining. Austin insisted on a green strip with an "army green" marker with which he wrote, "DOG" with emphasis. Claire, who was sitting next to him, wrote, on her pink strip with her pink marker, "GOD". At first, I wasn't sure if she was just copying off of Austin with a little dyslexia rolled in there. But she was the first to tell me about what she wrote. Sadie and I also wrote something about God or Jesus, and Mark wrote, "FAMILY" on his red strip. Levi wasn't quite sure what the phrase "What are you thankful for?" even meant, but finally he succumbed to the power of suggestion and said, "DAD" (on whose lap he was sitting). So I wrote that down for him. Violet had disappeared from the table shortly after devotions and had wandered off from her plate. What had been a chili cheese dog (without the bun), on Violet's plate, had been reduced to beans, cheese, and tomatoes. We decided as a family that Violet is thankful for "MEAT".

Our supper table reading had to do with anchors and how they hold you fast to where you want to be - usually in safety. As Christians, our anchor is not down to the depths of the sea... He is up - enthroned in the highest of heaven. He, at the same time, holds us in one place (safety and security) and takes us beyond ourselves to an infinitely better place - a place where we not only answer to a Higher Power but to where we are able to enjoy deep relationship with Him. He is the fulfillment of our hopes.

This month (and always) I am thankful for thousands of things, not the least of which are chicken sausages, my Anchor, and other "Hopes" that float.