Weeds

I spent some hours pulling weeds in the front flower bed today. Levi and Violet decided they wanted to help me. They are the voluntary workers of the bunch (at least for now). Sadie, too, actually often voluntarily takes up a broom, cleans a room, or organizes an area. I'm not sure how I got so blessed in this area, but I love it when the kids take up a task to help me. This is mostly because I enjoy being around them - talking and working alongside them.

Levi has loved to work ever since he could walk. I credit my husband's genetics with this desire. He also has not learned the fine art of sitting still. Of course, I remember reading a book in which the author commented on the fact that a woman reclining and resting is a beautiful sight, whereas a man reclining and resting is not nearly as attractive and met with at least a mental, "What are you doing? Get up, and get to work... mow a lawn or something." I am blessed with a hard working man as well as children - at least some of whom seem to enjoy working also.

This evening in particular, I got to work pulling weeds and threw the ones I had pulled up onto the porch. I planned to collect them later to put them into the lawn cart to cart down to the burn pile. Levi immediately began to collect them for me and put them into the lawn cart. I pulled the cart closer to the porch, and he and Violet moved all the weeds from the porch into the lawn cart. He began to request the bigger weeds, and said I should give her the smaller weeds. So as I started to do that, they both began to rush back over to me to try to obtain the bigger weeds to carry to the cart. After awhile of fighting over the weed size, she gave up and sat in the mud pile to eat some dirt and a few grubs. (I can't help but suspect that may be what she'd been in it for from the beginning.)

Levi and I split a pair of lawn gloves so we could dig up some thistles and carry them to the cart. He was very meticulous about making sure that he grabbed the "pokey" weeds with the gloved hand. This was further evidence to me that he was his father's son. As I am a little scatter-brained when it comes to things like that. With every weed I dug up and tossed toward him, he congratulated me, "Way to go, mom! You're doing a great job, you know?" Being a prisoner of politeness myself, I had to reply each time with a, "Thank you, Levi. You're doing a great job too." It was nice to see him being so helpful and hear him being so encouraging. I kept wondering, "Where have I gone right?" I'm not sure it's me at all or just something inborn.

This weeding reminded me of last summer when we were doing almost the identical weeding project in the front. Sadie, Claire, and Levi were helping, and Violet was sitting in her little rocking chair on the porch watching us. I don't know if I'll ever forget that time. Claire is my less-motivated worker. She isn't interested in helping keep things neat or tidy. She isn't particularly interested in a clean room or work space, and some people have come right out and told me that they have never once seen her with a clean face. (I've found she is somewhat like Pigpen in that she generates her own cloud of dust.) Anyway, it was a hot, summer evening, and we were all sweating as we pulled weeds. Levi was working hard and loving it. Sadie was sweeping the dirt clods off the sidewalk and porch, and Claire was... well, we weren't sure what Claire was doing. She was looking for worms and grubs, giving certain weeds a smell test, and twirling them around her head. I kept trying to encourage the kids to keep working hard.

Claire said, "I have to go to the bathroom." This is a move that Claire is utterly famous for... Her bladder has impeccable timing - when cold vegetables are languishing on a dinner plate, during pastor's sermon (if we're sitting near the front and inside of a row), a school lesson is dragging on, mom is waxing eloquent, or during chores - her bladder can always be counted on for a spasm or two. I raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, hurry up. We'll save some work for you." She took off toward the bathroom. After about 10 minutes, I began to wonder if she had fallen in. She came back out shortly thereafter and said, "Oh, I forgot my shoes inside." Then she took off again for the air conditioned house. She took a whole 5 minutes more (at least) to find her shoes. When she returned, she found me complimenting the others on their hard work. I said something to the effect of, "Levi, you are doing a great job. You might deserve the hard worker award." Now, there is no hard worker award at our house. I'm not even sure what prompted me to say it. I just figured it'd be something like a lollipop. He was barely 2. That would work. I saw Claire stop dead in her tracks at the words "hard worker award". The performance I witnessed thereafter was worth the $7.50 I paid to get in. It started with Claire fighting the working children for their jobs. She was ripping weeds from Levi's hands and trying to find another broom for sweeping. After about 2 minutes of this, she walked behind me and said, not directly to me, "Whew! I am sweating!" Then, about a minute later, there was a, "I'm working so hard I'm already getting tired." What a doll! It was priceless.

The happy ending is that all the kids got a lollipop and a cold drink for helping mom. An interesting thing I learned about all the kids that day is that some people are just wired to work out of duty (Sadie) or compulsion/drive (Levi), but others need there to be something in it for them - some type of reward (Claire). She responds very positively to a reward system. I was doing it because I enjoy (when I have the chance) to be outside and to work on a garden. It meets a need in me.

This makes me wonder if people respond to God in a similar way. Some attend church out of a sense of duty. Some are compelled or driven to it. Others do it for what they perceive might be in it for them. Still others do it out of love, because they are blessed by it, and it awakens something inside of them.

Jesus Himself spoke of "rewards" in heaven throughout the gospels. Matthew 5:11-13 - the Beatitudes - He speaks of rewarding those who are persecuted in this life. In Matthew 6:1-19, Jesus speaks of giving, fasting, and praying and that our acts of right should be done in private - not in front of everyone - because God sees what we do without our telling Him (or everyone else), and He will be faithful to reward us for what we do in secret. There are several other references about the rewards that some will receive from God - making it clear that He is not socialistic in His reward system (like I was) - that they are not doled out equally to everyone. But Matthew 6 is worth a second look. We are best off to hide our good deeds, if our purpose is to gain man's praise for them. For one thing, man's praise is fickle... coming and going with changing moods and changing standards. God never intended us to work to please other people. With man, well pleased is a moving target... never so with God. He is the only One trustworthy with our hearts, because He knows what's in them - the true motives - and is, therefore, the only audience that counts.

Claire and I have a lot to learn about good deeds done in secret.

This I Know...

Austin and I went to the grocery store tonight. We are scrambling to prepare for an impromptu birthday party for him tomorrow (he was supposed to be with his mom this week in Iowa). He and I went to pick up a few food items, etc. for his special day tomorrow.

As we were headed home, we decided to grab some late supper and go down to sit at the river and eat. As the sun was beginning to set, we pulled the van into a stall near the historic Lincoln statue and cabin on the North side of the Rock River. I noticed some of the homeless men I know from the shelter sitting under the porch of the cabin. I waved as we sat in the van eating and talking.

There is a man in our town. His name is Scott. He has no legs, and he pushes himself around in his wheelchair... all over town. I've seen his chair at the taverns around town many times. One night, a little over a year ago, I sat at a stop light in my husband's car. I don't drive his work car very often, as it generally leads to some type of embarrassment. (In the winter, the window sticks, and I have had to pound on it like a maniac to get it to open at drive-up windows or mailboxes.) That night, it was warm, and he had the sun roof and every window open as I borrowed it to drive over to our realtor's house. As I sat at the light, I looked to my right and saw Scott. He was obviously intoxicated and shouting at passersby - swearing and screaming angry words. I was alone in the car and getting nervous. I couldn't help looking at him, but then we locked eyes. Oh, no! I panicked as he started rolling off the curb and toward the car. Buttons, buttons... where were the right buttons to roll up every conceivable window and open crevice in the car and lock all the doors? I fumbled recklessly as "flight or flight faster" was apparently kicking in. Rationally thinking, I would have known that this man was virtually harmless. He didn't seem harmless. I managed to get the window almost completely rolled up as he rolled up to the window and began to pound on it with his fists. I looked over at him, smiling nervously and waving, as my heart pounded in my chest. He looked at me, and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am," and moved on to the next car.

Well, tonight I met Scott. He had been sitting, talking with the other homeless men at the cabin. Austin asked me if that was the man who had been yelling at me through the car window that time (as he had heard the story), and I replied yes. He asked how the man had lost his legs. I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I had heard a rumor that it had to do with his being drunk and falling into a fire. As Austin and I talked and ate while listening to the radio, Scott began to roll toward the van. My heart started to skip a little again as I contemplated turning the key in the ignition and taking off again. I said something to the effect of, "Oh, great. Now what are we going to do?" Austin said, "I'm with you this time, mom." It was more comfort than I had anticipated, and we just sat watching as Scott made his move.

He rolled up to the curb next to the van and started to talk. The smell of alcohol and unbathed flesh drifted toward the car. Flies and bugs were buzzing about him and crawling on his body. His fingernails were long and yellow and many of them were broken off jaggedly. He had trash bags wrapped around the bottoms of what was left of his legs. He was wearing an open button-down jersey and some purple shorts. His yellowed gray hair was partially covered in a brown cap. He asked about the weather report. (I had actually just looked at it on the computer before I left home and therefore had a valid response - some common ground.) He told us stories about doctors who had done him wrong, people who had called him names and nearly run him down, and his dreams to write and sing a song on stage with his fender guitar signed by Eric Clapton. He told us the story of how he had lost his legs in a fire one night when he was drunk and how his friends had rolled him too close to the fire and he had lain there for 12 hours - not knowing his legs were burning. He told us about his housing situation, the government, his dream of rolling to Washington D.C. before he dies. He told us how he had been a Navy Seal for 4 years and showed us the cross tattoo he had gotten at age 14. I got out of the van to introduce myself properly and went to kneel down next to him to listen closer. He told me he was dying of pancreatic cancer according to the doctor and had about 6 months to live. As he began to weep heavily, he cried that he knew he was going to die and was afraid he wasn't leaving anything good behind. He told me how he had always been a "hell raiser". He sobbed that he didn't know where he was going to go when he died. "I've paid my daily dues," he said, "but I'm still afraid I'll end up in hell."

Amid the distractions of sirens passing and motorcycles rumbling past, I found it difficult to take up such a complex topic. I asked him if he knew about Jesus, and he said he did. We talked awhile about spiritual things. I asked him if he knew he was created for more than he was living. He began to cry again, and he said that he did. We talked about the longing for eternity with God, and I got up the courage to ask if I could pray with him. At the moment the words were coming out of my mouth, a motorcycle roared past loudly and drowned me out. WHY??? Hadn't it been hard enough to ask without not being heard? Scott (who I found was easily distracted by noise, etc.) seemed off in another world now, talking about motorcycles, and shouting at the man who had ridden by. I felt maybe I was off the hook - almost relieved. I started to think of ways to end this conversation, because the sun was nearly down, and I needed to get home. After he got done shouting at the motorcycler, he looked up at me, and said, "Yes, I want you to pray with me." So he had heard me after all. As if thinking of it simultaneously, we reached out to hold hands. I prayed silently that I would say what needed to be said. He wept as I prayed - thanking God for Scott and his life and for many other things. I can't remember what all I prayed, but he wept heavily again. He thanked me when I was done. I gave him a hug. He embraced me tightly and said, "You know me, don't you?" It struck me that he just wanted to be known by someone. He wanted someone to see him. He asked if we had a dollar so he could get a hamburger - swearing (without any prompting) that he was going to use it for food (as he already had 2 large cans of beer in his lap). Austin piped up from the car, "I have one!" He gave it to me. I handed it to Scott, and I got in the van. As he wheeled away, he declared, "If I was younger, I'd have married you, darlin'." At which, I smiled.

When I got back into the van and shut the door, Austin smiled, and he said, "Wow, mom. He liked talking to you. I think you earned a big, purple jewel in your crown tonight." I smiled doubtfully as I turned the key to start toward home. Except... the ignition clicked - dead battery. I had failed to turn off the radio/lights as I was talking to Scott, and we were stuck there another 20 minutes as we waited for my wonderful granddad to come jump start our dead battery. It was a little awkward as the homeless guys watched us sit there to wait for Grandpa to help us out. I was glad that he could help. I'm sure Grandpa didn't approve of why I was stuck there. He didn't say much.

Austin and I talked on the way home. We discussed how narrow my focus had been the first time I had encountered Scott. I had been afraid and unwilling to take the time to see him as a person and not an inconvenience or "boogey man". I was ashamed that I had acted that way, and we got the opportunity to discuss how our narrow focus and judgmental attitudes can keep us from the joy of sharing our hope with those in need.

As I got home in time to help put the kids in bed, Levi got out of bed after our first try of putting him in bed. I asked him what was wrong. He said simply, "I'm scared, mom." As I started in with the parental, "There's nothing to be scared of..." speech, he interrupted me with 5 words, "Is Jesus watching over me?" I said, "Yes he is." He said, "Okay." He turned around and got in his bed. I tucked him in, and that's the last we saw of him tonight.

It occurs to me... we all just want to know that Someone is watching over us - that He knows our fears and cares for us... that He knows us. 1 Peter 5:6-7 says, " ⁶Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, ⁷casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you." God knew we would want to know that He cares for us. His eyes are upon us.

Psalm 139

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

¹ O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.

² You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

³ You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

⁴ Before a word is on my tongue

you know it completely, O LORD.

⁵ You hem me in—behind and before;

you have laid your hand upon me.

⁶ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

⁷ Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

⁸ If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

⁹ If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

¹⁰ even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

¹¹ If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,"

¹² even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

¹³ For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

¹⁶ your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me

were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

Kahlua "Cut Off"

If you know me well at all, you will have likely heard this next story. If you've been reading my blog a little, this next story is not likely to surprise you.

A few years back I started going to the nice salon in town. I had been doing the "walk-in" thing for years at different salons in the area, and - being blessed/cursed (depending on the day) with naturally very curly hair - let's just say that walk-ins, always, without exception, ended badly. I usually just ended up cutting my own hair... which ended up equally as badly, but at least I hadn't paid money for it. I tried the nice salon once, and was hooked. Yes, nice usually equals more expensive, but sometimes (like with paper towels and chocolate) "you get what you pay for". Nice sometimes comes with new rules of etiquette and a little more luxury too. For example, this new salon doesn't accept tips. This came as a huge relief, because I always hated paying for "poodle" at those walk-in salons and then trying to figure out how to thank the "groomer" with a monetary gift of appreciation. A luxury at the new salon was the offering of free beverages upon one's arrival. This was another pleasant surprise. That day, I would get more surprise than I had anticipated.

On a cold day in winter, I walked into my new salon, and the girl behind the counter asked me if I wanted a beverage. I responded in the affirmative and waited somewhat patiently as she gave me the list of choices - having been sold on "hot chocolate" ever since the two words escaped her lips somewhere near the top of the list. I always laugh that I'm not quite a grown-up yet, as I haven't acquired a taste for coffee - the real grownup beverage. So if there's a warm drink alternative like cider or hot cocoa... YES, ma'am. I'm in. When I told her I wanted the hot chocolate she smiled sweetly, and then narrowed her eyebrows with a devilish grin and said, "With cool whip?" Had I died and gone to heaven? Of course, with cool whip. Did she even have to ask? I wondered why she had given me that look when she asked about the cool whip - as if "cool" and "whip" were what Grandma would call "whisper words". When I nodded in the affirmative, she asked with greater enthusiasm, "Lots?" So I matched her enthusiasm with my response... we were so in sync. I liked this gal.

Well, as it turns out, in a salon there are lots of noises - water running in the basins, blow dryers, cash registers, and jingling bells on the door - not to mention the constant jibber-jabber that my husband would call "cackling and clucking". Apparently, above such din, the words "cool whip" sound uncannily like the similar and slightly less benign word - "kahlua" - a coffee flavored liqueur. And by liqueur, I mean an alcoholic beverage that barely qualifies as alcohol.

However, for a nearly perpetually pregnant/nursing mother who had barely ever consumed alcohol before this occasion, it ended in a little embarrassment.

As the girl brought me my beverage a few minutes later I couldn't help but think, "You know, for all the fuss she made over asking me if I wanted a lot of cool whip, this thing doesn't have one drop!" I am glad now that I hadn't mentioned the discrepancy to the girl, or my bumpkinnes (yet again another made up word) would have been revealed, and I would have been shunned from sophisticated society forever. I drank it, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than I would have had it contained my favorite whipped topping. It tasted a little funny, but these fancy salons and their flavored concoctions... can't just leave well enough alone. Hello, grandma. (Sometimes she just shows up.)

Anyway... by the time my stylist arrived at my chair, I was already feeling relaxed. Within a few minutes of the start of my haircut, I was giggling uncontrollably at everything she said. She asked if I was alright. Of course, I responded, "of course". She said, "Are you sure? You're acting funny." I told her she was too, and we laughed about that. Then she asked perceptively, "What are you having to drink?" I said, "Hot chocolate." She said, "With kahlua?" mmm... exsqueeze me? I responded (a little less guarded about my bumpkinness), "You know, I think so." She asked, "Who made it? Was it ___?" I said, "Yep." She said, "Oh, she likes to put a lot of kahlua in it." She then asked if I drank coffee, at which I thought, "Well, apparently I do if it's liqueur and swimming in a sea of hot chocolate." What I said was just, "Nope." And she had a girl bring me a glass of water. She took the rest of my hot cocoa away, and she started giving me water to drink. I said, "This is great! I have to go on duty in another hour." We both had a few more laughs at my expense that day - despite the fact she handled my drunkenness very professionally. I purposefully never mentioned the miscommunication that had occurred between me and the sweet gal up front... cool whip and kahlua... I was determined to keep a small portion of my dignity anyway. Apparently hair isn't the only thing that can get "cut off" at the salon these days. Who knew?

Sitting Still - and other myths?

Today has been an emotional one for my family, as we mourn the death of my grandma's brother. He was a very devoted Christian and family man. Strangely, he passed a day after the bishop of our church denomination also died suddenly in a car accident. Why? It's a legitimate question. Now, my great-uncle suffered from the effects of a stroke that happened 12 years ago until he was finally released from the suffering this morning. For most of us, the question of "why" came more when the stroke happened than when he passed away. The stroke diminished his capacities so severely that he was unable to teach Sunday School or help lead any ministries, as he had done for as long as most of us could remember.

Jesus Himself said in Matthew 5:44-46, "⁴⁴ But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous." There are many truths to be gleaned from the whole passage, but the message is clear in that God doesn't play favorites. Good things and difficulties befall us both equally. Now I recognize my blessings for what they are - acknowledging them as a gift from God. This seems obvious to me, but can you imagine giving gifts to someone every day, sometimes several times a day... handing the gifts directly to him/her and having his/her response be something to the effect of, "Wow. I sure got lucky today! This just fell in my lap. I don't know where it came from. I guess I just have good karma. I have great luck... either that, or I'm a really great person and good things just happen to me." Would you continue to lavish gifts on that person? It's a good thing God doesn't deal in emotional currency like we do or our blessings would be few and far between. However, I think He feels more blessed when we acknowledge what His Word has already stated, in James 1:16-17 "¹⁶Don't be deceived, my dear brothers. ¹⁷Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." He's the Giver of all good things, and He doesn't change. His blessings aren't dependent upon His mood or our behavior.

Now coming to death. I have a hard time believing that either Uncle Dick or Bishop are up in heaven right now saying, "Why me??! Why now?!" The thought of it seems absurd. We on earth don't have the luxury of the clarity of thought that they now have. This is a good and perfect gift to them. It certainly doesn't feel that way to us, but ours is coming... someday. As I sit here in the physical pain that I experience from an ailment nearly every day, all day... I can hardly wait for the gift of heaven. Don't get me wrong... the idea of leaving all of my loved ones is difficult to imagine, but since there will be "no tears and no sorrows and no pain" (Revelation 21:4) in heaven, I know that I would not mourn - for time would no longer be an issue either, and my loved ones would be in my arms in a blink anyway.

It comes back to us left on earth. I have seen funerals... the most beautiful of which are when the loved ones left behind are resolved and reassured and trusting in God over the timing of the death and the truth of where their loved one has gone. Why? Absolutely, why. But when we ask this about certain people and not others, then are we attributing more value to a certain type of person? (He/she was a good person, a minister, a servant of God, etc.) These men were Christians. They were in love with their Lord - with whom they now reside. Why them? Why not? They were ready to go. They have been for many years. They have walked with Him for a long time - sometimes through joy and sometimes tragedy. They have had their faith tested. They have walked blindly - seeing through dim glass... just as we do now. Their faith is now sight, and they were more than ready for it. I have more trouble asking why over someone who has not repented and who is not ready to meet their maker than over someone who is. If they ever questioned God's goodness in life, I'm sure they're not questioning it today.

Jesus himself said in John 14:26-27, "²⁶But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. ²⁷Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." He was preparing His disciples for His own absence. He was giving them comfort for when He was gone. He was helping them by giving them - not worldly comfort... but heavenly comfort. He knew they would want Him and that they needed comfort in their sadness. In John 16:32-33 He said, "^32'But a time is coming, and has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me. ³³"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.'" Jesus anticipated a time when He would be alone in this world, and the fleshly part of Him definitely noticed it - almost seemingly in a worrying way (You will leave me all alone.) - but He didn't despair, and nor should we, for He knew His Father would be with Him. He also acknowledged what we all so painfully find out - we'll have trouble here. This isn't our home. We are here a relatively short time before we too join those in eternity. That's why we often feel uncomfortable, out of place, and as if we were created for more. It's because we were.

I was watching the river today. It was flowing quickly in one direction. I remembered what someone once said about being in a boat on that same river. He said that if he didn't row upstream, he would float downstream with the current. The oddest part is that it didn't feel like he was going anywhere. He felt as though he was sitting still. However, when he looked up he realized he had floated far downstream. He recognized at that point that if he was not rowing purposefully in the opposite direction of the current, He would be inadvertently transported downriver. That's the way it is with us. Sometimes I can get annoyed with people who seem "ultra-spiritual" as though they've attained some kind of higher ground with God than I have. But it's true. They have. It's not because they're more special. It's because they're rowing harder. For one reason or another they have not only discovered the key to a close relationship with the Lord (the same as it is with anyone else - close, intimate contact and constant communication) but (this is the part most of us have trouble with) they are continuing to strive at it - keeping up with it, making it work. Likely something happened to them along the way to drive them to God and motivated them to keep Him close. My divorce did that with me, yet even now I find myself taking God for granted sometimes. I think it's usually our difficulties that prove our faith - and where it is placed. Is my faith in me? In God? In my perception of God? Is it weak? Is it steadfast?

Life is precious, absolutely. So are those with whom we are blessed to spend our days on earth. But life on earth is just a tiny portion of that for which we were created. Some people get to eternity earlier than others. That's only a tragedy when they are not prepared for it. Our perspective (through no fault of our own) is temporal and physical, because it's all we know. We see life as precious because it is, but it's not over for either of these men. It's just the end of the season they spent on earth. We see the end of physical life as a curse or an injustice. I know I would feel that way - in particular if I lost a younger loved one. But I would still be wrong. Not to negate feelings, because they often seem more real than any knowledge we can possibly attain. They are extremely powerful, but they eventually fade and disappear in a way that truth never does. I remember losing my husband to another life. It was just as painful as if he was dead - moreso in a way because of the fact that he had taken himself away from me and our children intentionally. This was a pain that was so intense at times I was sure I wouldn't be able to draw my next breath. I remember talking to a widower during that time, and he said he was glad that he wasn't divorced, because his memories of his wife were at least sweet and he knew she didn't want to leave him and their children. However, today, for me, all that is left of that pain is a scar... a memory that's not painful anymore. It's just the facts - not the emotions - that remain.

I'm inspired today to press on toward the goal of better knowing Him with whom I will spend my forever. Why settle for superficiality? Why be quenched with "hallelujah"? Why be sated with religion? If there's more, then I want it. I don't want to feel awkward toward my Creator. When I see Him at last I want to feel joyful and restful in His presence. I want to be comfortable being close to Him now so that I be enthralled with Him later. Who wants eternity with a virtual stranger? Or even worse, who wants to spend eternity with One they thought was something He wasn't at all? I want to know Him. I want to row against the current that is pushing so steadily in the opposite direction.

I Ms.

As most of you know, I am home from my week long stay in California with my wonderful sister and brother-in-law. I went with my oldest, Austin. He is nearly 14. So he is virtually self-sufficient at this point. I looked forward, although with minor trepidation, to the opportunity for a week's break from the very busy everyday life that is mine with several young children. I imagined the excitement of using the restroom without anyone coming in to smear peanut butter on my knee while asking me for another glass of milk. I relished the idea of bathing, grooming, and dressing only myself - or even myself, as some days don't allow time for even that. I savored the thought of a night's sleep without the punctuation of visiting blanket and pillow thieves and toddler squeaks, moans, and cries reverberating from the baby monitor.

Despite frequent phone calls and photo/video updates by phone, by the end of day three, I was in tears at missing my little ones and my husband. I loved where I was and who I was with, but this didn't negate the fact that my heart was decidedly elsewhere.

I remember when I was first divorced. For awhile, I said several times a day - sometimes audibly, "I miss my husband." I continued to say it. At first, I really did miss the physical presence of someone I had cared for, known, and loved for 10 years and lived with in matrimony for nearly 8 years. After a year or so, I didn't so much miss his physical presence. As humans, we can become accustomed to nearly any type of discomfort, I imagine. However, I continued to say it - sometimes only in my mind. I often wondered why. I think it was because I missed the identity I had lost - the "wife & mother". I was still a mother, but that was only half the identity I used to have. "I miss my husband" was more about an identity crisis than missing a person... more about a missing me than a missing he. I learned during that time that I needed no one save God for fulfillment, but I love that He gave me a gift - that of family - to share my life on earth.

I felt this again when I missed my children. I found myself smiling at, waving at, and talking to strangers' children if only to feel counterfeit closeness to my own. I watched the other parents around the park - parenting. I thought, "I do that. Yeah, I'm a parent too." I almost wanted others to know it - wanted to wear a t-shirt declaring it or have it tattooed on my forehead. Why?? I knew that if my kids were there, Levi would be on his monkey backpack leash - pitching fits over sibling annoyances. Violet would be screaming to get out of the stroller and climbing anything that didn't climb her when she wasn't in the stroller. Claire and Sadie would be begging me to ride teacups and Dumbo's and other momits - things that go around and around till mom vomits. Austin would be putting the "middle school distance" between himself and his dorky family or picking mercilessly on the younger children. We'd have to stop at every shop and kiosk and try on every goofy (or donald or mickey or minney) hat in Disneyland. We'd be paying $120.00/meal to eat as a family, taking breaks every 5-15 minutes (alternating between potty/diaper change and water), and every photo I tried to take would have someone frowning, rolling his eyes, making a silly face, or holding bunny ears behind someone else's head. I had none of these "problems", but I was still missing the having of them! That's the insanity that is motherhood.

I rarely have time to do this, but I read the blog of someone I don't know a few weeks ago. A few of my friends were following hers, and I saw that she had well over one hundred readers. She considers herself a writer/poet. I don't know what one has to do to become these things, but I would think, by most standards, it would involve a college degree and some paid work in the writing/poetry field. Anyway, I read one of her posts describing how she was newly pregnant with what would be her first child. She wrote about this in some detail, and then she exclaimed to her readers at the end, something to the effect of, "Don't worry. You won't find me writing about my pregnancy and child now. This won't turn into a mommy blog, because the last thing this world needs is another mommy blog!" The obvious disdain for mothers who blog their daily thoughts was palpable. This was a barb. It annoyed me. Of course, I am a "mommy", and I blog. I found it interesting that the few posts following that one that I skimmed through all mentioned her pregnancy. So... the reality is obvious. Once a woman becomes a mommy, even if just in belly, it changes her identity. She is no longer all about herself - if she has all of the mental and emotional components God intended - she is now about another person. *gasp* There is someone on earth that I consider more special than me!? But the part of me that is mommy no longer has anything important or worthwhile to say or write?

I couldn't wait to get home and hold my babies. They are so dear to my heart. Of all the special things I see them do on a daily basis, the depth of who they are still escapes me. That frustrates and fascinates me. It exasperates me and yet thrills me to my core. I get to learn more about the special, whole, younger people in my home. I suppose I'll never stop learning about them. I can't think of a more precious moment last week than the one that took place the night I got home - singing my baby girl to sleep while she strokes my hair and squeezes my shoulder with her chubby hand... while trying to shove her pacifier into my mouth. The joy of it's telling brings a lump to my throat. Is there any felicity in all the world that compares with this?

Independence is nice, but, for me, dependence is so much nicer. Me is okay, but me and him and him and her and her and him and her is so much more complete. Me and HE is all I really need, but He saw fit to give me more. My identity is loosely tied to those with whom I have formed the tightest earthly bond. I don't need them for survival, but I was given them for thrival. (Yes, I made that word up.) Sure, I am technically more than a Christian, a wife, and a mom, but who cares about that? I've all but forgotten who she was.

Why is it that I seem to overestimate myself and underestimate others? I thank God that I have more than me to impress me. I have my peeps, and they never fail to astonish me.

What's the Worst that Could Happen?

Irrational fears... I think we all have them to some degree. Some of us wouldn't like to admit it, but there is a part of us that worries about something we can't possibly control. Usually, it's something VERY unlikely to ever occur, but the truth of that rarely encounters the illogical worry on the other side of the door... the one between feeling and knowing.

Some of us call them "phobias"... which is just a derivative of the Greek word for fear. I was googling phobias the other day. I was astounded at the wide variety of phobias. I have two in particular myself. The first one is called "globophobia" - fear of balloons. My friends LOVE to tease me about this one, but I blacked out at prom during the balloon drop. The fact is that my fear may be more along the lines of "ligyrophobia" or fear of loud noises. I'm not so much afraid of balloons as of the fact that when they are present people seem to love to pop them. Why? I don't know what's wrong with you people. Along with the ligyrophobia is also the fear of fireworks, gunshots, ziploc bags filled with air, those little air sacks that they use for shipping these days, and McDonald's birthday parties. Now, this seems a pretty avoidable fear, but you'd be amazed how much you'd start to notice all the places you are with your kids that people want to give them a balloon. I would seem awful if I just said, "No thanks. We're not balloon people," and walked away. I mean, who's not balloon people? What kind of hideous creature would withhold a fun, colorful piece of helium-inflated latex joy from their child? I don't even enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes for fear they might show up on my doorstep with balloons (never mind the enormous billion dollar check). I'd probably just black out or throw up on the person who took Ed McMahon's job, and they'd move on to the next house on the list.

My other phobia would be that of using an outhouse/pit toilet. I will not use one. Give me a patch of weeds and a somewhat questionable leaf over an outhouse any day. I wasn't able to find a phobia word for this one. Fear of toilets in general, however, is a phobia, and, believe me, I feel sorry for that guy.

I'll name some of my other "issues" - what I would classify more as worries than phobias. Most of these are ridiculous, but they've crossed my mind at least once - some of them daily. So I take these fears, and then answer them to their logical conclusions, as follows:

1) What if I had been born 100 years or more earlier than I was? What would I have done about the lack of indoor plumbing?

2) What if I had been born when there were no options for orthodontics or facial hair removal?

3) What if nobody takes pity on me when I get old and keeps up with my facial hair removal?

4) What if my words are forever etched on the internet? Will my grandchildren read them? My great grandchildren? I'm not sure I want that kind of pressure. I want them to remember me in some fanciful cloud of imagination... not as I really am.

5) What if I'm like some people and never get famous but then somehow do after I'm dead and the only pictures they find for my biography are bad hair days? Or what if they put a musical montage of my life in pictures together for my funeral and someone like Arthur Hannes narrates?

6) What if I'm not remembered at all?

7) What if salon shampoo is no better than store shampoo - only more expensive?

8) What if organic food is just a government conspiracy to get rid of the smaller, less appetizing produce at higher prices?

9) What if the UPS man knows me better than most other people do, and I don't know him at all?

10) What if archival quality photo paper really isn't? Will all my photos fade and be forgotten?

11) What if too much hair goes down my drain and clogs it?

12) What if Liquid Plumber is bad for the water table?

13) When the word "googling" (above) was not underlined by spell checker, I immediately thought, "That's an actual word now? This world is changing so rapidly. I'm old now. What if I can't keep up?"

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1) I would never have known the joys of indoor plumbing, and my parents might have always wondered with the grass behind the outhouse would never grow.

2) I would have been virtually unmarketable and would have had to join the circus sideshow.

3) I guess the kids will remember me as Grandpa Slagter or that scary old bearded lady who wanted a hug every Sunday during visiting hours.

4) Hopefully their reality check about me will be less disappointing than I anticipate. Chances are I'll be crazy old grandma anyway, and maybe viewing some former moments of semi-lucid writing will be a comfort to them. (Oh, and I'll be dead, and it won't matter.)

5) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

6) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

7) Then I'm wasting money on a label. People have done that for centuries for much more stupid things than shampoo.

8) Then I helped get rid of unwanted produce and feed farmers.

9) It's his job. He doesn't mind.

10) Maybe, but I'll probably be dead, and it won't matter.

11) Hello, Liquid Plumber.

12) Hello, actual plumber.

13) Then I'll fall behind and become an "eccentric"... which will make the frizzy hair and beard more socially acceptable.

My mom used to have a saying. I remember this saying, because I use it on my own children on a regular basis. Now, I know my mom didn't event this saying, because it's very common. However, when mom said it, it had a way of making the worst fears seem a little more ridiculous. She said, "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?" She didn't just say it. She made us play it. She made us actually tell her the thought that had originated the fear and what the future would hold if such a thing should actually occur. It had a way of making the fear melt away almost every time.

I find this interesting, because as I have noticed in some of my older friends and relatives... the little molehills that they didn't deal with as younger people have become mountains as they grew into older people. The little worries and fears that they didn't hand over to a God big enough to handle them turned them into - in some cases - downright fear-ridden, worry-filled, controlling individuals. In most cases, that is very ugly. This concept is not just relegated to the world of fear either - anger, gossip, greed, paranoia, anxiety, and lust (amongst other things) like noses and wrinkles, get bigger as we get older. They make us into people who are sometimes downright difficult to be near. I think if more people would think on that question, "What's the worst thing that could happen?" they would, like I often do, find out that what they fear is actually not quite as horrifying as they originally imagined.

This makes me want to deal with my molehills before they become mountains. I know nowhere else to go but to the One who wants to bear my burdens... the One who bore my biggest burden to Calvary.

I was reading tonight, Psalm 34:2-4 My soul makes its boast in the Lord; let the humble hear and be glad. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together! I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.

I think these verses are worth another think or maybe two. For one thing, it's the humble who can hear the Lord. When I think I'm pretty great or pretty capable or pretty pretty, I negate my ability to hear what He has for me. When I magnify (or see in a larger scale) the Lord and put Him in His rightful place in my life, I (along with my issues) get smaller. When I seek to know Him better, He is more than ready to answer me and deliver me from all my fears. He sees every fear, and He knows the thinking that got me there. Ever wonder where all that ick comes from? Thought -->Feeling-->Action-->Result. And the cycle continues. Your feeling originated from a thought - usually an erroneous one if you're like me. Even if your thinking is just a tiny bit "off" - the rest spins out of control. Claiming truth over the thought restarts the cycle in the right direction.

Now, there are dozens and dozens of other verses that deal with fear and casting our cares where they belong. I am going to park it right here for now. Because I need to think on it. What's the worst thing that could happen?