Selfish in a Box

I am sitting here sharing a box of Sour Patch Kids with Levi. Candy is a guilty pleasure that I rarely allow my kiddos. They eat a lot of fruit, veggies, and whole grain snacks. My mom raised us that way. "What can I have to drink?" was always met with "Water or milk." My grandma still insists to this day that my sisters and I used to frisk her for candy when she came in the door of our house, because we were so candy deprived. Pop was a rare luxury saved for restaurants - one glass about once each month. Sweet cereals were saved for camping vacations when the variety pack of mini cereal boxes was busted out, and we all had to fight over who got the Lucky Charms. Of course, by day 3 all that was left were the Honey Nut Cheerios, and the real vacation (the one from shredded wheat, Grape Nuts, and oat meal) was officially over. My dad will mostly likely be reading this, and he will be disappointed if I don't mention the fact that when we went to McDonald's (which was a rare treat) he bought us each a hamburger, and then he made me and my two sisters share a box of french fries and a drink. He often wondered aloud why my sisters and I fought "like cats and dogs". I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that sugar deprivation and the resulting serotonin deficiency combined with the fry-sharing and fighting over the once-a-year tiny boxes of sweet cereal created an atmosphere that was less conducive to sisterly love and more conducive to fighting like wolf pups over a rabbit carcass. You do the math.

I think it's interesting how I swore I would never be like my parents, but I tend toward those ways of rationing certain types of food. I can look back and understand that it was done for my good - just like I am trying to do with my own children. I think mom and dad were hoping (as I do for my kids) that someday - a constant diet of nutritious food would result in an appetite for good things that would never go away. As my Sour Patch Kids binge would indicate, this may not have gone as planned. Don't get me wrong, my body loves healthy food, and I feel better inside and out when I eat it. It doesn't diminish the fact that I want greasy burgers, cheese fries, and Ben and Jerry's Half Baked ice cream. It almost seems worth the $4.50 a pint sometimes. My body has developed an appetite for nutritious food, but my taste buds sadly have not followed suit.

As I go through photos of my children, the only ones with them eating are with a cookie or lollypop. I guess they're more likely to smile when eating certain things. The carrot sticks and apple peels just don't bring out that smile. I guess they're called "cheesy" grins for a reason.

As Levi and I were eating the box of Sour Patch Kids I noticed I was only giving him the greens and yellows. With any luck, we'll get well past his 4th birthday before he even realizes there are oranges or reds. He doesn't mind, because candy's candy at this point, and when regularly deprived of sugar, sugar-induced delirium is a common outcome. This is clearly my own selfishness at work. I also keep pop in the garage that the children are allowed to look at but not touch. I love to grocery shop alone so that I can, on occasion, purchase a bag of Keebler's frosted animal cookies - the ones with sprinkles. Then I can hide them somewhere in the refrigerator and never have to share them. I know how my kids would love these, but they'll be 32 someday, and then they can buy their own.

I also have to be careful that I am not offering my children healthy foods but setting a bad example by eating mostly what is bad for me - the, "Do as I say not as I do," mentality. This is both a physical and spiritual concept, and, as I notice quite painfully sometimes, they are watching me.

I know that, were I to eat how I feed my children, I would probably be significantly healthier and less "well-rounded". The parallel to the rest of my life is obvious. My parents also fed me other good things when I was growing up - things like church, Bible reading, prayer, and right living. They undoubtedly hoped that feeding me these things would give me a healthy appetite for things that would be good for me. The bottom line is, I had to eventually choose those things for myself. I got to an age where no one was going to offer only those things to me anymore; I had to decide that I wanted them. For me, this didn't happen immediately - not without bingeing on the "junk food" of which I had been deprived first. After seeing that those things taste good for a time but carry with them a bitter aftertaste that sometimes lasts forever, I have had to choose to feed myself with good things. I was hoping that my body would develop more of an appetite for those things over time, and it has somewhat. Just like with my physical body - I feel better inside and out when I feed my spirit well. However, I would still much rather sleep in or watch a good movie than go to church some days. I would rather go to bed early than get my Bible out to read it. This just proves that what my flesh wants will never go away. It will still call to me like bacon bits at a salad bar.

My grandparents have discovered in their older age that healthy food doesn't just taste good and help you feel better... it is necessary for LIFE. They wouldn't go on living if they didn't eat right and take care of their physical bodies. Maybe sometimes this sense comes with age - or with the increasing probability of death. Whatever it is - it's the same with our emotional and spiritual health. "Religion" (or as I like to think of it - a relationship with our Creator) isn't just for old people. Old people just got smarter. It takes many of us a long time to appreciate the fact that some things are better for our well-being or even necessary for life.

Levi just came back and asked, "Can I have a little more of your snack, please?" I replied, "It's all gone." He said, "Can I check in your mouth a little bit?" As I opened up for inspection, I realized that, aside from the fact he doesn't seem particularly averse to eating regurgitated food - his own or, apparently, someone else's - it's okay for me to deprive my children of some foods for their own good. I'm not shoving carrot sticks down their throats or giving them tomato juice intravenously. I'm not forcing them to read their Bible or get on their knees each night to pray. I'm just offering them healthy choices. Despite my teasing of my parents, I'm a healthier person today because of the healthy choices they offered me - physically and spiritually. It helped me to realize that it was possible to live without Zingers and R-rated movies and that it feels very good to be healthy. I was bequeathed more than a good immune system, a strong body, and a shiny coat - I was given a chance at a different way of life. I was given not only the love of my parents but the love of One greater than my own flesh and blood. Maybe I've never said this to them before, but, "Thanks for the shredded wheat."

Love Me Tender...

I had sisters. I had daughters. Men have been, for the most part, an enigma to me. They still are in so many ways. My son, Levi, recently turned 3 years old. Based loosely on my causal observation, he has a few loves: sharp objects, blunt objects, fast cars, orange tractors, and a little girl... baby doll that is. Her name is "Baby". As I type, he is standing next to me feeding Baby a sippy cup, because "she's tirsty". I spent the last 15 minutes helping him hunt for Baby, as she had gone missing. He took her with us to the church to paint this morning, and he took her in the car home, but he lost her at some point after that. Where did we find her? On the seat of the orange tractor in the garage. He's tenderly caring for her at the moment. He's showing her a plastic frog he found in the toy box and explaining to her gently that this is her first frog and that frogs say, "ribbit".

A few days ago we happened to be at a friend's house, and, in his excitement over a sword toy, he accidentally left Baby behind. When we realized she was missing, we thought for awhile about where we had left Baby. When we realized where she probably was, I text messaged my friend to ask her if we had left Levi's baby at her house. She said, "Yes, but I assumed it was Violet's baby:)". "No," I replied, "she's Levi's Baby, and he's quite distraught." She responded, "Wow! He'll be a real catch someday. A tough guy with a tender side." What mother would disagree?

You might guess that this fascination with Baby began when Levi's baby sister, Violet, was born. Levi was not quite 2 when Violet was born. He was very nice to her, which is remarkable in itself, considering his treatment of nearly everyone and everything else in the house is usually significantly less than gentle. As you might notice, he has a great role model for how to treat a baby girl... his dad. Mark is tender-hearted toward his girl. Much like Levi is toward his girl.

A few days ago we went to retrieve Baby from my friend's house. My friend left her in a bag outside on their front porch for us. It was a chilly, rainy night. As I brought her back to the car, my husband (who was driving at the time) was smiling as he watched Levi's excitement at me bringing Baby toward the car. He immediately tore open the bag and hugged her tightly - patting her on the back as he said, "Aw, baby... you're so cold and scared." He looked at me, and whispered, "I have to just hold her a lil' while, 'cause she's bery cold." He spent the next 5-10 minute patting her softly on the back and whispering comfort into her ear.

At the left you can see Levi "wearing" Baby during one of our walks last summer. Daddy and Levi carried their babies for the whole walk.

I recognize that, like so very many things in childhood, Levi's preoccupation with Baby will not last forever, but it gives us great joy to watch him as he tenderly cares for her. If Baby were real, she would have quite the stories to tell, I'm sure. She has been there for all of Levi's significant life events over the past year or two. She sleeps in his arms every night. In the past few months as we have been dealing with many doctor appointments for Levi, Baby has been to every appointment too. Sometimes we take a little frog backpack with cars also, but Baby is a staple fixture in all of Levi's experiences. I think I'll be rather sad the day he decides that Baby is "not cool" or that he's outgrown her. She will be placed gently into his box of baby memorabilia - to be looked back on fondly someday.

When he had an MRI a few weeks ago, Baby was in tow. She sat up alertly and watched the process, but then fell immediately asleep as soon as she lay down next to him. (She has a funny way of doing that.) I have to admit I was a little embarrassed at her raggedy, dirty appearance. I said to the nurse, "Yes, Baby needs a bath. She's well-loved." Levi wasn't even slightly embarrassed of her, as he proudly showed her to all newcomers to his hospital room. As he was coming out of sedation, Baby was waiting for him, but unfortunately for her, she ended up wearing the evidence of his after-sedation nausea... twice. As I placed her gently in the washing machine the following day, I wondered if she would make it. Would she survive the washing? I waited anxiously for her return. Even on the gentle cycle, there are no guarantees with toys and washing machines. When she came out, her head was full of water and, when I squeezed it, it drained out, but her head was misshapen. Her head also rattled with some beads that were displaced from her bottom to her top during the washing. Levi didn't seem to notice. He was reunited with her quite happily as soon as she dried out.

Yesterday I was using a program on our new computer. It recognizes faces of people in the photo and places a box around the face and has a line underneath the box for me to type in the name of the person in the face box. This program fascinates me - how it can recognize a human face - for one thing. Furthermore, after the first time you've tagged someone in a photo, it asks in future photos, "Is this ___?" and fills in the blank with its best guess of who is in the photo. I found myself amused at how many times I would flip to another photo and see a tiny box around Baby's face with the words underneath, "Is this Baby?" I wouldn't have even recognized she was in most of the photos, but the computer did. Indeed, it's Baby. She was in so many photos that she now has her own file folder in our computer - photos of Baby.

I also have a son who is almost 14. He tends to think that Levi's fancy of Baby is a little "whimpy". I have wondered myself, having never had a son, if his love for a pink baby is odd... not that I'm worried about it. I find in the Word of God (Psalms 91:4, Matthew 23:37, Luke 13:34, Luke 1:78) that God Himself longs to gather us "under his wing" and treat us most kindly. He desires to have compassion on and to "speak tenderly" to us. A heart of compassion and tenderness is not just a gift of woman. It is also a gift to us from God. Masculinity does not preclude gentleness. In fact, it would seem as though gentleness completes true masculinity. For some reason, there seems much more strength in the kindness of a man.

I remember, when I was a child, looking up at the men around me and gaging their size. Was each one a "big guy" or not? Big guys made me feel safe and secure. As I grew up, I was better able to gage the actual size of the men I had known as a child. It seems as though the ones I often thought were "big" were actually no larger than the others. It seems it was more something about their character that made them seem larger than their physical stature. I think in a world full of text messages, e-mail, and the internet - where it is easy to be selfish and to dehumanize others - compassion is a rare quality - especially for a man. I figure a little tenderness can give a guy an extra foot or so of stature... easily.

My husband is 6'4". I'm 5 1/2 feet tall. Levi is tall for his age. Given his genetics, I imagine that he'll end up being a pretty tall grown man. That being said, it's far more important to me that he continues to be tender-hearted toward others - especially those weaker or smaller than he. That way, he can grow up to be a "Big Guy".

Broken Home

Broken home, step-family, blended family, yours-mine-and-ours... These were phrases that I never imagined would have someday pertained to my situation when I married my first husband 13 years ago this coming August. I remember wondering on that day what our future would hold - never imagining that it would hold the heartache of lost love - a "broken home". When I held my first, sweet baby in my arms I never imagined she would someday call another woman "mom".

My current husband and I married our first spouses young and, I believe, could be great motivational speakers to teens on dating/marriage... the what not to do type. Would that be "unmotivational speaking"? I digress.

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I haven't gotten to celebrate Mother's Day for very many years yet, and the years I have celebrated it has been mostly with children who are babies/toddlers from whom a mom expects very little for Mother's Day. The burden inevitably falls on the man of the house - who, just as inevitably, fails to meet my expectations year after year. I've often sat down and tried to delineate just exactly what my expectations are and if they could even be met, and I've pretty much come up with a solid, NO, because I don't even really know what I want to happen - I just want it to be spectacular. So, that being said, I've tried to lower my standards a bit. The girls came up, on their own, with a few hand-made cards which I loved. Levi managed to wake me with a sweet whispered, "Happy Mudder's Day, Mom," which I also loved. Austin was away from our house with his own mother this past weekend - for the first time since last November. Levi thoroughly disliked the implication that Austin was with his mom when, clearly, I was (in his mind) Austin's mom. He stated this several times throughout the weekend, to giggles from the girls and once a sigh, and a, "Give him a couple more years, and he'll understand," from Sadie.

Will he? The answer is no. Not really. His mind might comprehend the concept, but (by God's continued grace) his heart will never know the brokenness of the other people in our home. He has reluctantly accepted that the girls' "udder dad" (actual udders not included) comes to see them one night a week and every other weekend. He still has yet to understand why he can't accompany them when they go or why they have to be gone so often. His favorite phrase when they are absent is, "Where are da kids?"

When Mark and I both first considered getting married again, we knew that, at least statistically speaking, our marriage only had a 25% chance of survival. We took this very seriously as we considered the risks to ourselves and, more importantly, to our children. The idea that they could face heartache of divorce again was more than either of us was willing to put our children through if we could at all help it. We entered into this marriage with caution, advice from trusted counselors, and a lot of prayer. Circumstantially, this marriage hasn't been any easier than our first marriages were. In fact, in many ways it has been more difficult as we never had a "BC" era (before children, that is). We were married after only a few short months of courtship; we have moved twice; we have five children total; and we deal with our ex-spouses and their spouses and the absence of some of our children on a semi-daily basis. The truth, we have realized, is that marriage is difficult - no matter who happens to be your spouse. It is filled with the same unfulfilled needs, unmet expectations, problems, bills, disagreements, and questions as our first marriages were. The difference is that our current marriage is made up of two people committed to God first and then to one another and to our children.

The first few months of our married life were spent on Mark's family farm in Iowa. I have always loved farms, farmers, and farming, but I grew up very much in town. I reminisce about Mark explaining to me the "garbage rules" when the girls and I first moved to the farm with him and Austin. These consisted of, among other complexities, the fact that all food scraps were to be saved for the hogs to whom I was to go feed them at the end of the day. Now, if you've ever been on a hog farm you may have noted that the houses are always built upwind of the hog buildings/lots - and for obvious reasons. I relished the opportunity to feel like a real farm wife - shouting "sewweee!" to the swine with gusto. If, however, I happened to make the rookie mistake of going out to the lot to drop scraps when the wind was stirring to a different direction, I was met with the sniff and scowl when I came to bed for the evening... which meant, "Go take a shower. You smell." In addition to this newbie error, Mark found one morning after breakfast, that I had a pile of bacon and sausage separated from the egg shells and other leftovers from breakfast. He said, "What's this in a different pile for?" "Well," I replied with some amount of confidence, "the pigs surely can't eat themselves. That's just wrong." He responded gruffly (but with a slight smirk), "If one of them drops dead in the lot, the rest go over and eat it. So I don't think they'll mind a little bacon." I look back on those things and laugh, because they were bonding moments for us. Laughter has often been used as part of our bonding process.

At the beginning, when we were all getting used to our new arrangements - changed up bedrooms, houses, even states - we sometimes got bogged down with all of the "new". It struck me one day that God had put us in the ideal environment for the healing of our broken places. Each of us were now in a household with 4 other people who knew the heartache of rejection, the pain of unfulfilled ideals, and the loneliness that comes from missing another person who is (or was) part of yourself. That has become our family pep-talk. It has given us reason to have compassion for one another when we might normally feel apathetic. It has given us an unspoken bond that is our own. I always remind the children that every family has pain - for some it is illness. For some it's the death of a loved one. For some, it is abject poverty or abuse. Divorce is our family pain. It is also our family bond.

Mark and I read a lot of books and other literature when we first got married about step-families. One book stated, rather harshly I thought at the time, that "blended families" is a nice name, but it's too "touchy feely". It doesn't deal with the reality that there is no way to "blend" a family. It basically said, "You're a step family, and that's all you'll ever be. So don't expect to blend, because your identity is that of a step family." I think the author of this material was trying to keep us from the probable starry-eyed assumption that we'll be able to take two families and make them into one. That was partly right. Yesterday, when Austin came home he neglected to acknowledge to me that it was Mother's Day. However, he told me how his mother had loved the ring he picked out for her and bought from my grandpa for her. Claire also said to me that she has "two moms". The selfish side of me reared its ugly head thinking, "What about me?! I do everything for you. They don't clean your dirty clothes. They don't fix your owies. They aren't there to crawl into bed with when there's a storm outside." I don't say these things, and I feel ashamed that I even feel them sometimes. The lucid part of me knows that I am SO happy that the girls have a loving step-mother, and I'm very thankful for her. I'm also happy for Austin that he got to visit his mom, as I know that's important to him.

The following is copied from Revive Our Hearts ministry website. It fell out of my Bible and landed on the floor recently, and I found it as I was sweeping under our kitchen table.

Proud People

Focus on the failures of others

A critical, fault-finding spirit; look at every- one else’s faults with a microscope, but their own with a telescope

Self-righteous; look down on others

Independent, self-sufficient spirit

Have to prove that they are right

Claim rights; have a demanding spirit

Self-protective of their time, their rights, and their reputation

Desire to be served

Desire to be a success

Desire self-advancement

Have a drive to be recognized and appreciated

Wounded when others are promoted and they are overlooked

Have a subconscious feeling, “This family is privileged to have me and my gifts”; think of what they can do for God

Feel confident in how much they know

Self-conscious

Keep others at arms’ length

Broken People

Overwhelmed with a sense of their own spiritual need

Compassionate; can forgive much because they know how much they have been forgiven

Esteem all others better than them-selves

Have a dependent spirit; recognize their need for others

Willing to yield the right to be right Yield their rights; have a meek spirit

Self-denying

Motivated to serve others

Motivated to be faithful and to make others a success

Desire to promote others

Have a sense of their own unworthiness; thrilled that God would use them at all

Eager for others to get the credit; rejoice when others are lifted up

Heart attitude is, “I don’t deserve to have a part in any family”; know that they have nothing to offer God except the life of Jesus flowing through their broken lives

Humbled by how very much they have to learn

Not concerned with self at all

Willing to risk getting close to others and to take risks of loving intimately

I used to think that I was what was broken about our home. Now my prayer is that we ARE a broken home. That is what it will take for us to survive. That is what it will take for Levi and Violet to know - only conceptually - the pain that the rest of us silently share. That is who I pray that we will be - for the sake of one another and of our family.

By God's grace, He has blended us quite nicely. I don't know if I have ever seen anything quite as amazing. It's a miracle to me how our children love one another. I think that most days they are much nicer to one another than my sisters and I were to one another. We chose Levi's name for its meaning, "United; bonded together". It's nothing we have done. It's not due to a magic formula, and I wouldn't wish divorce on anyone, but God is taking our ashes and turning them to beauty. He is taking our broken pieces and making a mosaic. I am including some of my favorite family photos in this blog so that you can see what He is doing with us. If you think of us, thank the Lord that he placed us in a family, and ask that He would continue working to make us a "broken home".

Odds and Ends

As I glance around our house it occurs to me that less than 10 years ago most of what I see would have seemed very odd to me. There's a six shooter next to a plastic purse and gameboy on my kitchen counter island. A skein of yarn with the insides pulled out lies in a basket in the corner in two distinct pieces. A picnic blanket is set up on the living room floor in front of the coffee table. Next to that is an upside down tent nearly filled with toy cars, stuffed animals, and pillows. There's a doll shoe on my bathroom vanity. I don't know if other families' houses look like this. I don't really care. I could clean all these things up or have the children clean them up. But they remind me of something... the first day I died.

The death of Me started happening the morning I woke up and took a pregnancy test. A few days before that my husband and I had a mild disagreement about the purchase of a camcorder. He wanted it, and I didn't think we needed it. After all, we didn't have children - recitals to tape, sports events, etc. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby for a couple of years with no luck. That night I had a dream that my older sister was pregnant and had called to ask if she could borrow my new camcorder to video the birth of her child. I was MAD... dream me, that is. I woke up livid, as I struggled to sort dream stupor from reality. I cried at the thought of never having a child to record with the now-hated camcorder. I decided, for some reason, to take the last pregnancy test in the box - the rainy day test. I had, by that time, seen more minus signs on pregnancy tests than I had ever expected in my newlywed daydreams.

Well, long story short my sister got the first call, because she had been the "jerk of my dreams" the night before. She didn't even know what was coming. That was the day that I started to die. It started with the initial mother-guilt. Cutting back on caffeine and sugar... trying to eliminate processed foods and get plenty of sleep (which wasn't that much of a chore most of the time). The realization that I wasn't the only one my lifestyle choices were effecting was changing me - slowly. I avoided hot baths, saunas, and hot tubs. I even found myself worried to go to movie theaters and concerts - for fear that the loud noise would hurt the baby's developing ears. Every article I read about pregnancy made me more apprehensive about my capabilities as a mother, and the feeling of inadequacy threatened to drown me.

Then my husband asked me to quit my job. Quit my job? Okay - I've always wanted to stay at home to catch up on all my cleaning and watch TV all day. I can do that. The sadness of giving up a job I loved with co-workers I loved - also overwhelmed me. What had been my identity for several years was going away. My ability to identify myself as a working woman and to enjoy the pride of a job well done... gone. Was Me going away too?

When I got diagnosed with preeclampsia and had to quit work early to be on bed rest... when I started to look in the mirror and see twice the woman I used to be... I wondered where Me had gone. Would it be worth it?

As I arrived at the hospital to be induced at 199 lbs. I was thrilled that I hadn't hit the deuce. However, that 140 lb. frame I started with was long gone. I don't think I've seen her since. I think she disappeared along with the girl who could turn down dessert with a, "No thanks, I'm just not a 'sweets person'." As I entered my third day of labor with baby, I was still waiting excitedly for this new change. When they handed her to me, I cried. I was so relieved and happy. (I have cried with all four of my babies' births.) I was waiting for the magical transformation now - to MOM. Super mom maybe? I was supposed to know magically what to do now, right?

My aunt likes to say, "They'll let anybody take one of these home!" That's exactly how I felt. Nurse told me when to bathe the baby. But how? Oh, yeah... the fuzzy recollection of a child birth class I took a few months before this birth... it's all coming back to me. There was the big suit with the huge heavy breasts and big belly that I had hoped my husband would volunteer to wear for sympathy - yeah, right. There were all those other couples too... the older couple. I spent 6 weeks wondering if this was their first - not possible - why were they taking another class? Then the cute ones ... Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. "Is your nursery finished? Of course, my nursery has been done for 5 months. I just couldn't relax until I got all the furniture ordered... blah, blah, blah..." Then the single mom - there with her mom... at least her birthing partner new what it was like to wear the big belly suit. Oh, and then the videos - the scary videos of screaming labor. Is this supposed to encourage me to try natural childbirth? They left me wondering, "Could I just go ahead and get some demerol and an epidural right now? It can't be too soon to be well-prepared." I could remember all of those things, but the bathing lesson? Not a clue. That must be part of me that died.

The first 2 months were pure misery. Some women might tell you those were the best months of their lives. I wouldn't doubt them, but for me... it was pure torture. You name it - all those "helpful" motherly cliches that you hear, "Does she have her days and nights mixed up?" "Does she have the colic?" "You think it's a smile, but it's just gas." I wanted to scream like a maniac that someone had stolen Me. But instead I managed a polite smile and a courteous response.

After those first two months, baby started to do some things. She cooed. She smiled. She laughed. She sat up. She said, "mama". She got her first tooth. "How are you doing?" "Me? I'm fine, but look at her. Look how big she is! Look at her go." She's still going today. Me was continuing to die.

Me still rears her ugly head sometimes. Me is exasperated at a missing new box of pencils. She enjoys watching a toddler play drums with her new drumsticks. Me dislikes lots of background ruckus while on the phone. She loves watching the baby laughing on the floor while big sister blows on her belly to keep her entertained while mom's on the phone. Me is annoyed at the dead flowers in my front flower bed. She is thrilled that the first step in potty training a boy might just be letting him enjoy peeing off the front porch. (We live in the country.)

She is who I want to be. She is the kind of mom I want my children to have. After all, She sees the beauty in the chaos. She values love over perfection, rest over stress, relationships over appearances. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy order, but I have also come to see the value in the tangible reminders that this season of my life and of my children's lives is short. It will come and go in a blink. Me would have us miss out on the joy of it. She beckons me to bask in a the cuteness of a chocolate cheek, the sweetness of a syrup kiss, and a banana-slime handprint on my black blouse. These little "odds" have been the beginning of the end of Me.

I hope She continues to grow and push Me right out. If my own mother and grandmothers are any indication, Me might disappear completely once She becomes a grandma. Today, thank the Lord if you were blessed enough to have had the love of an unselfish mother. Burying Me isn't easy for anybody. What an odd end.

Spilled Milk

Germs have been waging war against us for about a month in this house. It started with a little sniffle, and it has become a full blown coughing, sneezing, earache, sore throat, mucus-fest. Combine that with a couple of perpetually teething toddlers, and you have a recipe for physical misery and mental anguish that seems to be never ending. I think much of this is brought on by seasonal allergies and taken advantage of by a few enterprising germs. On top of this, Mark is trying to work through it on his outage hours of 72 hours/week. We've been trying to start a garden also during this season, keep the lawn mowed, and deal with a few incidental health problems that have cropped up. The thing is, I don't really feel stressed by these things. That is, until I sit and dwell on them.

This morning was a different story. I woke up to a puddle under our freezer in the garage. It seemed as though it had been like that for quite awhile as most of what was in the freezer was thoroughly thawed and useless. Even the things I might have been able to salvage had NO place to go, as the freezer was inoperable at the moment, and our indoor freezer was overstuffed as it was. As I was calling everyone I could think of - it occurred to me I was feeling a little bit of stress. Mark is largely unavailable by phone during outage, and my parents are packing for a 2 week vacation in Florida.

As I was surveying the damage, the insurance man called to explain that he would need a thorough inventory (along with prices) of anything in the freezer that was unsalvageable. As we were talking, Violet came up behind me, slipped on the puddle of water from the freezer, and smacked the back of her head on the cement garage floor. The dull thud precipitated the "pause heard round the world" before the screaming that prohibited any further conversation with the insurance man who had ironically asked, "How are you doing today?" when I had answered the phone. Well, if he didn't have a clue how I was at the beginning of the conversation about how to properly inventory a freezer full of spoiled food, then he certainly had a better idea when the baby was screaming in his ear at the end of the conversation.

Now, I'm not really one for crying, and I have a strict, "no crying before noon" policy, mostly because no one else in the house follows this same policy, and we can't all spend the morning blubbering.

I was wracked with waste guilt as I was filling three garbage bags with previously-frozen food. I was also being grossed out by all the juices of previously frozen chicken and pork - imagining my feet wading in e-coli and trichina worms that had dripped onto the rest of the food and was running in puddles around the garage floor. The cause of all this mess was a tripped breaker. It almost made me mad at the freezer - as if it was all her fault. But then again no emotion makes me want to animate inanimate objects like anger does.

As I was struggling trying to empty and inventory the freezer food and keep the toddlers out of the germ puddles, Sadie and Claire came outside and asked how they could help. The girls started carrying salvageable food into the inside freezer and helped keep the toddlers occupied. As I breathed a long, frustrated sigh, Sadie asked, "What's wrong?" I responded rather impatiently, "What's wrong? You can see what's wrong." Without a word, she went into the house and came back out to the garage with her pink CD player and a CD which she popped into the player. It was called "I Can Only Imagine - Lullabies for a Peaceful Sleep". It was Christian songs/hymns played lullaby style. She turned it on in the garage and went to help Claire keep an eye on the babies again. Claire came over to me with a cut out heart that said in crayon, "I love you, mom. Happy Day. Best Day :)" Well, needless to say my no crying policy was in serious jeopardy. I felt another serious guilt pang - that of feeling so sorry for myself when these precious children could see it. They were bearing my burdens with me. And they knew what I needed better than I did at that moment. My blessings far outmeasure my difficulties, and how can I not see that every moment?

It made me notice once again that there are real people inside my children - not just ones that need, need, need, but ones that can see a need and give, give, give. I underestimate my children daily. Their understanding and ability is far above what I imagine it is. I take no credit for this. If anything, my ignorance reduces their potential. I am so thankful that God put within them the ability to recognize a need and the love to act upon it. I hope that, in a world full of takers, they will grow up to be givers, and I hope that I figure out how to nurture that gift. I hope that they learn that, as they demonstrated today, love is not a word - it's a choice to act for the benefit of another. Love - in its true form - is rarer than any other gift on the planet. 1 John 3:18 says, "¹⁸Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth." Anyone with a voice (or ability to write) can love with words, but actions show the truth of what's in the heart. True love requires action.

Today I've been loved by my children - not just in words before bedtime or after I bake a batch of cookies - but in action that overflowed from a heart of genuine love. It's my prayer that I can demonstrate this same action toward others also.

On the bright side, we're eating like royalty today - trying to salvage a HUGE pork roast, corn on the cob, and some Schwan turkey pot pies, AND the insurance company offers $500 in spoiled food coverage. So whatever I can't save is on the insurance company, and finally that huge insurance check I write out every month doesn't seem quite so useless. Today didn't go as I planned, but it always goes how God plans. This morning wasn't filled with learning about science and history. In fact, it was more of a "teacher might have to go to The Institute" day. At least I learned something, and I guess crying over spilled milk isn't so bad after all - as long as you're crying out of gratitude for the love of the one who cleaned it up for you.

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?

Safety in a Helmet

Helmets - depending on their design, they can look really cool

OR really NOT cool.

I remember when this photo was taken. I was visiting my sister Erin and her husband Pete in California. They like to GO, and so do I. So when they offered to take me horseback riding on the beach I was picturing something a bit more exotic than what you see at the right. I remember that as we were waiting in line to sign a helmet waiver Pete said in his most authoritative military voice that we were all going to wear helmets. Exqueeze me? Helmets? I tend to take the path of least resistance, and when talking with a Madson, you don't win, you acquiesce. So as I went to check out the helmet selection I realized that this was not going to be the kind of ride I had been expecting.

The owners of the establishment selected for each of us a horse based on our size and temperament in relation to the size and temperament of each beast, and if you look closely, you might notice that my horse, the famed mustang of old (and the only mustang they had), looks nothing like the wild and free horse of the Old West. A more depressed equine specimen I can scarcely imagine. He looks, in a word, "demoralized". He could not be less impressed with me, the beach, the scenery (which much of the time was the east end of the westbound horse in front of him), or the trail on which we were walking. For me, it was supposed to be fabulous. For him, I was just a bag of oats and a cold drink - maybe a sugar cube if he didn't misbehave.

I remember sitting on Prickly Pete (or whatever his name was) and waiting for the trail ride to start when a woman (also in a helmet) rode up next to me (mostly by accident or the fact that her horse took her where he wanted to go - just like mine). She looked at me, and said, "It's our anniversary. When my husband said he was taking me horseback riding on the beach, I had pictured galloping through the surf with the wind in my hair. Now I'm wearing this stupid helmet." I had found a kindred spirit. As we traded jokes about our safety-concious men (her husband and my brother-in-law), our spirits lightened considerably; although we could not say the same for Prickly Pete and Wild Bill (or whatever her horse's name was).

Fast forward a few years, and we land in a pediatrician's office with my first son ever - who was 9 when I married Mark and 10 the first time I took him to the pediatrician. We were sitting there as the doctor was rattling off her list of questions (most of which were none of her business anyway), and I kept my fingers crossed that he was giving the answers she wanted to hear. She got to, "Do you wear a helmet/kneepads and other safety gear when riding bikes or skateboards?" Austin didn't skip a beat as he replied, "No way! Dad says helmets are for sissies." As both of our mouths caught flies for a few seconds, she glanced sidelong at me with an "Mmm... hmm..." and a "Does he now?" Well, the cat was out of the bag. We had quite a little laugh about that when I told Mark what Austin had blurted out that day. We laughed about it for weeks as I liked to say to Mark, "Well, someday when you're eating your meals out of a straw at 'the home', we'll see if you can still say (garbled and slurred), 'hfelmeth are fer thithies.'"

I look back on these incidences and laugh, because it's amazing how much your perspective on your needs for safety and security can change over just a relatively short period of time. We have an ATV now, and I feel like we should always wear a helmet, even when we aren't going far or fast. After all, helmets protect the most important part of your body. Without your head intact, nothing else would work right (or maybe work at all). Your head tells the rest of your body what to do and where to go.

Ephesians 6:16-18 speaks of the Armor of God and that the Helmet of Salvation is an integral part of our armor and that salvation is the source of our security. It keeps our head intact. Our head, after all, is the control center of our body. If it is secured, the rest of our actions (what we do and where we go) will fall into better and safer places. Our security, in other words, depends on our view of and attitude toward our Maker and His offer of eternal security. (1 Thessalonians 5:7-9)

The same son who told the doctor almost 4 years ago that, "Dad says that helmets are for sissies," was watching me search for helmet pictures for this blog - not knowing what I was doing. He said to me, "Don't you think that Roman helmet is cool?!" Isaiah 59:17 says of God Himself, "He put on righteousness as his breastplate, and the helmet of salvation on his head; he put on the garments of vengeance and wrapped himself in zeal as in a cloak." I don't know about you, but that gives me goosebumps. Doesn't sound like a sissy to me. So I guess not ALL helmets are for sissies. :) It just depends on the reputation of the one wearing it. I think I'm in pretty good company. Sign me up for a helmet.