Category: family life

When your kid is a free spirit, and you are… not

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Sometimes my daughter bounces out of her bedroom dressed and ready to head out the door and I cringe. Maybe “sometimes” is too generous. Maybe it’s every time she’s not in a school uniform and has the chance to dress herself.

The odd color choices. The patterns screaming at each other. Mismatched socks with shoes that don’t go. A sensible hair clip and a giant flower headband. The jewelry and purse. A sparkly belt with hearts on it to top it all off.

My husband exclaims, “You look wonderful! Let’s go!” and then he senses my hesitation and we have an eyeball conversation.

“Tell her she looks nice,” his eyes say.

“But… but… none of it goes together!” my eyes reply.

“Just. Do. It,” his eyes say back firmly.

Sometimes I inhale, exhale, and do the thing that is good for my kid: let her be wild and free. (She’s worn a tutu to Home Depot a time or two.)

But more often than I like to admit, I gently persuade her to swap out something from her ensemble to tone it down a bit.

I always regret it.

In 5th grade, there was a girl in my class who I thought was The. Coolest. She had (what I viewed at the time as) a daring, short, crimpy haircut with the part way over to one side, and she didn’t wear the department-store kids’ clothes, side ponytails, and coordinating scrunchies that I wore. In fact, nothing she wore matched—t-shirts with writing on them and patterned shorts, crazy neon socks with dirty sneakers. I secretly admired her bravery. She carried herself like she did not care one bit what she was wearing.

So I begged my mom to let me wear mismatched clothes to school—not on Tacky Tourist day, either—and one day she let me. The hilarity of it is how much time I spent trying to put together an outfit in which I could look like I didn’t care what I was wearing. (I’m laughing while slightly ashamed because I think I did this very thing last weekend.)

I let Mom go back to laying out my clothes for me after that.

Turns out I just like matching, okay? 

My sweet and spunky daughter did not inherit my affinity for things that go together, so I find myself enrolled in the School of Parenting a Free Spirit. I’m trying hard to be a good student here. I’ve flunked a few pop quizzes on Letting Her Dress Herself (Within Reason), but I think I passed the Decorating Her Own Bedroom exam. And that one was a doozy.

Last summer, we let her pick a color and repainted her room, which I had worked hard to get to Pottery Barn standards when she was a toddler. (Well. Close enough.) She chose cotton candy pink. (I talked her down from red, because I felt she’d find that to be a mistake later. Within reason, right?) The bedding we agreed on, along with the new dresser (age 7 and she still had a changing table in her room, sorry kiddo). Okay! This room was really starting to come together!

But then that pink paint dried and the girl had vision for what she wanted on those pristine walls: Farm animal art from her nursery and all the photos and her favorite posters and a canvas TOMS flag that came in a shoebox and the Disney princess decals and the papier-mâché globe she made at school and a piece of construction paper with random stickers on it and the Hello Kitty clock and the paper flowers she made with one of her grandmas.

It looked like Rainbow Dash and Princess Sofia went into the interior design business and she was their first client.

This room is not exactly Instagrammable. It is not going to show up on Pinterest as some mom’s inspiration for a dreamy, light, bright children’s room. It actually kind of hurts my eyes sometimes. But here’s the thing—who cares? It is her space, and she loves it. She thrives in all of its pink-ness with all of her favorite things scattered around.

My room was a little chaotic-looking when I was a kid, too—my mom gave us free reign and let’s just say I went through a lot of Scotch tape over the years. But as an adult, how I struggle with the desire for things to be just so! Something urges me to step in and fix, pretty-up, instruct, gently (or not so gently) persuade my child to do something the way I would do it.

The voice in my head says to her, What if you drew a purple flower instead of a black heart on that birthday card? How about if we just put this special paper in the drawer to keep it safe instead of taping it to your wall? Do you really need the sparkly belt today? 

I am learning to tell that voice to hush up.

She is creative and inventive. She likes clashing patterns and things that sparkle. So what? Let her do her thing. Let her make messes. Let her be playful. Let her embrace the unique qualities God wove into her being.

She and I are different in many ways, but we’re not opposites. I often catch glimpses of my childhood self in her, bits of my personality and quirks that have trickled through. (Sorry baby girl.) Sometimes I just know exactly what she’s thinking and why she’s thinking it, because Oh sweet pea, me too. I know. Other times I feel completely mystified and can turn nowhere else but to God’s Word for help parenting this little person He’s entrusted to my care.

Where else would I turn? He has hemmed her in, before and behind. He knows her; He is the author of her story.

God is good that way, isn’t He? The things I’ve learned from mothering… Well, the list is long already, and with little sister coming up five years behind, it’s going to get longer. I may be raising these girls, but I’m the one doing the growing up around here.

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Sunday mornings and saying sorry

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Sunday morning Rebekah is the worst.

Just ask my family. I’ve given them permission to speak freely.

What is it about Sunday mornings?

WHY HAVEN’T YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH YET?

THIS DRESS FIT FINE WHEN I TRIED IT ON LAST NIGHT!

WHY IS THE BABY WEARING THAT?

WHY IS THERE NO MORE COFFEE? [Weeping and gnashing of teeth]

WE’RE LATE FOR CHURCH AGAIN! I HATE BEING LATE AND WE’RE ALWAYS LATE. 

On Sunday mornings, I turn into the worst version of myself, Mom Who Yells A Lot. And then in the car (at 9:52, still a good 20 minutes from church, which starts at 10), after I’ve sat and stewed in frustration for a few minutes and tried to work out how it’s everyone else’s fault I didn’t get up when my alarm went off and couldn’t find the right shoes and let my giant mug of delicious, perfectly blended coffee go cold on the kitchen counter… I apologize.

I apologize to my husband—not in a whisper so the kids can’t hear, but loudly enough that they can hear, because they should.

“I was wrong. I am sorry. Will you please forgive me?”

And then I do something even wilder. I turn to the backseat and look into the eyes of my daughter who is pretending not to listen to the grown-up talk up front. (Oh they are always listening. Just count on it.)

“I was wrong. I am sorry. Will you please forgive me?”

Yes, I am my children’s mother, but they need to know that I am also a sinner.

I am an authority figure in their lives whom they should respect, yes. But even in my role as Mama, I am not some pillar of unattainable perfection. I am a sinner, I fall short, I make mistakes—just like they do. I’m not exempt from having to say sorry just because I am big and they are small. They are humans. Little humans, but still. God made them in His image. And sometimes they deserve an apology too.

I'm not exempt from having to say sorry just because I am big and they are small.

We all mess up sometimes, even Mom and Dad.

This wonderful thing happens when I get on my daughter’s level and earnestly seek her forgiveness. Her response is usually quiet but certain: “I forgive you, Mama.” And then it’s the good stuff—hugging and talking to my kid about how we all need Jesus and how He uses us even when we think we’ve messed everything up. It’s truth she needs to hear with her little ears and witness with her own eyes. It’s truth I need to hear and see from those I admire as well.

Parents, your littles admire you. They do. They love you and want to be just like you. How incredible an opportunity we’ve been given to model grace in imperfection. Let’s show our kids that this is how we live: We make mistakes, we are grieved by them, and we make it right. We extend apologies, we ask for forgiveness, we offer forgiveness, we live out reconciliation in front of them. We hug it out.

Next Sunday, I will call upon the name of Jesus for help and try not to yell at the people I love.

But if I do, I will say I’m sorry.

Lost and found

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Well, I have now managed to lose both of my children in public places.

20 months or so seems to be the magical age when this happens. With my older daughter, we were in a Carter’s clothing store and while I rummaged in the diaper bag for my debit card at the checkout counter, she stealthily slipped off. When I couldn’t spot her, the employees closed the store entrance until she was found, sitting happily on the floor behind a shoe display, trying on shoes (why didn’t I think to look there first, knowing her fondness for dress-up?). She looked up with a smile and lifted her foot in the air in a proud display, oblivious to the tension of the moments leading up to her discovery. She was missing for less than a minute, but my fear in that minute was real. The front doors had been open thanks to an unusually cool spring day in Florida, and my heart plummeted imagining what could have happened if she’d been bound for the exit—straight into a busy parking lot—instead of to try on footwear.

Last week at an indoor theme park, my younger daughter pulled a disappearing act of her own, on a slightly larger scale. This one is fast and sneaky, and we’ve known that about her since she started walking. (A few months ago she ran away from me in Publix and hid in the frozen foods aisle behind a stock crate. I caught her when she peeked around it and giggled at the look of frustration on my face. Oh, the gray hairs!) But this time, in a large space thick with short people (aka kids), she really scared me. She was standing right next to me, I looked up from her to her sister, who was asking for help tying shoes, and then I looked back, and she was gone.

I whirled around in a circle, scanning the room, which suddenly felt way too big with way too many places for a tiny person to hide. My friend and I instructed our older kids not to move and quickly split into opposite directions to look, but my girl was nowhere to be seen. My friend grabbed an employee who began asking me to describe my daughter. What was she wearing? How tall is she? What’s her name? Is she walking? (Um, no, she crawled away at light speed.) I stumbled through my description of her (“She’s really small! She has short brown hair and big brown eyes… She’s just really small!”), my mind racing.

I’m not the mom who loses her kid at a place like this. I’m the mom who knows where my children are and what they’re doing at all times! … right?

She was gone for maybe five minutes, which doesn’t seem long but is way, way, way too long. And then there she was, tears rolling down her face, in the arms of a young employee who’d had her wits about her enough to think like a toddler and climb way up into the big kids’ gym. Of course that’s where she was. My monkey. I hugged that girl so tight and tried to fight the tears and reset my fried nerves.

I tell this story because

1) It embarrasses me, but I know I’m not alone. I know this because when I posted a photo later that day on Instagram and mentioned her brief disappearance, three or four friends chimed in to commiserate (one of them was my own mom). I want to be forthcoming about my parenting failures because maybe you need to know you’re not alone. Sometimes friends compliment my parenting and I laugh before I realize they’re being serious. I am not a perfect mom—far, far from it—and that’s ok. My kids will grow up knowing that their mom makes mistakes and isn’t afraid to own up to them. Believe me, they’re already quite aware.

And 2) In those brief minutes last Wednesday when my baby was nowhere to be seen, and even that day at Carter’s so many years ago with her big sis, I caught the tiniest glimpse of how our Father feels about us when we wander off.

What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it? And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. —Luke 15:4-7

He is the shepherd, searching relentlessly until the one sheep is found. 

He is the father of the Prodigal, waiting expectantly and scouring the horizon for the sight of his son returning. 

He is the woman who dropped one of her 10 coins—a day’s worth of income—holding a lantern in her dark home and sweeping the floor in search of it, calling friends and neighbors to celebrate when it is recovered. 

I wasn’t panicked. I knew that the one I loved was there somewhere. She wasn’t lost, not forever. But how I longed for her! I knew she was alone and afraid. I wanted more than anything to have her safely back in my arms, but the realization dawned on me that it was not for my own sake or my own comfort. It was for hers. Because I love her more than I love myself and could not bear to think of her suffering alone when I was right there with arms flung wide, ready to hold her and wipe her tears away.

Because despite my daughter’s moments of reckless bravery and independence, she needs me.

Call it a parenting fail, but I’m grateful to God for reminding me of His relentless love for us and the truth that no matter how confident and independent I might feel, I need Him. 

Now. Where does one buy a leash for a toddler?

 

Thoughts on a Friday morning

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My husband started—more accurately, fell into by the grace of God—a new job last spring. One of the bonuses I’ve discovered from this new and terrifying thing called self-employment is that he now sets his own hours—meaning he’s available in the mornings to help out with the a.m. shuffle, specifically driving our daughter to elementary school. No more 5:30 a.m. departures and kisses goodbye I have no recollection of! We never knew Morning Dad before now. We like having him here.

As the toddler (I have pledged to stop referring to her as the baby, now 18 months) has swapped up her sleep schedule on me again, this week I adopted a new morning routine in the half-hour I have between Dad and big sis’ departure for school and little sis starting to stir in her crib, her little noggin popping into view on the baby monitor screen:

I blow kisses and close and lock the door behind them, grab the book I’m reading (Simply Tuesday) and my Bible, fix up my coffee, and… climb back into bed. (Perhaps I shouldn’t be sharing this, as you now know my secret and it makes this stay-at-home-mom gig sounds so posh, no?) I read a chapter (usually through tears, because Emily Freeman and I are soul sisters and she just gets me), sip my coffee (still hot! Again, so posh this job *insert the laughing-so-hard-I’m-spurting-tears emoji*), and make notes. My house is silent but for my elderly cat’s random wails when she thinks I’ve vanished. I “psst psst” at her across the house and she curls up on the laundry pile mountain at the foot of my bed (sigh).

I think and dream and pray in these few minutes. As I close my books and place the cap back on my pen, my soul feels quiet and ready, expectant for what the day holds instead of dragging toward it out of necessity. Here I am, God. Present in this moment, hopeful that I will be present in all of the moments You’ve given me today. Please use me today. Teach me what it looks like to be who You made me to be, here in this simple Friday morning. 

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Step onto someone else’s lawn

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On Sunday morning, we got flipped off on our way to church. Yes, I’ve written before about how strongly I feel about drivers giving each other the finger. You can read that one here, or I’ll save you the time and sum up: I detest it. This time, a neighbor a couple houses down and across the street from us—an older man whose always-manicured lawn is clearly his pride and joy— was outside mowing. He was near the street with his back turned, and I guess we startled him when we drove by, because what my husband saw in the rear-view mirror was the man’s finger and his angry face, clearly cursing. I missed the whole exchange because I was busy praying. Just kidding, I was putting on mascara.

We briefly commented on the fact that we hadn’t driven anywhere near him, how it must be sad to be such a grump all the time, and how that guy had always seemed a little off. I had been chatting with some girlfriends that morning via text about this and that, and I shared the story with them (you know, so I could get some support that obviously we’d done nothing wrong and that guy was just being a jerk). We all agreed. What a grump. What a sad life he must have. I shrugged it off. We went on to church and went on with our day, and I pushed the incident from my mind.

I should have known that my husband is not the type to write something like that off and say, “Oh well, I guess we just won’t be friends with that neighbor,” regardless of whether he deserved the finger. Now for the record, in my opinion and I think Jesus would back me up on this, it is never okay to give anyone the finger. And now I promise I’m finished talking about that. Moving on.  

On Monday morning, Mr. Lawn Man was outside mowing again. (I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it’s his pride and joy. He puts up reflectors and occasionally ropes it off—with signs—to keep cars, bikes, feet, and pets off.) My husband had been a little quiet, and I asked if everything was okay.

“I’m going to go over there and talk to him,” he said.

Now, I don’t know how you deal with confrontational situations, but I do not handle them well. Not at all. My heart races, I break into a sweat, and I begin thinking of all the things I could do as an alternative to having that conversation. No, don’t do that sweetie. We’ll just sell our house! Let’s move. All new neighbors. Nice ones. Sound good? 

Of course, in this case, he was the one doing the confronting, not me, so I just said, “Okay.” And then I immediately planted myself on the back of the couch by our front window and watched like a hawk as my brave, brave man crossed the street and over to our neighbor’s yard. My heart was pounding. Is he smiling? I can’t tell if he’s smiling! Are those angry gestures? What kind of message is someone sending if they have their hands on their hips? What if that guy punches him? Wait, are they laughing? WHY CAN’T I READ LIPS?

And then, after about 10 minutes, I saw them shake hands and part ways.

Here is what my husband had done: He had let go of his pride and any defiance at the fact that he had done nothing wrong, and instead offered our neighbor the other cheek. He apologized if he had, in fact, startled the man when we drove by. And you know what happened? That man didn’t puff up in anger. He didn’t tell my hubby off. Actually, he looked a little sheepish, apologized in return, and said he hadn’t realized it was us driving by. (This is not a good excuse! But that’s beside the point.) We had startled him, but you know, his wife always says he stands too far in the road when he mows. (That part made me laugh.)

And here is what we learned about our neighbor, Mr. Lawn Man: He has an actual first and last name, which we now know. (Shocking, right? This is embarrassing. We have lived across the street from each other for five years.) He used to be on our town council and is quite interested and involved in the local government. He likes rules. He likes things neat. We always assumed he was a war vet based on our own observations, but he’s not. He is, however, a huge American history buff (as is my husband), and has written some books about World War II, which he seems quite proud of.

God made this man. He is a human being, he makes mistakes just like you and me, and he has a story.

The next day, my husband found an envelope tucked under the wiper blades of his car. Inside was a note that read, “Thanks for stopping by. I enjoyed chatting with you” along with information about those books he wrote and where we could find them online if we were interested.

My heart swells with pride and honor that I am married to a man who sets this kind of example for me and for our kids. Our 7-year-old observed the exchange through the window with me, and she had been with us in the car the day before and knew what happened. We watched this leader of our family grieve the situation, summon God’s help, and lower himself enough to take those steps across the street and extend a hand of grace, make an apology regardless of fault, and begin a relationship with someone we’d made all kinds of negative assumptions about.

I learned a lot from that interaction, so much that I’m still processing it all, but what I will leave you with is this: I pray the next time something like this happens to me or to you (because we all know these situations are inevitable), we take a moment to put our own defiant anger aside, seek God’s heart of mercy, and humble ourselves enough to take the first step onto the other person’s [perfectly clipped] lawn. There’s no telling how God might use it for good, but I guarantee He will.

No more leftovers

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I left my job of three years at the end of May. Twenty-four hours a week away from home had worked well for our family for a while. It was good and healthy for me for a while. But around the time our second daughter was born, I began to feel unsettled. Yes, it is hard to leave your baby in someone else’s care while you head to work. I felt guilty. I knew her caretakers were capable, yet I worried about her. I was crushed when I’d come home from work and scoop her into my arms, and she wasn’t interested in me. (Can babies be offended? She sure looked offended.)

My then 1st-grader became accustomed to the fact that I couldn’t attend events at her school unless they fell on the right days of the week. Why couldn’t I come eat lunch with her sometimes? Some of the other moms do that. Why didn’t I sign up to be her classroom art helper? Why couldn’t I go on that field trip? Ouch, ouch, ouch.

All that aside, the mom-guilt stuff isn’t what ultimately led me to quit. I realized that at the end of the day, and on my off days, and in the middle of the night when stressful thoughts crept in and kept me from sleep—I had nothing to give my family but leftovers. Little scraps of me, crumbs of attention, bits of care, whatever energy and heart and soul I had left after I had given the rest away elsewhere. Meager offerings.

Many years ago, I prayed for my husband before I knew him, prayed that God would bring this person into my world to walk through life with.

Then I prayed for babies. Oh, how I prayed for them! My dream was to be a mom. I did well on my career path as a copy editor for several years, but always there was a yearning to be a mother. We left it in God’s hands, and boy did He surprise us when we least expected it. Twice. (Stories for another day!)

What was I doing with these gifts I had prayed and pleaded for? Neglecting them. Let me be clear—(See how I bolded and underlined that? Please don’t miss this.)—I wasn’t neglecting them by having a job outside the home. I worked because we needed the income, yes, but I also worked because I love working, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I am in awe of women who work inside and outside the home and do both with such passion and heart. You are superheroes to your children and an inspiration to fellow moms like me. I had reached a point, though, where I was no longer doing both well. I needed to make a choice.

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men… You are serving the Lord Christ. —Colossians 3:23-24

I was tired, irritable, and unhappy at work, and I was tired, irritable, and unhappy at home. There was a deep desire stirring in my spirit to just be present and available for my kids and my husband, and I couldn’t ignore it. Did I try to work around it? You bet. The timing of leaving my job was terrible. (Remember when all this stuff happened?) It meant losing a source of income, and therefore some sacrifices would need to be made. But there’s this funny thing about the Holy Spirit… He doesn’t tend to leave you alone when there’s something you’re really supposed to do. I’d say I finally relinquished control of the situation, but what a joke that would be. I am not in control, and thank God for that.

My now 2nd-grader went back to school this week after a summer full of lazy days and lounging around in pajamas until right before dad came home and pretending that swimmingIMG_9491 in grandma’s pool counts as being bathed. I wrote out one of those Pinterest-y lists of things to do when you’re bored on three Post-Its, stuck it on my desk, and never looked at it again. I won’t pretend it was a glorious or perfect summer. Some days I thought I was going to lose my mind trying to keep up with these kids. (There’s only two of them, for Pete’s sake! Get it together, lady.) Some days felt boring, if I’m being really honest. My kids are 7 and 1, and they don’t exactly have a lot of common interests right now. (Except for eating! Some days I felt like all I was doing was fetching snacks and making sandwiches. The little one learned “hungry” and “snack.” They both got taller.) The TV was on more than I liked. I tried to cook more dinners. I intentionally completely ignored this blog. Sometimes I wondered if I was doing enough with this time, because the days felt so mundane. Some of them felt long.

But I felt God’s Spirit teaching me all along that it was okay not to do, do, do. I needed to just be for a bit. I did my best to be still, and to just be with my girls. I’m learning to treasure these gifts I’ve been given and am discovering gifts I failed to recognize before.

So what’s next? The word quit implies giving up before something is finished, but I think this quitting was a new beginning. With the fall season comes new routines and habits (good ones, I hope), and I feel I’m on the cusp of something exciting and fresh. There are new dreams and goals to tackle now. My new work has just begun.

 

Logging it away and letting it go

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One of my first memories—one I can relive in my mind, without looking at an old photo or hearing retold by one of my parents—is from around 1986, I’d guess. My family had moved into a new home not long before, and I remember feeling pride, a sense of “this land is my land,” territorial ownership. There were lots of kids in our new neighborhood, and they were always out and about on bicycles and rollerskates and skateboards. We had a driveway that was perfect for rolling down on any of these vehicles, and the other kids knew this too. One afternoon while my mom napped, I remember sitting in the living room and watching through the big window as a bunch of boys on bikes and skateboards repeatedly scooted up our neighbors’ driveway and back down ours. My heart began to pound and I was filled with fury. Were they allowed to just do that? No. That’s my driveway. Private property, I’d heard of that before and knew what it meant.

So, I marched my little 5-year-old self to the front door and flung it open, and in a voice that I’m sure wasn’t remotely threatening, hollered at them with all the authority I could summon, “Get off our property!” and immediately flushed red in the face and shut the door. Take that, you naughty kids. (Did I mention I’ve been a Rules Girl from the time I was small?) I turned around to see my mom standing in the entryway behind me, and just the look on her face told me I shouldn’t have yelled at those kids. I don’t recall her exact words, but she explained it was OK for them to be in our driveway, and they weren’t doing anything wrong.

Oh. I felt deflated and very, very embarrassed. And it seems like such a silly thing, but I never forgot it.

Why, oh why, is that the childhood memory that comes flashing back to me so effortlessly?

There are others I can recall along the same vein, and I can see them so clearly… Cutting my baby sister’s hair with my preschool scissors and throwing the pieces behind the living room couch. Saying “stupid” (or maybe it was “butt” or “shut up” or one of the other words we weren’t allowed to say)—not at anyone in particular, but just because I was curious what would happen if I did—and being sent to my room. In elementary school, playing tricks on an unpopular girl at a slumber party. In middle school, laughing with a group of girls in the lunchroom at the expense of a boy in our class. As a teenager, snooping to read something that didn’t belong to me (and worse, getting caught).

Of course, the little-kid stuff makes for funny stories now. The middle- and high-school sins are a little more painful to recall… And what about all the stuff I’ve done as an adult who knew better? What about that time I screamed at my child in utter frustration or let a bad word slip in front of her? (It wasn’t “butt.”) I remember those things, too. There are a lot of them.

All regrets. All memories that replay clear as day at unexpected times. That feeling in the pit of my stomach… I wish, I wish, I wish I could go back and not do that one thing. Choose silence in that one moment instead of saying something unkind or unhelpful. Choose to speak up on behalf of someone even if it means I might be ostracized. Give myself five seconds to calm down before reacting to my kid drawing on the wall or spilling her juice again.

I have a sharp memory and can recall conversations—old ones, you’ve been warned—pretty accurately most of the time. (My husband likes to say, “Uh oh, she’s logging it away!”) It was super for helping me get through school with good grades. Not so great when I’m trying to forgive others and leave the past behind. Not great at all when I’m trying to forgive myself.

But then again, maybe those memories, as much as I hate reliving them, can help me to recognize the difference between the person I’ve been in the past and—by God’s grace—the person I want to be in the present. Maybe by not being able to forget my mistakes (ugh), I’ll handle things a little better the next time around. Maybe. I hope.

The book Unconditional? by Brian Zahnd significantly altered the way I understand forgiveness—changing not only the way I *try to* respond to being wronged, but the way I handle forgiving myself  when I mess up and allowing myself the same amazing grace God offers me. I love how Zahnd throws the old “forgive and forget” concept out the window (because we can always forgive, but can we ever truly forget?):

The way of forgiveness does not forget the past, but through truth and reconciliation it finds a way beyond toxic memory.

Through the act of forgiveness the past is not forgotten, but by faith in God’s redemptive work it comes to be viewed in a new way. The injustice is to be remembered, but it is not allowed to poison the present and dictate the future.

My older daughter is 6, almost 7. We’re similarly wired—she, too, has a sharp memory. Unfortunately, this means that she, too, has trouble letting go of her own mistakes. A month or so ago, she said what I’m sure is the ultimate of bad words in her blissfully unexposed mind—“Shut up!”—to an adult in our family. She was frustrated enough to shout, and that’s rare for her. But the moment those words came out and her eyes darted around the room to find mine, I saw her crumble under the weight of her mistake, and my heart broke for her and the feelings I knew she was feeling, because they are all too familiar to me. I didn’t have to say a word of correction, because she was already sobbing and apologizing. It took several minutes to calm her down, to assure her repeatedly that it was just a mistake, that we all make mistakes, and that the person she had offended had already accepted her plea for forgiveness. It was forgotten.

She did not forget it, though. She is her mama’s daughter, and I know that if I were to bring up the story today, she would cry all over again. I imagine it might someday be her version of my “yelling at the bad neighbor kids” story. I hate that for her. I don’t want her to log it away and carry it with her. I want her to log it away but let it go, and let it change her. Thank God for His grace and for the knowledge that He’s already made our wrongs right. I’m thankful that I can share this truth with her. My little girl and I, we will be on this journey together. I hope that He uses her memories to teach her, as He has used mine to teach me. And I pray that she grows up to be a woman full of grace who is able to move past her own mistakes, forgive others, and forgive herself.

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Give us more stories

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To say that my family is in a time of transition would be an understatement.

The best way to describe it is to say it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, or getting ready to leap from a plane (yeah, like I’d ever do that), or summoning the courage to make The Call to push a button or flip a switch. I don’t do well with these types of decisions. I hem and haw over choices like French vanilla versus hazelnut, or whether it feels like a red-striped-shirt day or a blue-striped-shirt day (most days are one or the other, you know).

So at the beginning of 2015, when my husband and I decided—for sure this time—that I should transition out of my part-time job to be home with our girls, I gave myself plenty of time to change my mind. And I mean plenty. I gave my boss four months’ notice. I felt strongly about this decision, and there were many factors involved, but I struggled hard with it. Still, I just kept feeling God telling me that He had this. I just needed to do what He had put on my heart, and He would handle the rest.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised that He would put our faith to the test.

In March, things started falling apart at my husband’s job. It’s a long, crazy story that I’ll spare you, except to say that we were now down to one income—my part-time one. In April, he began a “leave of absence.” After five years of him working at the same company, the whole thing felt surreal. I didn’t really process any of it.

Then we got a call from our daughter’s school about financial aid for next year, and it wasn’t good news. I broke down over that one. The woman on the phone was incredibly kind, and of course had no idea that her call came minutes after my suddenly jobless husband had walked in the door from work at 10 a.m. It was too much. We got down on our knees and prayed. I don’t remember much of what we said, except for these words from my husband, which have stayed with me:

“God, give us more stories.”

The next couple of weeks went by fairly quietly, but all the time I was fretting on the inside. Why in the world would I choose to leave a perfectly good job right now? The clock was ticking away toward my last day. Was I completely crazy to follow through and walk away from it? I asked my husband frequently if he still felt it was the right decision. Thank goodness I married a man whose strengths are a match for my weaknesses, and vice versa. He reminded me regularly of all the reasons we talked about and prayed over so long ago. My calling had not changed. We would not flounder.

Then things started to shift.

I got together with a lovely group of women—fellow moms from my daughter’s school—and shared with a few what we’d been going through. It is humbling and painful to be honest about topics like this, but it is good for the soul to share and feel safe in doing so. Their response was so encouraging, and I felt a little bit of the weight I’d been carrying float away. Everything is going to be ok. 

The next day, my daughter finally lost a tooth that for weeks had been hanging on for dear life. This doesn’t have much to do with the rest of this post, but it had been causing her a great deal of worry and stress, and I considered it a huge victory. Age 6 is a roller coaster, y’all.

That same afternoon, I got a call from her school, and the same sweet woman who had informed me of bad news weeks before had a few questions. We discovered that a typo on our application had led to our aid denial. Yep—the nit-picky editor behind this blog had made an error, and a significant one at that. Long story short, our daughter will be returning to her school in the fall.

Over the course of the past month, my husband met with several friends wanting to connect him with job opportunities. I am in awe of the way our community rallied around both of us. The day after the tooth and the phone call, one of these connections led to an offer of work and the possibility of a future partnership. What the future holds, we don’t know, but we are adding this to the always-growing list of God’s provisions. It is another story He is writing so that we will be able to connect with and encourage someone else who is walking through a similar season.

“Give us more stories,” indeed. It’s funny—one of the things I love most about my job is that I get to be a story-gatherer, and then I get to share with our church community (and anyone who stumbles across our blog or magazine) all the incredible things God has done, and all that He continues to do. I will miss that. But I’m excited to have this gift of time with my kids (though I know there will be days when I will long for my little desk and adults to chat with over tacos in a lunch meeting). I know that God will keep writing stories for my family, and I look forward to sharing them. Most likely during nap time.

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It was the best day ever, and I missed it

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A couple of weeks ago, on a beautiful Saturday—right before we were hit by The Plague—I decided we were going to the beach. I had been itching to go. I needed sand beneath my feet. Hot sun on my skin. Freezing ocean water on my toes for at least a second. The hubby was on board with the idea. Let’s do this. Family beach day. We haven’t taken the baby to the beach since she was newish, but no biggie. She’s super chill. The most laid-back baby ever. “Let’s go early,” we said. So much optimism.

At 8 a.m., the 6-year-old’s bathing suit bottoms mysteriously vanished. Gone. They have yet to be unearthed. I was told a story about “playing beach”—a legitimate reason to wear a swimsuit in the house—but what happened to those bottoms after her day at the pretend shoreline, we may never know. So… Maybe we could make it an afternoon beach trip instead. E and I went to Target in search of a new swimsuit. Three… hours… later… OK not really three hours, but it felt that way, because none of the suits in Target’s ridiculously rainbow-colored, animal-printed, Elsa-everywhere-you-look “big girl” section would fit my sweet child. X-small, too short. Small, hanging off her hiney. We finally settled on the least-baggy size small (which was both rainbow-colored and animal printed) and booked it out of there, because the sunshine was calling and it was now 10 a.m.

We arrive home, and the baby is napping. Who knows how long we’re going to have to wait before she wakes up, and then she’ll need to eat before we hop in the car for an hour. We had barely started our day, and already nothing was going as planned. We started gathering supplies. Wait, where’s the beach umbrella? We don’t have a beach umbrella. Why don’t we have a beach umbrella? Didn’t we buy one last summer? Oh right, it broke and we had to return it. How are we supposed to protect the baby’s fresh, vulnerable baby skin from the sun? I’m starting to feel anxious. This sense of urgency kicks in (as though it’s the only opportunity we will ever have, ever, to go to the beach), compounded by the fact that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink but coffee at this point, and my voice begins to rise, along with my blood pressure. Can we just GO already? 

Skip ahead a couple of hours, la la la, and we’re finally on the road. 20 minutes in, and E is asking if we’re there yet. My back is killing me and I’m starting to feel weird, but I’m ignoring that because we are going to the beach, and it is going to be a wonderful family time together. 

It takes us twice as long to arrive as it usually does, because it’s the Saturday before spring break (what was I thinking?) and it’s a beautiful, warm day, and traffic is… unpleasant. Our usual parking place is full, and our usual backup parking place is full, but we manage to find a spot and proceed to load a kind of silly amount of gear onto our rolling beach cart thing (oh yeah, we have one of those). As we’re trekking through the hot sand to find The Spot to plant ourselves, the hubby and I start to notice that it’s a little bit windy. The super-chill-calmest-baby-ever is starting to cry, because she’s hungry, and the wind and the ocean are loud, and it’s bright, and frankly she’s confused.

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I’ll spare you further detail because I’m starting to realize I’m a long-winded storyteller (what’s the equivalent of long-winded if you’re writing?). Sorry about that. But the next couple of hours involved a lot of sand flying around, and a tent trying to blow away, and two suddenly exhausted parents taking turns holding a very unhappy baby who would not, could not touch the sand. E seemed fairly content, bless her, and she played in the sand and ate snacks and ran back and forth to the freezing ocean until she realized there were jellyfish everywhere.

We stayed until the baby had a smelly diaper and we couldn’t take any more beach time, packed ourselves back up, and loaded up the car. Once everyone was relatively brushed off and buckled in, hubby and I looked at each other and exhaled. So… that didn’t really go as planned.

We made a pit stop at “King Burger” as E calls it—yeah, I know, gross, but desperate times, y’all—and headed toward home. At this point a sweet little voice pipes up from the backseat. “You know what would make this day even better? Donuts.”

Hubby and I looked at each other and shrugged. We both felt like it had been such a crummy day. Let’s feed our sad feelings with Donut King!

When we arrived home sometime later (Donut King is not even close to being on our way home from the beach), I sighed as we walked in the door, knowing that baths and bedtime routines were next on the docket. At least this day is almost over. 

Then E, my little game-changer, walked in from the car and plopped herself on the couch like she always does. She sighed too, but it was a contented sigh. “That was the best… day… ever!”

Hold the phone. I spun around to look at her. “Really?” I asked. (She was with us today at the beach, right?) “Um, yeah!” She had that gleeful, satisfied look on her face, the one she gets when I tell her she can have candy before dinner. “Target, the beach, hamburgers, and donuts in one day? Best day ever!”

My darling, precious child, my treasure, my heart, had been having the best day ever. But because I was so wound up—consumed by unmet expectations of my ideal day and what I interpreted as a catastrophe of a Saturday—I had missed it. For me, the day had been stressful and disappointing, and I had eaten fast food for dinner (ew). For her, the day was spontaneous, and unexpected, and full of adventure and surprises, and she had eaten fast food for dinner (awesome!).

My daughter’s take on that crazy Saturday inspired me to recall the day through her eyes (she’s definitely a glass-half-full girl), but she also taught me something I think is so important, and I can’t believe it took me six and a half years to figure it out. Kids don’t need perfection and all the bells and whistles for something to be special. For her, just spending the day together, going for a car ride, and playing in the sand (and of course inhaling a donut) was enough for her to call it not just a good day, but the best day. I don’t want to overlook—or worse, try to forget—days like this because they didn’t go according to my plan. I don’t want to miss her best days. 

That night I spiked a fever, and I spent the following spring break week flattened by a terrible cold. The baby had it, too (no wonder she’d been so unhappy). We didn’t do any of the spectacular activities I had planned. (OK God, I’m getting the lesson here.) But we were together, and E played in her pajamas all day, every day, and we sat in the backyard and soaked up the warm sunshine. And thanks to my little girl, that’s what I’ll choose to remember about that week. Best week ever. 

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It’s not fair!

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Over the last week or so, I’ve heard this sentiment several times a day.

“It’s not fair! How come D gets to stay up and play after I go to bed?”

“It’s not fair! How come YOU guys get to stay up after I go to bed?” (Because staying up until midnight doing laundry and dishes is SO MUCH FUN!) 

“It’s not fair! You get to wear whatever you want and I have to wear a uniform.” (Do you know how much time I’d save if I didn’t have to bother with putting together an outfit every morning?) 

“It’s not fair! You have a phone and I don’t.” (Don’t even get me started on that one.)

“It’s not fair! Fill in the blank.”

As much as the whining can begin to grate on me after a while, I sure understand where she’s coming from. Her sweet 6-year-old heart aches over what she sees as huge injustices in her little world. Her baby sister is on a different sleep schedule than she is and still needs one last bottle after big sis goes to bed. Mom and Dad stay up way too late catching up on household chores and watching Friends. Mostly watching Friends. She doesn’t get to choose her clothing every morning (thank goodness for that—we’d never get out the door), and she doesn’t have any electronics of her own. To her, it’s all wrong. It’s just… not… fair.

Last fall at church, I heard a sermon about the parable of the workers in the vineyard (the link is at the end of this post if you’re interested). Here’s the passage from Matthew chapter 20:

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard.

“About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.

“He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing. About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around. He asked them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’

“‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered.

“He said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard.’

“When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’

“The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they said, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’

“But he answered one of them, ‘I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?’

“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

I’m sorry, What? This lesson is tough for me to swallow. I think if I were the worker who sweated my hiney off in the vineyard from 9-5, only to be paid the same as some slacker who showed up at 4 p.m., I’d be ticked too. Who cares that this is the payment I agreed to? That guy didn’t deserve the same pay. I’d have protested. Thrown a fit maybe. Whined about it, definitely. Not fair.

Part of my takeaway from this parable and the sermon that day was the reminder that God’s timetable isn’t our timetable. His rewards aren’t always what we expect or deem fair. But the kicker for me was this: Comparing ourselves to others gets us absolutely nowhere. It’s a complete and total waste of time that will eat away at your joy if you let it.

A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot. —Proverbs 14:30

When my big girl complains about all the things her baby sister gets to do (babies know how to have a good time, right?) or all the freedom grown-ups have (ha.), we try to point out all the things that are awesome about being 6. She can ride a bike, she gets to eat dessert, she can color and paint and create, she can read, she gets to sleep in a bunk bed… as opposed to little sister, who has to take naps and has no teeth and can’t walk, and whose daily dose of fun comes from getting into the cat’s water bowl. At this, E will giggle and say something along the lines of, “Oh yeah!” and skip away happily. And just like that, the moment of utter despair has passed when her focus shifts to the good things in her life and she realizes just how great she has it.

Sometimes I need someone to pull me out of the trap of comparison and what’s fair and what’s not. It’s a deep hole, and when I fall in, it hurts. It’s so easy to slip, too. A friend gets a new car or moves into a bigger house, someone’s husband gets a promotion, the other moms are just so much better at EVERYTHING than I am… the list gets long and things start to spiral out of control in my heart.

Nothing good will come of me comparing my life with someone else’s and dwelling on the it’s-not-fairs. Not to mention what a tragedy it is when I lose sight of all God has given me because I’m too distracted by fretting over what He has given to someone else. So I’m challenging myself—and I’ll challenge you, too. When comparison sneaks in and you want to say in your whiniest voice, “It’s not fair!”, “Why them?”, or “Why not me?”, pause for a moment, and take inventory of God’s gifts in your life. What I’ve found so far is that when I stop to look around at the good things, the people, the relationships in my life, I start feeling very, very silly for being envious… and very, very grateful instead.

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By the way, next time my daughter complains that I get to stay up late and she doesn’t, I’m going to offer to trade with her. 7 p.m. bedtime sounds like a dream to this tired mama.

Listen to Jim Keller’s sermon from The Upside of Down series here.