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?

 

Fighting fear in a fallen world

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I should have known that after my previous post, the sleeping-in toddler would be replaced by the up-at-7 toddler. These things happen. I’m grateful though that I had those peaceful, reflective mornings that particular week. I needed them, and I love the sometimes simple ways God offers grace, like a baby sleeping an extra 45 minutes in the morning for a few days.

My heart has been heavy lately, and I’ve felt so distracted from my husband and children, spending my time and energy poring over news articles and blog posts and trying to discern truth from lies, postponing daily life requirements like putting laundry away and planning dinners (you’re welcome, Pizza Hut). I’m trying desperately to separate what I know in my heart to be true of our God from my earthly, human fears. I worry about the future, about my children’s lives in another 10 or 20 years. What will their world look like? Will they be safe in it? Are any of us ever really “safe” this side of heaven?

Do I really trust God with the future of this world and with my children’s lives?

Witnessing atrocities of the world via this beast called social media is enough to make me want to curl up under my covers and hide. I don’t want to go to the movies anymore, even if there’s a film I actually want to see (rare these days). Why go to the store when I can order online from the safety of my kitchen? I bought concert tickets yesterday, but my excitement was underscored by pangs of claustrophobia. What has happened to me?

Debate and politics make me feel anxious and confused, and on several occasions lately I’ve teased the “delete my Facebook” screen, heart beating wildly, because I just can’t take it anymore. (I haven’t done it, but the day might be coming.) There is so much garbage being circulated. It feeds our indignation. It angers us. It empowers us if it’s worded just right. We click and click and click, sorting through the thoughts and opinions of others, hoping to find someone — a politician, a blogger, a preacher, an activist, whoever — who gets it right so that we can hit that Share button and type, “This. Yes.”

All I know is this: If you believe God’s Word is indeed His good and perfect truth, the answers are there.

Perhaps we don’t want to look there because we already know what we will find, and it scares us. But if you believe in Him, here’s the thing: The answers are in your heart as well. You know.

So, I will take a deep breath and draw myself away from the computer screen.

I will not withdraw into the black hole of social media, phone in hand.

I will go do the things that need to be done today.

I will show Christ’s love.

I will care for my family.

I will trust that God is bigger than my fears.

I will choose — year-by-year, hour-by-hour, probably some days, minute-by-minute — to fight my fears with Truth.

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. —Psalm 91:4

 

 

 

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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To give what I have and know it is enough

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In college, I decided to major in journalism because I wasn’t quite sure what else to do with myself.

Most of my high school friends were education majors who had known from the time they were wee that they wanted to be teachers. Not having found anything that “made my heart beat faster,” as my old pastor used to say, I followed along for a while, even joining the Future Teachers of America club, because why not? I wasn’t an artist, wasn’t into science or math, and didn’t think anything technology-related would hold my attention. I could carry a tune and harmonize with my altos in church choir but I wasn’t a singer by any means, and the drama teacher always assigned me the role of peasant #6 or townsperson #2 so clearly acting wasn’t really my jam either. I was on the yearbook staff at my small high school and thought that was fun, so maybe journalism would be my best bet. I made good grades on my English papers and could diagram sentences like a boss, and I knew how to spell. And most importantly, a journalism track meant zero math courses, and I liked that idea a whole lot.

So off I went to the Communications building to first learn about marketing and the history of newspapers and magazines, which I found interesting. But as I moved through the years of college and into actual news reporting classes, I made a discovery. I didn’t really like writing the news—and haaated bugging people for interviews—and judging by the grades I received from my professors (mostly Orlando Sentinel adjuncts at the time), my writing was just okay. Feature writing was more fun—book review on Harry Potter? No prob!—but the feedback from my professor in that class didn’t leave me feeling too optimistic either.

Editing 1 though—the class where you memorize entries from the AP Stylebook (yup) and destroy sample articles with a red pen and proofreader’s marks galore—that class felt like home to me. Go figure. I got an A even though the prof said no one would… and thus began my career in copyediting. I guess if I’m not that great a writer myself, the least I can do is help other writers look better. Wah waaaah.

Yet somehow, here I am 10-ish *cough* years later with this blog and the stories in my head and the thoughts I try so hard to accurately express through written word. Lately I’ve struggled with this blogging business because the more I write, the more I want to read, and the more I read what other writers write, the more I feel like I’m back in journalism classes again with that disappointing, mediocre B scribbled atop every assignment, reminding me that I’m just okay at this and maybe I should just go back to helping other people with their writing.

It hurts.

There’s so much I want to do and often I feel too inadequate to even try. Too many things to attempt and not enough time. I want to encourage women. I want to help moms be better and kinder to one another and to our kids (and our husbands). I want to share these little thoughts I know God has put in my head for a purpose, whether it’s in a 1,000-word blog post or a quick sentence I throw out into the universe. I struggle with feeling like what I want to say is going to sound staged or fake or pretentious, because I hate that. I love it when people get real with each other in a way that is encouraging and promotes growth and change, steps forward—not pretty all the time. I still want to edit. I want to write a whole book. I want to organize all the photos I’ve ever taken and put them in albums so that when my children are grown, they will look back and know how much I loved them, because thousands and thousands of photos! 

I am quick to let my head take over and my thoughts spiral completely out of control. I get lost in them.

Rebekah. Stop.

What has Christ asked of me? For only the wisest and deepest words? For a sentence that will solve the world’s problems in addition to having layers and layers of meaning and mystery? For perfectly crafted, tweetable statements that someone will inevitably paste onto photos of sunsets and wildflowers to be reposted 26 times in a row on my Instagram feed?

No. He whispers to my heart simply,

Follow Me.

Share the stories I have given you as best you can, and know that I love your meager gifts—your B grades, your “just okay” words.

Be present with your children—the children I have entrusted to your care—in the everyday.

Love Me.

Love others. 

Just follow Me. 

We plant, trusting God for the growth.
We act in faith, trusting God for the outcome.
We build, trusting God to fill.
We offer, trusting God with the response.
—Emily P. Freeman, Simply Tuesday

The truth is, I need those other writers, the ones whose beautifully strung-together words frustrate me (why can’t I write like that?). I’m learning that God uses other people’s gifts to inspire me to use mine, however unworthy they are to my own critical eye. To encourage me to dig in a little more, to think harder, to study, and to remember that whatever I have to offer, God can and will use it if I just give it to Him.

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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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On minivans, the power of words, and the finger

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I spend a lot of time in the car these days. To school, to work, to school, to work, to grandma’s, to church, to school, to work… I drive a minivan which, I have no problem saying, isn’t top of the line or anything. But it’s comfortable, and it’s easy to get the kids in and out, and it’s reliable, and we can fit lots of stuff in it.

The one thing I really don’t enjoy about the family vehicle we selected is this. In the three or four years I’ve been driving it, I’ve come to one conclusion: Nobody wants to drive behind a minivan. I don’t know why, but I suspect people think that minivan driver equals either distracted mom or elderly gentleman. Fine, yes, in the interest of total disclosure, sometimes I am the distracted mom driver. But really—I’m a good driver. My record is spotless (if I write that, have I just jinxed it?). In any case, it doesn’t seem to matter whether I’m keeping up with the flow of traffic or even speeding a little. There’s something about the back end of a minivan that screams at other drivers, “QUICKLY! PASS ME NOW OR BE TRAPPED FOREVER!”

On one of my many back-and-forth to school/work routes when I was about 6 months pregnant with my youngest, the car behind me rode my tail all the way through the residential area near my house. When people do this, my heart rate rises and I get shaky. Why are they tailing me? Did I do something wrong? Am I being followed? (See previous post about watching too much Law & Order.) The speed limit on this particular street was 25, and it’s clear the road was constructed with the intention to keep drivers from being able to speed—it’s windy, some parts are paved with stone, and there are little roundabouts that force you to brake.

So, in my minivan, I’m really going as fast as I can around these little roundabouts. I stop at a stop sign. The woman behind me stops, still right on my tail. I make a turn; so does she. I drive down the next road on my route, and once again she rides my bumper until we come to the next stop sign. At which point I come to a complete stop, and glance in my rearview mirror, and there it is.

Zing. That finger. And she didn’t just flash it at me. She waved it around up in her windshield for good measure, you know, in case I missed it. I pulled forward through the intersection and watched her make a right turn behind me and pull into a driveway… Oh my goodness, she’s my neighbor. We live on the same block. I burst into tears and drove up to the next street and into my own driveway, where I sat, shaking, and tried to calm myself.

It’s been more than a year since this incident, which I’m guessing many people would have shrugged off with a “Whatever.” But it’s as fresh in my mind today as it was the day it happened, and it still bothers me. I wish I could just forget things like this, believe me. But even though this complete stranger and I never exchanged words, her words—in the form of that one ridiculous finger—struck me, and they stuck. If we had been walking down the street, and she was in a hurry, and I had stepped into her path, would she have been so bold as to say those incredibly rude words associated with that finger to my face? Highly unlikely, yet it sure felt as though that’s what she had done.

Whether spoken or indicated through a gesture—words hurt. And when thrown about carelessly and without regard to the feelings of another, they have the power to crush and destroy. Warnings about taming the tongue are all over the Bible.

Death and life are in the power of the tongue… —Proverbs 18:21

And then James writes:

How great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire! And the tongue is a fire… setting on fire the entire course of life. … No human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God. —James 3:5-10

Full of deadly poison. Now that scares me. But it’s the last part that breaks my heart. With our tongues—when we don’t exercise the simple discipline of silence, just holding our tongues—we curse people.

People God made. People God loves. People He loves as much as He loves you. Someone who lost a loved one this morning. Someone with a broken heart. Someone who just lost a job. Someone who doesn’t know that God loves them, and that they are wanted. Or a very tired pregnant lady who is just trying to get home after a long day to hug her husband and little girl.

Words stick with me, and that includes the words I’ve said to others in a burst of anger or moment of carelessness. I go to bed some nights, my own words rolling around in my head, regretting every one and kicking myself for not having the restraint to just keep my mouth shut. I hate to think that I’ve made someone feel the way that woman made me feel that day, though I’m certain that I am guilty of doing so.

It’s inevitable that I’ll be flipped off again in the future, so I’ll see you in therapy for that one. For now I’m going to hold onto the memory of that brief interaction as a reminder for myself that in a moment of extreme frustration, the best solution—and the best way to not ruin someone else’s day or worse—is to just be kind. Be patient. Keep your mouth shut… and keep your hands on the steering wheel.