(Archived
entries from previous blog 2007-2011)
Mom-In-Training - Sometimes
funny, sometimes reflective, sometimes worth reading, but ALWAYS worth writing.
March
14th, 2011
Be still and know that He is God…
Not too hard so far. The house was quiet in the early morning
hours before church. The rest of the family was still asleep. Already showered
and coffee in hand, I sat at my desk, putting the finishing touches on the
lesson for my 4th and 5th grade Worship
Warriors class (our fancy name for Junior Church). Earlier in the week, our
church’s music director, who was in a bit of a pickle, had asked at the last
minute if I could sing. I normally don’t have much at my fingertips that
wouldn’t call for a lot of practice, but over the summer I had purchased a few
background CD’s and had the perfect song handy. Now as I sat at my desk,
sipping coffee, I meditated on the goodness and providence of God and thanked
Him for the opportunity to serve. Everything was indeed still.
It was Sunday morning, however. I knew what was
coming.
Be still, oh restless soul of mine, bow before the Prince of
Peace…
I should have prayed right then, but I didn’t.
I made another cup of coffee and carried it, along with a blueberry
muffin, to our bedroom. Nothing wakes a spouse better than a little breakfast
in bed.
…let the noise and clamor cease…
I could only put it off for so long. I woke the kids. Bad move I
know, but I had to be at church early to practice my solo. We couldn’t afford
to be late.
Breakfast is never a peaceful affair where children are concerned.
When two of them have ADHD and Asperger’s Disorder, stepping on a land mine is
more pleasurable. One noisy, chattering kid was crouched in his chair,
balanced on tiptoes, while a forkful of sticky waffle precariously teetered on
one thumb. When the whole thing finally took a tumble down his leg onto the
floor (note my complete lack of surprise), the atmosphere in the room instantly
changed. “Why did this happen to me!?” he shouted. “Now my fork is dirty
and my foot is all sticky!” He stomped around the kitchen and yelled about how
miserable he was with goo on his toes. I told him in my most clamor-ceasing
voice that it could be cleaned up, and that there was no need to get so upset.
He got angrier. “Mom, I hate it when you’re not mad when I’m
mad!”
That was a new one.
I think at one point he turned on his siblings, but the rest of
the ugly events were a blur. My next memory was of me yelling at him to stop
yelling (it made sense at the time). I cleaned up the sticky mess on the table,
chair and floor, and turned just in time to see my younger son spill a puddle
of maple syrup into his lap.
Where’s that land mine?
I’d like to say I was kind and gentle and loving and forgiving to
fallen child number two as I sopped up the mess, but I was too worked up by
that point, and admonished him to the point of tears. Now I was angry AND I had
guilt.
Meanwhile, the first child was still ranting and the insanity
became more than I could bear. I finally grabbed the boy by the arm, dragged
him out of the kitchen and explained in no uncertain terms that he was making
the day a complete misery for the entire family. In his
elevated stress, he began ticcing, which means he repeatedly stomped the floor
while grunting and blinking (not because he’s angry, since I had frightened him
by this point, but because he needed to feel his foot banging against the floor
to release stress). Seeing the tics frustrated me even more. I ordered him to the
kitchen to finish his breakfast while I stormed to my room to cool off and slap
on some makeup.
As I have many times before, I began to question God’s wisdom.
There are few books out there that address the unique struggles associated with
raising and disciplining an Asperger’s/ADHD/Tourette’s child from a Biblical
perspective. Sometimes I have rays of sunlight and joy and peace in the
journey, but at other times it just seems hopeless.
Like today.
Don’t you care God? Don’t you know what this is doing to all of
us? I can’t HANDLE this anymore! Why did you give me this child?
Yes, I said that to the Almighty, and I just put it in writing.
What’s more, my peace-craving husband heard the whole thing from
the shower. The dark mood was spreading. Breakfast in bed can only go so
far. We struggled to get our biggest offender dressed and groomed for the day.
Most ten-year-olds can handle this on their own, but understand that ours has
trouble staying on task with the simplest of things, like yawning. The delight
of trying to keep him focused only added to our stress. Normally we’d tell him
if he’s not dressed when we leave he will go in whatever he’s wearing. Believe
me, we’d do it, and he knows it. His panic at the thought of appearing at
church in his PJ’s is enough to get him rushing around at the last minute, but
in our altered mental state that morning, we took temporary leave of our wise
parenting skills and fell back on threats and insults, complete with raised
voices and hot tempers. What’s worse, we were all starting to turn on one
another.
The tension in the car was thick as we pulled out, and I knew it
would be a long drive to church. I had planned to practice my song a bit during
the trip, but now I couldn’t imagine choking out the words. They would only feel
sour on my tongue.
Be still and know that He is faithful.
My dear husband, who was struggling with frustration himself,
tried his best to set a different tone. He suggested I pop my CD in the player
so I could warm up.
I soured a little more. “I can’t.”
“How come?”
I snapped back, “because I don’t believe a word of
what I’m singing right now!”
He paused a moment. “Do you want to pray about it?”
“No!”
“Do you want me to pray about it?”
I stared out the window. “You can pray to yourself,” I said
flatly.
In case you’re wondering, this is called bitterness.
I used to subconsciously look down on bitter people. Even when my
dad died of cancer after suffering for so long, I could trust the Lord’s wisdom
as I grieved. It was never mine to question Him…until now. I knew that God had
the ability to solve my problems, but I began to believe the lie that he just
didn’t care. That I had somehow disappointed Him and He had decided to take his
hand of mercy from me. After all, what good could come from having a child with
such a profound behavioral disability?
Consider all that He has done, stand in awe and be amazed…
I so desperately wanted to meditate on God’s goodness. I could
not, in good conscience, sing this song in front of our congregation unless I
somehow managed to cut through my fragile emotions and see things the way I
ought to. Looking around at what has been called His glorious creation didn’t
help as I glanced at naked trees, gray skies, and frozen ground. It looked the
way I felt, and it was not glorious.
Time has a way of settling things down. ADD meds had been
administered and were finally beginning to work, so there was some peace. I
stuffed my CD into the player and muscled my way through the song a few times
before we pulled into the church parking lot. I actually sounded convincing,
even to myself. Practice on stage went off without a hitch.
Inside I felt like a hypocrite. And not only did these people want
to hear me sing, but they also expected me to teach a bunch of 4th and
5th graders from the Word of God. While I had been looking
forward to this day all week, at that moment I would have given almost anything
to get out of it.
At least I had adult Sunday School to look forward to. I didn’t
know how much I could absorb spiritually, but at least I’d be with friends, and
right then I needed it. I walked into the room with my game face on.
Our class has been winding our way through the Bible, and today we
landed on the book of Ruth. Our pastor began to speak of Naomi, whose husband
and sons died, and who was left to wallow in grief and bitterness over her
losses.
He had my attention. I could identify with bitterness.
Then he talked of Ruth, Naomi’s daughter-in-law, who became a
widow too young. Besides that, she had no children.
Bliss.
I knew the story well. Naomi’s husband and sons, one of whom was
Ruth’s spouse, had died, and Naomi was headed back to her homeland. Ruth,
originally from the pagan region of Moab, made a commitment to stay by Naomi’s
side and leave all she knew behind. What’s more, she was willing to embrace
Naomi’s God.
Things looked bleak from the beginning of this story, and yet God
had a beautiful plan that would restore joy and bring redemption to that broken
family, and even pave the way for the coming Messiah. He would use bitter times
to accomplish it, but as our wise Sunday School teacher explained, it would be
like using “a crooked stick to draw a straight line.”
I looked at my spouse, who stared straight ahead. I knew he was
probably thinking the same thing I was.
Does God actually have a good plan in store that can only be
accomplished through the struggles of raising my unique children?
I have always tried to encourage others with this very principle,
but in the heat of the moment I had been temporarily blinded. Is it any wonder why
church is so important? We can believe the Bible from cover to cover and yet be
completely vulnerable to Satan’s attacks in a weak moment. I was the perfect
target that day because I was out to serve the Lord in what I knew without
doubt was His will, and I let my guard down. It was my wavering faith that
caused me to react in anger at my children instead of submitting to what the
Lord had allowed for me, in order to purify me and glorify Himself. When my
present trials are behind me, I hope and pray that I will indeed see a straight
line, despite the stick he has chosen to draw it with.
None of those at church could have ever imagined the inner
struggle gnawing away at me that morning. They heard a song sung by a woman who
looked like she believed every word of it…and she did.
It has dawned on me that, while things may rarely be still and
peaceful on the outside, my heart does not need to fear or worry or imagine
disaster is ahead. To be still is not to sip coffee in a quiet house. It is for
me to acknowledge God’s goodness, holiness, faithfulness and love, and rest in
that, despite the turmoil and moments of despair. It is to believe these things
about God when it doesn’t seem possible based on our circumstances. I believe
because he says it is so in Jeremiah 29:11. “For I know the thoughts
that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to
give you a future and a hope.”
The cherry on top was my son, my sticky-toed gift from God who,
when I finished singing, held up a paper with a big “10” scribbled on it. He,
like God, is ever patient with me, giving me yet another chance.
Be still and know that He is God.
Be still and know that He is Holy.
Be still, oh restless soul of mine,
bow before the Prince of Peace,
let the noise and clamor cease.
Be still and know the He is God.
Be still and know that He is Faithful.
Consider all that He has done,
stand in awe and be amazed,
know that He will never change.
Be still…
Be still, and know that He is God.
Be still, and know that He is God.
Be still, and know that He is God.
Be still…be speechless.
Be still and know that He is God.
Be still and know He is our Father.
Come rest your head upon His breast,
listen to the rhythm of His unfailing heart of love,
beating for His little ones, calling each of us to come.
Be still…be still.
October
25th, 2010
Over the course of several weeks I have been viewing some old Bill
Gothard seminar videos at a friend’s house. The topic of last week’s
presentation was Anger. I’ve been waiting for this one for a while. If you can’t
guess why, just ask my husband…or my kids…or my dog. I can be one angry woman.
But why do I get angry? Why do any of us get angry? I thought perhaps the
problem was I just didn’t have enough self-control. Or maybe it was the
influence of my upbringing. My dad had a temper, and he had a temper because he
was raised in an abusive home. Maybe his mom was angry and abusive
because of her home life growing up. It could go on.
I learned something new about anger last week, and it had
absolutely nothing to do with “self-control” or “rising above” or learning how
to be “better than the other person.” It applies regardless of upbringing,
influence, or any other factor. To apply the principles I learned might indeed
put psychiatry as we know it out of business. Who knows?
We get angry when our rights (real or perceived) have been
violated. This may include the right to be respected, the right to fairness,
being treated kindly and politely, eat when hungry, get a good night’s sleep,
have a car that’s not wrecked by a careless driver, etc.
The key here is to transfer those rights to God in the same manner
that Jesus Christ did when he put on humanity (Phil. 2:5-8). Imagine that! Jesus,
who was God in the flesh, set aside His right to supreme glory and power, even
putting on guilt and shame. God the Son, creator of the universe, perfect and holy
was treated like a worthless criminal, having the sin of the world put upon
him. I believe we have become desensitized to his deity because we have a
picture of his humanity in our minds. We will never completely fathom the
rights that were violated…and He willingly allowed it.
Now, back to our rights. If we “let this mind be in [us] which was
also in Christ Jesus,” we are in effect TRANSFERRING our rights to God the way
Jesus did. Now we as Christians have all been taught that the Lord allows
persecution, suffering or difficulties to help us grow stronger, or to
accomplish some greater purpose, but I don’t believe this knowledge alone will
help us keep our cool when faced with obstacles, loss, or hostility, unless we
have learned to SUBMIT OUR RIGHTS to God, and allow Him to
return to us certain privileges (rights) as He chooses, in the same way he
later exalted Christ in Phil. 2:9.
I do believe that the reason Christians in other countries are
better able to handle persecution than Christians in America would, is because
those Christians have gone without some basic rights for so long that they are
notenslaved to those rights the way we are.
How this plays out will differ from person to person, but the
process is the same. The first step is to recognize when
you’re getting angry. This is usually not hard to do, so I won’t expand on it
except to say that it can be deceptively referred to as impatience, irritation,
frustration, annoyance, or aggravation. It’s really all the same. Don’t kid
yourself or make it sound better than what it is. The second step is
to identify where the anger is coming from. What right do I feel is being
violated?
Here’s a simplistic example: When my elderly neighbor screams at
me because some of my garbage blows onto her yard, I will immediately feel
anger. As soon as I recognize it I need to ask myself what right of mine is
being violated that is causing my anger? In this case, the right to being
treated kindly. In that moment I must immediately transfer that right
to God. This is the third step.
I might also feel the right to defend myself. “Look, lady, the
wind blew my trash can over, and a raccoon got into my garbage. It’s not my
fault, so get over yourself already!”
Now, while there’s nothing inherently wrong with telling my side
of the story, in this situation the attempt would be futile and would only fuel
the fire on both sides of the fence. My neighbor is not an emotionally stable
woman. So again I must SUBMIT TO GOD, in this case my right to defend myself.
This also fulfills the command from scripture not to “answer a fool according
to his folly, or you will become like him yourself.” (Proverbs 26:4 NIV) In
other words, the minute I respond in kind, I lose all credibility, and will
never be able to win that person to Christ. A sobering thought.
So what rights of yours are being violated? The right to a decent
job? A reliable car? Respectful children? Perhaps you subconsciously feel you
have the right to good health, or the right against being falsley accused. Am I
saying we should not do all we can to protect our name or our health, and teach
our children to be respectful? Of course not! We have a responsibility to do
those things, but when we attach rights to them we get angry, which is
counterproductive at best, damaging at worst.
To deny our rights is counter-cultural. Look at all the ads.
Apparently we have the right to expensive clothes, lasting hair color, and a
break at McDonalds. And let’s face it–to willingly surrender our rights to the
only Being powerful enough to give them back to us as he chooses is more than
counter-cultural, it’s humanly unnatural, and this is why Biblical principles
are often spurned by society. I Corinthians 2:14 says ”but the natural man does
not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him;
nor can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”
(NKJV) If Christ does not dwell in you, none of this will make sense.
Bill Gothard recommended a book that illustrates this topic of
anger well, called the Pineapple Story. It’s about a missionary who plants
pineapples, only to have them stolen by the natives, and how he learned to
conquer his anger over the situation and deal with it in a constructive way. I
plan to purchase the book. Might be a good devotional read for my kids (and
me). It can be purchased through the Institute in Base Life Principles at http://store.iblp.org/products/PS/.
Before you get too impressed with my words, don’t. This is new
territory for me and I am merely repeating what I have learned. Pray along with
me that this wisdom will embed itself deeply in my mind and in my heart.
June 5th,
2010
He could hardly wait for Thursday. It was all he could talk about. Elementary Fun Day.
It comes at the end of each school year, promising oodles of fun
for hundreds of kids, like Grant, who haven’t an ounce of productivity left in
them. Unfortunately the night before, after Ryan and I had fallen asleep, Grant
decided to sneak out of his room and play games on the Wii, which is where I
found him the next morning. He was sitting on the couch fast asleep and
drooling, Wii remote still in his hand. According to the game console’s stats,
he’d been playing all night until around 5:30 a.m. when he must’ve dozed off.
He acted like a drunk man when I woke him, and while I managed to get him
dressed and fed, he pretty much passed out on the couch again afterward. I knew
he was gonna miss the bus and there was NO WAY I was taking him to school
myself, so he could kiss his Fun Day goodbye! He’s pulled this sort of sneaky
stunt before, so there was a smug sense of satisfaction in knowing the
consequence had presented itself without me having to lift a finger.
Little did I know what chain of events this would set off.
That same morning I took Ryan to work (he has an injured foot and
can’t walk to the bus stop), then made the hour-long trip to my Mother-in-law’s
house to drop off the dog before our Cub Scout camping trip. Grant woke up at
some point during the drive, and there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth
when he found out he’d missed the most AWESOME day of the school year.
As usual we enjoyed our visit with Grandma. The kids got to meet
her new dog and I caught a glimpse of our former cat, Mitzy, who was now living
blissfully outdoors there in the country. While the kids were outside playing
and my Mother-in-law and I were getting our dogs acquainted, a sweet gray
kitten, probably only three months old, wandered over from a neighbor’s house.
Grant became instantly attached. He even named her ”Cloudy,” despite my
assurances that she probably already had a name. It was quite sweet to see him
paying so much attention to her.
After a while I packed the kids back into the car and we began the
hour-long trek home. I was pretty worn out from driving by this point and
getting irritated with Grant, in particular, who kept making annoying sounds.
He denied his guilt in the usual fashion, but I knew better than to believe
him. I finally told him (rather loudly) to sit still and keep quiet.
When we got home I made sandwiches for everyone, then took my own
lunch to my room so I could relax and watch a little TV. Well, I must have
fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I knew three kids burst into
my room, and Grant was bawling his eyes out.
ME: What’s the matter buddy? Are you hurt?
GRANT: I LOST SOMETHING VERY VALUABLE!
ME: (patting him) What is it? I’ll help you find it.
GRANT: I…CAN’T…TELL…YOU! (more sobbing)
ME: (confused) Why? What it something that belonged to me?
GRANT: NO!
ME: What is it then?
EMILY AND CONNOR: It’s CLOUDY!
Out of bed I flew with a shout. “What!? How on earth did
that cat get HERE?” One look at Grant told me everything I needed to
know. I flashed back to the minutes before we left Grandma’s house: Grant’s
obsession with the kitten. The mysterious case of a car door found ajar that I
was certain I’d closed earlier. Then there were the noises my son insisted he didn’t
make during the car ride home…the ones that actually came from the console
between the front seats where my kidnapper son had stuffed the unsuspecting
cat, wrapped in a blanket.
How that poor animal survived in such a tiny space I don’t know.
What I did know is that she was now at large. While I dozed, Grant had tried
sneaking the cat out of the minivan, but Cloudy seized her opportunity and
darted under it. While he went inside to find some food to tempt her out with,
the cat disappeared. He searched for some time before finally coming to me, so
by now the runaway kitten had a sizeable lead. I had visions of her being run
over by a car while instinctively attempting a 30-mile journey home, or else
picked up by Animal Control and…gasp…euthanized. Perhaps she would just
be taken in by some family, but even that possibility wasn’t good enough since
I knew the cat belonged to someone else. I tried to explain to Grant that
“Cloudy” already had an owner and what he did was stealing. He said he didn’t
know the cat belonged to anyone because she had no collar and didn’t do any
tricks (apparently a surefire test for strays).
After putting a small pile of cat food in the driveway, we drove
up and down the neighborhood streets calling to a kitten who didn’t know her
name. When my husband came home from work he drove Grant around again and had
the boy knocking on doors with no luck. When Ryan got paged by work they had to abandon
the search. But, moments later, as the forlorn, guilt-ridden boy slunk up the
front steps to the house…a sheepish feline peeked out from inside the garage.
I saw her before Grant did. “Grant,” I said as calmly as I could,
“don’t move. Just stay right there…heeeere kitty, kitty.” The
unsuspecting cat slowly crept toward my son and began curling herself around
his legs. “Okay, Grant,” I whispered, “grab him…rrriiiight…NOW!
With a whoop, Grant firmly grasped the shocked kitten around her
belly, ran up the front porch steps and tossed her into the house. “Great,” he
said, “now we can keep her!” I had to break it to him that this was impossible.
Cookie had passed away and Mitzy didn’t live here anymore, so we had no food,
no litter box, and we were headed for a weekend of camping besides. Not to
mention, the kitten’s owner was sure to miss her. The only thing we could do
was drive to Grandma’s. Again.
Though Ryan offered, I insisted upon making the journey since he
had some work to finish up at home. Grant sat in the passenger seat with Cloudy
curled up contentendly beside him. It was heartbreaking, really, to watch Grant
pet her and cry at the thought of saying goodbye. In his mind this kitten was
already his.
About ten minutes from our destination I noticed the cat started
foaming at the mouth. “Grant, I think the cat’s carsick. Quick, grab some
napkins!” Disgusted, my helpful son instead leaped to the
backseat. The cat continued foaming profusely to the point where I worried she
was going rabid on me. It was soon clear, however, that she was indeed
nauseous, but since she hadn’t eaten any of the food I set out for her
(thankfully) all she brought up was, well, something foamy and snot-like.
Trouble is, she kept trying to shake off what was now dangling from her chin,
and bits of spit were getting flung all over the place. And it was still
coming, like a toddler’s perpetual runny nose. I probably appeared
intoxicated to other drivers in my effort to keep from getting slimed as I
drove. I knew the only way to stop it was to wipe the cat’s chin so it would
stop flinging the gunk, but since my son was having an “ew, this is gross” fit
in the back seat and would clearly be no help at all, I had to drive with one
hand while wiping the squirming cat’s face with some paper towels I always keep
stashed in the car.
Somehow we managed to pull into Grandma’s driveway in one piece,
and after a thorough seat-cleaning and Grant’s tearful goodbye, we left to run
all the pre-camping errands this whole day’s fiasco had kept me from. Finally
we arrived home at 10:30 pm, and Ryan carried in a sleeping Grant, to nobody’s
surprise.
All this, because I couldn’t wake the boy for school. Next time
I’m dropping him off curbside with a pillow.
April
17th, 2010
I think I
now know why my dad didn’t want a pet in our home when I was growing up. He
said he didn’t like the time it took to take care of one. He said he didn’t want
to be pouring money into a dog that he could be spending on his family. He said
he didn’t like cat hair on the couch or on the clothes (okay, he didn’t like
cats, period). But the one thing he didn’t mention I think probably trumped
them all. He didn’t like having a pet that would break his kids’ hearts,
thereby breaking his own.
We went
through this process today. It was harder than I ever thought it could be. I
brought a living, breathing, loving animal to the vet, and brought home
something that couldn’t do any of those things, yet still had the power to
reduce us all to tears.
I’ll never
forget the day we got Cookie. One warm day in 2004 we had gone with all three
kids to sign some home refinancing paperwork. Since the kids had been so good
at such a boring place we thought as a reward we’d stop by the local PetSmart
(which, for a kid, is kind of like going to the zoo, but FREE).
Unbenownst
to us, they were having a cat adoption event, and we began browsing…just
browsing, mind you. No, we’re not getting a cat. Awww…look at that one. She’s
so sweet! She just sits there and lets us pet her. How much is the adoption,
did you say? Kids, would you like a cat?
Well, we
almost walked out with a mellow, “bump-on-a-log” long haired cat whose name I
can’t remember. But the Humane Society staff thought a different one might be
better suited for a family with young children. That’s when they brought out
this black and white shorthair named Misty, who was an extremely affectionate
feline that loved all over us the minute she saw us. We were sold.
We talked
over names, since Misty didn’t seem to fit her. Black and white like an Oreo,
Cookie was the unanimous vote. The moment we got home she scurried behind the
furnace and didn’t come out for days, but before long she became the best lap
cat ever. All she ever wanted to do was be with people. Unfortunately, while
the Humane Society had estimated her age to be a couple of years old, our vet
surmised she could be anywhere from five to nine years old based on the
condition of her teeth, many of which had to be pulled. It was disappointing, but
she was otherwise healthy, except for a minor chronic sinus issue, and we
looked forward to many years with her.
Over the
last year or so we noticed her health beginning to decline. She was clearly
getting old, but there was more to it than that. Her stomach had always been a
little sensitive to food and we’d see evidence of it on occasion. During the
last few years of her life she became an outdoor cat and loved it very much,
and therefore I didn’t know how bad things were getting. Last year we began
keeping her indoors again. That’s when we realized how sick she was.
Cookie vomited
almost daily, sometimes more than once. I learned that she was swallowing food
whole instead of chewing it due to the missing teeth. X-rays found nothing, so I
tried soaking her food so it would be soft and easier to digest. Eventually I switched
to wet food. She was still throwing it up. Finally, I found a food she liked
that she could keep down. Keeping our other cat’s food away from her proved
impossible, and I still cleaned up a lot of messes, but at least I had some
control over the situation. Over the last month it became apparent that she
could hardly keep anything down, and she became little more than skin and
bones. When she threw up cat milk on Thursday I knew things were not going to
get better.
It seemed so cold of me to drop the cat off at the vet’s office, but ”Doc” wasn’t due in until later that day, and the staff thought it
would be easier if I didn’t have to come
into the waiting room when it’s full of people. When I came back later to pick her up, it was strange for the carrier to be so quiet and still. She was wrapped in a towel, and that’s
what we buried her in. Grant made a little cross with her name and the date on
it. In magic marker he wrote, “Here lies Cookie
Ahrens, named Misty when we got her, then three days later we named her
Cookie.” True to form, this funeral was a rainy one, but was no match for the
kids, whose weeping nearly tore our hearts
out. They cried themselves to sleep tonight. I may just do the same.
Thank you, Cookie, for six wonderful years. You were a blessing
to our family.
Mar. 1, 2010
God Can (subtitle: how to avoid paying a
sorcerer for services rendered)
It has occurred to me that I
have it all wrong.
When I find myself in hot water,
I react. I will do or try anything to achieve the desired outcome. I
scramble, manipulate, toss and turn, mutter a plea to God, manipulate some
more, worry, and ultimately mess up the situation even more with my own
misguided attempts to outwit something bigger than me.
Not that action isn’t important,
or that strategy isn’t sometimes called for, but did anyone else notice where
the prayers were in all this? Right in the middle. And they weren’t much to
speak of.
A friend of mine was facing such
a situation only a month ago. She was the victim of a crime, and now she was
facing a court trial. Things were tense. I spoke to one of those who would be
taking the stand. I told her “Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing and
messing everything up. The Lord has already written the story on this. He
already knows the end, and this will come out exactly the way He wants it to
for His glory. There’s nothing you can say or do on the stand that will
change His will.”
So why can’t I take my own
advice? Is it really that hard for a follower of God to ask Him to
supernaturally intervene and have faith that it can happen?
Be clear on this: I’m not
referring to things where we don’t know the will of God. I can ask God to
give us a bigger house, but if it’s not His will jumping the gun and trying
to make it happen will get us all burned. There ARE some
situations, however, where the will of God is obvious, yet the odds seem
insurmountable. Take David and Goliath in I Samuel 17. Goliath and the
Philistine army had the nation of Israel in a check-mate. But when Goliath’s
mockery reached David’s ears, David acted, and Goliath was destroyed.
Sound like I’m contradicting
myself. David didn’t pray that God would strike Goliath down supernaturally.
Looks like he took matters into his own hands. Ah, but keep reading…
v. 37 The LORD who
delivered me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will
deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.
v. 45-47 David said to the
Philistine, "You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I
come against you in the name of the LORD Almighty, the God of the armies of
Israel, whom you have defied. This day the LORD will hand you over to
me, and I'll strike you down and cut off your head. Today I will give the
carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds of the air and the beasts of
the earth, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. All
those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that
the LORD saves; for the battle is the LORD's, and he will give all of you
into our hands."
We all know how the story ends.
One young man. One sling. One stone. One giant down. And the Philistine army
flees for its life and is utterly decimated, their camp plundered. David
acted because it was in his power to do so, and he had the blessing of the
Lord behind him, the Lord who made good on his promise to Israel that day.
Abraham, on the other hand,
dealt with his insurmountable situations rather differently. Remember that
manipulation I talked about? Abraham was FANTASTIC at it. In Genesis God
promises Abraham a great nation. Unfortunately Abraham is childless. His wife
is barren and getting older, so she suggests he have children through her
handmaid, Hagar. He agrees, and Ishmael is born. God tells Abraham that
Ishmael, too, will be the father of a great nation, but is not the nation
which God has in mind for Abraham. Instead, Ishmael and his descendants would
“live in hostility toward all his brothers.” (Genesis 16:12) Rather than
having faith that God is the God of the impossible, Abraham takes matters
into his own hands, and the father of the Arab nation is born…y’know, where
the radical Muslims come from. Nice going, Abe.
Okay, but what about someone
that’s hell bent on doing something they shouldn’t? Can they really be
stopped? You’ll love this one...
In Numbers 22 the Israelites are
indeed a “great nation” and are destroying enemies left and right. They go to
battle. they win. They go to battle. They win. Wash, rinse, repeat. When they
settle in the land of Moab the residents are in a panic. Their king, Balak,
sends some messengers to fetch Balaam, a pagan sorcerer with a reputation for
success in the department of blessings and cursings (not sure how you’d word
that on a business card). Balaam told them he’d discuss it with the Lord, who
didn’t give him permission to go. Balak’s servants come back without him. The
king sends more servants who offer great wealth to Balaam if he comes with
them. God allows Balaam to return with the king’s messengers, but He is still
displeased with the mission. On the way to Moab, Balaam’s donkey sees an
angel of the Lord blocking the way. Balaam doesn’t see it at first, and beats
the donkey repeatedly before the donkey actually speaks to him. Then Balaam
sees the angel himself, sword in hand, ready to strike Balaam down. Balaam
bows before the Lord, willing to turn back, but the Lord allows him to
continue. Once in Moab, Balaam asks the king to build altars and make
sacrifices (the black magic kind). The king does this and sits waiting
eagerly for Balaam’s curse. But when Balaam opens his mouth, only a blessing
comes out. The king is beside himself, but Balaam explains that he is unable
to curse because the Lord, in essence, is controlling his speech. The king,
undeterred, takes Balaam to another location and tries again, same
eye-of-newt-style sacrifices and all. Still, Balaam can only bless. They try
again somewhere else, and after the third blessing, King Balak is royally
(sorry) ticked off. To cap off the fine evening, Balaam issues some bonus
oracles against Moab itself, that Israel will crush it.
Needless to say, Balaam was not
paid for his services.
I think I’ve managed to make the
case for God’s power. So back to our present day problem. When faced with
impending disaster, do we act? Or should we just wait on God? Depending on
the situation, we may need to act (prayerfully), or we may need to take our
hands off and just pray.
Modern example: Our children are
at risk of experimenting with drugs, alcohol or sex. Knowing God’s will
we certainly pray fervently, but we also ACT because we are commanded to do
so. We train them from a young age, shelter them from danger and worldly
influence through what we allow on TV, who they hang out with,
etc. We provide a loving biblical example of Christianity. When we
have done what we are supposed to do, we rest in faith that we have obeyed
the Lord and He will be faithful in protecting our children. We don’t sit on
the couch in faith, we ACT IN FAITH.
Another example: Our church’s
newest pastor, from North Carolina, is desperately trying to move his entire
family up here, but it means selling their southern home during a bad market
(which they finally did) and finding the right home here in PA for his family
of seven on a pastor’s income. Until then, he and his wife have to live with
agonizing separation, leaving his wife to deal alone with childrearing and
health issues (two sons have cystic fibrosis and one is currently in the
hospital). Is it God’s will that they be separated as a family? Of course
not. Is there much they can do beyond looking for a home? Nope. They must
believe that since God’s will is ultimately for them to be together, HE will
have to do the work that only He can do.
And God can do anything, can’t
he?
He can defeat an enemy. He can
create a great nation through a childless couple. He can thwart evil plans,
bring a man to justice, cause a car to break down so a tennager can’t go
where he shouldn’t. He can find a job, feed a single mom who has no money or
food. He can. He does. He will. We do not put our faith in a God who cannot
do, but Who has already done. He has proven himself faithful. We can depend
upon Him. We can rest in Him. Act when it’s appropriate to do so, but do not
manipulate, hoping somehow to change the outcome of a situation you cannot,
in reality, change on your own.
What I’ve written will mean
different things to different people. I pray God will give it wings to reach
you wherever you are.
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The Flea Circus, or in the spirit of the
season, Fleas on Earth
I've been itchin' to
write this for some time now, and my friends have been bugging me to do so. I
didn't want to be rash, however, so I waited for inspiration to bite.
The puns could go on
endlessly, but I'll spare you…
Like sweepstakes
winnings, I never thought it could happen to me. Cookie had been an
outdoor cat for several years without so much as an itch. When we got Mitzy
and introduced her to the wide open spaces, the bug community promptly passed
around a memo that dinner was being served.
Perhaps it was
because Mitzy roamed farther than Cookie, or perhaps it’s because she's
long-haired. Whatever the reason, the fleas found their way to her and before
long, both cats were itching and scratching, not to mention my husband...and
my brother...and my kids...and my nephew. No ankle was safe.
I went online
to explore the best ways to wage war against these creatures. The popular
suggestions were to vacuum daily, empty the vacuum bag after each use, use a
flea collar, bathe the cat using a flea shampoo, apply a monthly flea
treatment, fog the house, and use a flea comb.
Here’s how the suggestions
play out in my house:
1. Vacuum Daily: Seriously?
This means every carpeted area, upstairs and down, any place the cats sleep
(which is everywhere) and upholstery. If there is a woman in the world who
actually does this on a daily basis, I really don’t want to meet her. Then
again, if she has time to vacuum her entire house every day, she can come
vacuum mine.
2. Empty bag after
each vacuuming: Okay, now, which one of you people wants to change out a
virtually empty vacuum bag? That’s just plain wasteful. Now the logic behind
this is that if you don’t empty the bag every day, the critters just find
their way back out. To avoid this in my home, I just don’t vacuum. Problem
solved.
3. Use a flea
collar: People,
I’m telling you now—they don’t work if your cat already has fleas. I tried
different brands to no avail. Personally, I think expecting fleas to stay
away from the collar is about the same as expecting a nine-year-old boy to
stay away from dad’s tools. It might be a little risky, but fleas (and nine-year-old
boys) manage to have a good time nonetheless. I swear the fleas were having a
party under those collars, and lived to tell about it.
4. Bathe cat with
flea shampoo: Do I SERIOUSLY need to elaborate? Besides the
risk to life and limb, not only did both feline and human species
survive, so did some of the fleas. Yes, many did go down the drain, waving
little white flags as they went, so I can’t completely turn up my nose at
this suggestion. Do so, however, at your own risk.
5. Apply flea
treatment: If you’re trying to prevent fleas, the cheap stuff’s
fine. But if you’re already dealing with an infestation, bring the BIG wallet
to the store with you. There’s a reason the managers keep these little boxes
in locked cabinets, as if they were 24k gold jewelry. I squeezed a small
tube of this liquid (which smells exactly like nail polish remover) between
my cats’ shoulderblades where they couldn’t lick it off, and within days they
were scratching less. The effects are temporary and incomplete, but welcome.
6. Fog the house: Here’s how
this works…Wait for a day when you and your family plan to go out. Have a
fogger can ready for each floor of your home, as well as a wad of newspaper.
Cover all surfaces with newspaper that you will be placing the foggers on. Put
away any food, cover all food surfaces and appliances, cover cat food &
water bowls, and cover the crab cage (yes, you have two hermit crabs in this
story). Turn off your hot water heater’s pilot light, since the fogger’s
warning label states there’s a risk of explosion (though Mythbusters has
proven otherwise). Get everyone in the car while you activate the cans and
dash out of the room. Evacuate house for one hour (preferably to the mall or
McDonalds) praying you didn’t forget anything at home because you are NOT
going back in. After returning an hour or so later, run through house opening
windows, while holding your breath since you fear residual toxic fumes. Exit
house for one more hour. When it’s safe (presumably), enter house, throw away
cans and paper. The next morning, take a cold shower because you forgot to
turn the hot water heater’s pilot light on. Read misleading directions on
side of hot water tank for lighting pilot light, which is not as easy as it
looks on paper, not to mention intimidating since you’re turning on natural
gas, then introducing a FLAME to it! Enjoy a flea free home for a few weeks,
during which time the single male and female fleas that were hiding under the
newspaper get busy. Repeat the entire process, except this time leave the
pilot light on. If there IS an explosion, you can be assured the fleas will
not survive. A small price to pay in achieving your goal.
7. Use a flea comb: This one
requires some dedication (read desperation), and there is a bit of an “ick”
factor since you will be coming into contact with the bugs themselves.
Flea combs have teeth placed close together which snag fleas pretty easily.
The important side tool in this is a container of soapy water. Fleas hate a
soapy bath as much as…well…nine-year-old boys (it seems they're similar
in a few ways). It kills them quickly (the fleas, that is). Basically, you
keep combing until you rake up a flea, then quickly dip the comb into
the soapy water until the flea croaks and floats off. Depending on the
temperament of your particular cat, this could be as risky as the bath. At
the very least, you’ll have to do this on the fly (sorry, couldn't resist).
Whenever I found one of my cats in a relaxed state anywhere in the house, I
grabbed the comb and soap/water bucket, which I kept always at the ready,
and brought them to the cat. The last time I did this
Mitzy was lounging in the kitchen. After only two minutes of
grooming she took off. I intended to work on her more later, but not
wanting to leave dead fleas floating in a bucket of water in my kitchen, I
hastily placed it on the side porch. There was a freeze that night, and the
next day when I went to comb Mitzy again I found the water had frozen
through, the fleas suspended throughout. It looked like the makings of another
Jurrasic Park sequel.
By now it’s probably
no surprise to any of you that the fleas are alive and well here in
fluctuating population. Eradication is not an option. Considering how a flea
egg embedded in carpet fibers can wait up to a year for a warm body to wander
by before hatching, I understand now why God said he would destroy the earth
by fire rather than by flood. A worldwide explosion may indeed be the only
way to ensure irreversible annihilation. Unless, that is, God were to add
some dishwashing liquid to the tidal wave.
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The Chef’s Special (Part Two of Three)
I stated in my last post that
our beloved cat, Cookie, is missing several teeth. In fact, a few years
ago we had them extracted (see 1/27/07 post). Our wallets are still
smarting.
Since our cats have been outdoor
cats, I was unaware how poorly Cookie’s food was digesting, or should I say
NOT digesting. Since keeping her indoors, I had been cleaning up episodes of
cat nausea twice a day. I was concerned, not to mentioned grossed out.
Fortunately, our vet is not
sheepish about charging the typical rate for full feline exams, which
included x-rays that showed nothing. I have often been tempted to ask, “since
there’s nothing there, can I get my money back?” This works well, I suppose,
if you buy a toy that doesn’t work, but It doesn’t quite carry over into the
world of medicine.
I walked out with empty pockets,
yet no definitve answer as to why Cookie was unable to digest her food.
Before her appointment that day, I had braced myself for the possibility that
we might not bring this sweet affectionate cat home again, but was happy to
learn after her exam that she was stuck with us for a little longer. Since
Cookie tends to swallow her food whole after losing those teeth, the
only advice the vet had for me was to soak her food with some water so
she could chew it easily, which might help her digest it. He was right, but
the deed is almost as nasty as, well…the alternative I’d been living with.
Have you ever seen a bowl of cat
food that was left out in the rain? That’s exactly what was on the menu for
poor Cookie. Surprisingly, she took it well. I, on the other hand, looked at
the soaked concoction of mush I WILLINGLY created and thought, “I can’t in
good conscience serve this up to her.” But serve I did. There’s NO WAY it
tastes nearly as good wet as it does dry, but she manages to clean her bowl
without complaint. On a side note to my kids, WATCH AND LEARN!
The biggest challenge (as if you
didn’t know this was coming) was Mitzy. Oh, she kept her food down fine. The
problem is, she had no trouble keeping Cookie’s food down either.
Picture the scene: Cookie is
staring at me with starving eyes, looking pathetic with her bony,
undernourished frame. I quickly scoop some food into her dish and pour water
over it. Then I set it up where she can’t get to it until it’s soaked through
fifteen minutes later. In the meantime I turn my attention to getting my
nine-year-old out the door for school--a task for which all moms should
earn a medal, I might add. Once he’s the bus driver’s problem I
turn back to the bowl I prepared for Cookie--to find Mitzy has slunk over and
consumed it completely (envision more than mild irritation here. Trust
me--you won’t overdo it). Now I have to start all over again, scooping,
soaking, and this time hiding the bowl behind a closed bathroom door, all
while Cookie follows at my ankles and stares at me like Oliver Twist.
Challenge #2? Trying to keep
Mitzy’s DRY food away from COOKIE. Once I realized Cookie was not going to wait patiently for her
homemade paté, I had to find a suitable place to keep Mitzy’s bowl where she
alone could get to it. Thankfully, because she’s a younger cat, she still has
some serious spring in her step and can easily leap to a high, deep
windowsill we have in our finished basement--something Cookie can’t reach. So
now her dish has a permanent spot there. It looks lovely, really, nestled in
between all my tasteful décor…really.
Okay, I hate it there, but I’m
desperate. I’m waging a war against soiled carpets and mush under my feet.
Disgusted yet? Now you know how I feel. Anyone hungry for a snack?...
I have the technique down to a
science now. The first thing I do after dragging son #1, kicking and
screaming, out of bed, is go straight to the laundry room to prepare Cookie’s
breakfast, which I then shut up in the bathroom until it’s ready. I also
scoop some food into Mitzy’s bowl and place it in the high windowsill. Then I
prepare human breakfasts for a while before returning downstairs to give Cookie
her bowl, therby quelling her “stare of guilt.”
The funny thing is, even though
Cookie knows she has delayed gratification coming, she never ceases to act
shocked that I do not serve up her food the minute it is scooped into the
bowl. And I’ve learned never to mistake her silence for patience. Just the
other evening Ryan and I sat in our family room and watched in shock as our
dear geriatric cat, out of nowhere, decided to try an impulsive leap to the
high ledge herself. She fell short, of course, but just barely, putting up a
good fight. I think there are a few claw marks going down the wall where she
clung for dear life, watching that coveted meal slip further and further from
view. At least she didn’t hurt anything but her pride, which doesn’t cost an
arm and a leg to be repaired.
Stay tuned for Episode Three in
the cat trilogy, which I’m just itchin’ to write (painful pun intended).
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Cats in the Klink (Part One of Three)
We recently reintigrated our two
cats to exclusively indoor living. While they have enjoyed the freedom the
great outdoors allows, they developed the nasty habit of wandering into
neighboring yards and leaving presents of the unwanted kind. I never heard
complaints per se, but the elderly woman next door called one day to say she
observed someone in an official looking truck (animal control?) which had
pulled up to the single woman’s house across the street, where our cat,
Cookie, happened to be lounging. I took that as a sign that not everyone
feels the same way about our felines as we do. As it turns out, we later
discovered that this woman LOVES Cookie, and had no idea she belonged to us.
She even gave her the name “Domino,” and has enjoyed her affectionate nature.
While I can’t be certain that
anybody actually calledAnimal Control, I still thought it wise to
keep them inside. "Why not put collars on them," you say? Tell that
to the cats, who have managed to come back at the end of the day with theirs
missing…several times.
Since their imprisonment they
have made it understood in no uncertain terms that they are displeased with
the arrangement. There are several ways they have communicated this:
1. An insanely full
litter box. While I
realize that the litter box was rarely used while they were outside cats,
there’s NO WAY on God’s green earth they could have consumed enough food to
produce the piles I am scooping and dumping on a daily basis. I know I have
some corks around here somewhere…
2. The meowing…no, the
whining…the INCESSANT WHINING at every door, window, crevice, crack in the wall, you name
it. These cats are serious, and not about to give up, even three weeks into
their solitary confinement.
3. The sassy behavior. Actually,
I pin this one totally on Mitzy. She was ornery from the moment we got her,
but became much more settled once I introduced her to the outdoors. She
tasted freedom, then had it cruelly snatched away. I am never to be forgiven
and shall have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life…or perhaps
just the rest of hers, which will be greatly shortened if she so much as
swats at me from the top of the refrigerator just ONE MORE TIME!
4. The refusal to
compromise.
This one is worth spending some
time on. Now, folks, we all know cats in general are not instinctively leash
friendly, not to mention averse to water (but that’s another painful blog).
If a cat owner wants his/her pet to tolerate a leash, he/she had better start
young. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Mitzy was already three years
old when I inherited her, and Cookie was at least five when she was adopted,
and is now knockin’ on borrowed time. I’m not sure of her age, but if her
lack of teeth is any indication, she at the very least should be taking
Geritol. But I digress….
I wanted Mitzy, in particular,
to venture outdoors once in a while, so I told my husband I was going to buy
a leash and harness and see if I couldn’t break her in. He advised against
this, but I talked him into it with my powers of persuasion (which is really
just me wearing him down to the point of exhaustion. It works rather well).
He said I would never be able to drag that cat anywhere on a leash. It turned
out he was wrong.
I indeed, DID drag that fool cat
(literally) all the way across the street and back, with her hissing and
howling at me, a sight which I probably could have charged admission for.
Either that cat is incredibly stupid or incredibly stubborn, because, despite
having her beloved fur mangled by the surface of the cold asphalt street, she
chose to lay on her side, legs stiff as a board, while making noises
that would have put the fear of God into a Doberman. This went on
for several minutes before she managed to wriggle out of her harness. I
wouldn’t have minded that so much had it not taken me two
hours to get that blasted, God-forsaken, octopus-like, blankety-blank
contraption on. I’m not really sure how I managed to wrap that thing
around her body and still come away unscathed, but let me just say it took
two cans of tuna fish before I was successful. It was a small price to pay
for unbroken skin. A word to the wise: If you see an invention
hanging from the pet store shelf that requires you to reach under your
unwilling cat and through her front legs to attach straps to tiny little
clips, keeeep walking!
Stay tuned for Part Two:
The Chef’s Special (subtitle: What lengths you’re willing to go to
so your cat will stop barfing all over the house); and Part Three:
The Flea Circus
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Dec. 4, 2008
How to Repair Christmas Tree Lights
While last year's
Chrismas tree adventure may never be topped, I am aware (mostly through
personal experience and the stories of others) that there are many other
holiday fiascos that could inspire anyone to shout "bah, humbug!"
So, in keeping with what may soon become tradition, I give you this year's
offering, how to repair that wonderful invention, the string lights. This is
my story...
1. Eagerly dig
lights out of storage and plug them in to ensure they work. They do.
2. String them on
the tree after children have gone to bed (this is to avoid having to pull
broken glass out of little feet.) Being anal retentive is key here. Wrap the
string of lights two or three times around each branch (Martha
Stewart style) to make sure they stay put and the wires are
camouflaged.
3. Stand back and
admire tree.
4. The next day,
decorate the tree with the children, with Nat King Cole and Perry Como
singing in the background on the CD player.
5. Observe in horror
that the middle string of lights has been extinguished.
6. Search throughout
tree for offending bulb, using handy bulb tester.
7. When you are
unable to find the bad bulb, resolve to strip tree of ornaments,
and remove the lights from the tree. Make a mental note to send
hate mail to Martha Stewart for influencing you on how to carefully wrap each
branch with this now tangled monstrosity.
8. Not wanting to
spend money when you don't have to, lay lights across floor and proceed to
remove each bulb and test individually.
9, Realize that
tester has died because son played with it. Send husband to store to buy new
tester.
10. Using new tester,
check each bulb. Bark at children who feel the need to keep stepping
on the lights, despite the fact that you are not in a high traffic
area.
11. Replace several
bulbs to no avail.
12. Admit defeat and
spend the three bucks to get new lights. Restring tree and hang ornaments.
13. Now on to the
garland. Plug in another string of lights, which work, and begin wrapping
them around your fifteen feet of garland. It looks beautiful and you can't
wait to hang it outside.
14. Unplug and
carefully carry the garland/lights to your front porch, where you proceed to
attach it to railing. Plug in.
15. Resist the urge
to swear when lights refuse to illuminate. Examine bulbs.
16. Unattach garland
and drag back inside. Yell at children to stop stepping over the garland
and to get the heck out of the living room so you can work on these darned
things in peace.
17. Unwind light
string from greenery, which by this point, being old, is shedding little fake
green needles all over the floor and is starting to show bald spots.
18. Not wanting to
spend another DIME on new lights, proceed to yank EACH AND EVERY bulb from
its socket and test in bulb tester, which you realize works only part of the
time because it was made in China, where people don't celebrate Christmas, so
what do they care if it works?
19. Massage sore
fingers. Yanking 100 bulbs out of their sockets hurts, people!
20. After checking
the light fuses and replacing about 15 burned out bulbs (since bulbs are
apparently like women and don't like to do anything alone), the string will
still refuse to light, and you are left witih no choice but to purchase
more.
21. Buy new strand
and rewrap garland. Your efforts are finally rewarded with illuminated
garland.
22. Make travel
plans for next Christmas to avoid having to decorate.
...and to all a good
night!
(p.s. I would love to hear your
holiday fiascos. There are some great stories out there that need to be told.
If you're on Facebook go to my homepage and look for Biggest Christmas
Fiasco. If you're not on Facebook you can just post them in the comments
section here. After all, what good is a holiday disaster if you can't
laugh about it? My family will take a vote on the one we think is the
best story. The prize? A string of my very own lights...lucky you.)
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The Burden of the Status Quo
During the recent
presidential campaign, The recurring theme was our economy, and
understandably so. Each candidate had ideas and philosophies as to how he
would fix the economic crisis. I'm not an economist, and I haven't the desire
to add my 2 cents...I haven't got it to spend anyway.
But something has
occured to me that will be disappointing for some: No president can ever
successfully create a long-standing, stable economic climate in the U.S.
None.
Why? Because I believe
we can never stabilize the economy on a national level unless it is
dealt with on an individual level.
So now your next
question is "how in the world is my family's spending
choices going to affect America's economy?" Allow me to paint
an overly simplistic picture (because, as I said, I'm not an economist,
merely a homeschool mom trying to figure out what's in the freezer for
tomorrow's dinner).
Family #1: Wife drives
to the mall in her middle class $340/mo sedan for a little
shopping therapy as an alternative to sending the kids to military
camp. She finds a pair of jeans, perhaps some shoes, and a skirt.
To round out the evening she grabs a coffee at Starbucks. Therapy
sessions occur every three or four weeks, averaging about $100 each
time.
Husband works
demanding hours and collapses at the end of each day in his easy chair
to unwind in front of his $50/month cable network programming. He eats some
leftovers from yesterday's dinner out, where the food bill came to $65. They
eat out roughly twice a month, not including occasional fast food trips or
pizza delivery.
The three children,
temporarily spared from military camp, are enrolled in basketball camp
instead. They are involved in several sports throughout the year. Let's
see...that's three pairs of cleats, uniforms, socks, shin guards, and sports
fees. Hmmm...ignorance is bliss.
The list of
expenses incurred for one thing or another is almost never ending. Several
Christmas presents, vacations and Girl Scout cookies later, this family has
spent somewhat within their means, but it's getting harder and harder to keep
a low credit card balance with a 23% interest rate. Then the car
they still owe three year's worth of payments on breaks down and requires a
costly repair. A month later, the hot water heater has to be replaced, and
the refrigerator is making funny noises. The paycheck can cover some of these
things, but the credit card absorbs the rest. Within a few years, this
family finds itself $80,000 in debt. The husband gets laid off and
it has become clear that they will not be able to make the monthly payments
on their home. Unfortunately, many families across the U.S.
are experiencing the same financial crisis, and the banks are not
getting their money in mortgage payments. Lending becomes too risky
for financial institutions. People become unable to sell the homes they need
to get out of. You see where this is going.
Family #2: Husband and
wife sit down every four weeks and discuss the spending needs for that month
(groceries, clothing, entertainment, household repairs, etc.) They
have a written budget unique for that month which addresses their
needs. The wife reminds the husband of a large tax bill that will be coming
due in four weeks. They decided to put off purchasing some patio chairs until
after the tax bill is paid, even though it means not having them available
for their daughter's backyard birthday party. They opt to borrow some chairs
from neighbors and family, even though they won't all match. Trips are
deferred, sports are pared down, and the cars are a bit beat up and high on
miles, but are few months away from being paid off. They live
in a modest home, save on groceries by shopping at a discount
mart, and shamelessly appear in the Goodwill store to find a
replacement for their son's worn-out tennis shoes. It's slim pickin's right
now, but they are managing to add about a hundred or so into savings with
every paycheck, without fail. There is temptation to spend what has not been
written into that month's budget, but the numbers don't lie, and they
know that once their foolishly obtained credit card has been paid off and
they have a substatial amount in savings, they'll be able to afford a more
reliable car that they can pay for in CASH. In the meantime, they have
factored about $50/month in car repair bills for what they consider to be the
inevitable. If they manage to dodge the bullet that month, they roll over
that amount into the next month and keep the duct tape handy. It's already
holding the back bumper on. They look at that car lined up in the church
parking lot in between the SUV's and sportscars and laugh to themselves.
It looks pretty funny there out of place, but they just keep repeating
their motto to themselves: "If you live like no one else,
someday you will live like no one else."
That
quote comes from Dave Ramsey, talk show host and financial guru who went
from riches to rags to riches before learning the principles he teaches today
in his TV and radio segments, as well as in his book "Total Money
Makeover." Go to the library and get it...now.
Ryan and I are just
beginning this journey. We are realizing our mistakes and our goal is to be
debt free (except for the house) in about a year and half, Lord willing. It's
gonna be tough, and it won't be fun, but we're in it together. We don't want
to be another failure statistic, and we don't want to be forced into
depending on the government, however good it may be, for our needs. We have
dreams of the kind of house we want to live in someday, and the vacations we
will be able to take, if God allows. Whatever we accomplish financially, we
want it to be by our own hand, through hard work, resourcefulness and a lot
of temporary self-denial. Yes, we do still give to worthy causes (church,
etc.) and we place faith in the Lord that He will provide for our needs,
while keeping in perpsective that it is our responsibility to work with what
He has already given us. And it starts with the little things.
Perhaps Dean Alfange
put it best:
An American Creed
I do not choose to
be a common man. It is my right to be uncommon-if I can. I seek opportunity
not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by
having the state look after me.
I want to take the
calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed. I refuse to barter
incentive for a dole. I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed
existence; the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopia.
I will not trade
freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower
before any master nor bend to any threat.
It is my heritage to
stand erect, proud and unafraid; to think and act for myself, enjoy the
benefit of my creations and to face the world boldly and say, "This I
have done."
So go ahead and tell
the president, "thanks, but no thanks. I think I've got it
covered." And hold your head up high.
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Potty Training, the Advanced Course
I know I am not alone here. It's
time for moms everywhere to UNITE in our battle cry, to be heard
round the world and in homes everywhere!
KIDS, FLUSH THE TOILET!
It seems that no sooner do many
of us train our husbands to put the seat down, we're faced with another
commode conundrum that is much more distasteful.
I've tried scolding, and it doesn't
work. I had hoped that reminders alone would get the idea drilled
into their heads (like that ever works). Then I remembered one
woman who told the story of going on vacation with the family for
several days, only to return to a stench-filled house because one of
their teenaged boys neglected to flush before they left.
My oldest is eight. I don't think
I can handle ten more years of this.
I decided today to employ a more
creative approach to the latest potty training issue. The new rule
is, if you don't flush it, you have to scrub it. And that's exactly
what Son #1 got stuck doing today. Not just the inside of the bowl
either. Uh uh. He had to wipe the outside with a disinfecting wipe as well.
Might as well make it memorable.
I'll let you know how it goes.
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Rules for survival
There I
was...stranded...in a remote, wooded area, trapped by fear and worry,
wondering how on earth I would escape what lie before me.
That's right. I had
locked my keys in the car at Mingo Creek Park.
Now, just so you're
aware, I was not alone. In fact, there were several people nearby who were
witness to all of this. The kids and I were at the park for a homeschool
class on animal skull identification, which took place at the shelter across
from the parking lot where my now useless car sat, me thumping my fist
against the window in despair. Emily sat, clueless, on the curb,
sipping the drink she had begged for that brought me back out to the car in
the first place.
Thankfully, while
cell service is spotty out there (and downright useless when one's cellphone
is on the wrong side of the vehicle) one of the park staff who
was teaching the class let me use hers, which got great
reception. I had to call Ryan out of a meeting to look up the number for
Roadside Assistance through our car's serivce plan. As luck would have it
(not on my side as it was), they cover many things...locked cars were not one
of them. When they told me it could still be done to the tune of $75, I asked
them to transfer me to AAA, who were willing to restore my life for only $50.
And, no, I'm not a member of AAA because I have Roadside Assistance...you can
see how nicely it worked in this situation.
Once I witnessed how
easy it was for the guy to actually break into my car, it would have been
hard to cough up the dough were I not so grateful. By that time the kids'
class was done. While I was bummed I didn't get to listen in, I
still learned a few things, like...
Rule #1: NEVER
lock the door using the button on the door panel. If I had followed
through in using my keychain remote I would have realized I'd left the
keys on the passenger seat where I laid them to get a drink for my
pestering four-year-old.
Rule #2: The
next time someone pesters me for a drink, they ain't gettin' it!
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A couple of rants
I went clothes
shopping for my four-year-old daughter a few weeks ago. We found some
adorable outfits on clearance from Boscov's, which was going out of
business. I was so excited when the weather turned colder because she could
finally wear them, but was sorely disappointed. The shirts were so skin tight
I could hardly get them on, and the jeans were low rise. Every time the poor
girl bends over or plays on the floor, the top part of her bum is out
there for everyone to see. Even finding dresses that are a decent
length are difficult to come across. I realize not all girls are as energetic
as mine, but when my four year old gets to running around in church
before Sunday School starts, she forgets what she's wearing and the skirt
flies up. A lower hemline would certainly help. Thank
goodness tights season is upon us. At least her polka-dot undies won't
show again until spring!
What part of
"little girl" are the clothing manufacturers
missing? Four-year-olds are not teenagers, for crying out loud, and
I have no desire to make mine look like one, but it has become
increasingly difficult for me to find decent fitting, modest clothing
for her. Must I REALLY whip out my sewing machine and somehow learn
overnight how to sew something appropriate for her, or worse, spend big bucks at a children's boutique?
Okay, enough about
that. On to rant #2.
It's halloween time
again. Now...I am not here to examine whether or not a Christian should
participate. There are plenty of websites to go to for that, and I don't want
to be one of them. I remember going trick-or-treating as a kid. Kooky Spooks
comes to mind (anyone remember those? Perhaps I need to post an old pic)! My
dad once wore a sheet and hid behind our bushes on mischief night. Whenever
the boys in our neighborhood attempted to soap our car's windows or
toss toilet paper over our trees they were met with a surprise that sent them
out of their skins! I have lots of good memories, and memories are what I
long to make for my kids. Unfortunately, the only halloween memories they've
made so far THIS year are images of an eight-foot-long inflatable
of the grim reaper riding a carriage pulled by a huge
black horse with red eyes. That's on display at the entrance of the
local grocery store I won't be able to take my kids to until
November. My middle son, in particular, is frightened by it. I'm
not quick to blame it on Asperger's, but I'm sure it doesn't help. I just
wish that retailers would keep the littler ones in mind when they put up
their displays.
One house down the
street used to be inhabited by a rather eccentric family that went all out
for halloween. Their front yard was like an outdoor haunted house complete
with Michael Jackson's "Thriller" blasting on outdoor speakers. My
little girl, then two, was terrified to even go past the house. During my
childhood the scariest thing I think I ever encountered while out
begging for candy was a jack-o-lantern. Totally lame by today's
standards. I know that the temptation is to up the scare factor in order to
achieve new heights of complete and utter terror, but are we as citizens
forgetting who the halloween festivities are for? It's for the kids...right?
Perhaps, just
perhaps, I myself am turning a blind eye to what the whole
"holiday" represents. The emphasis on witches, ghosts, goblins, and
the glorification of gory killers in the movies...is this honoring to the
Lord? But there I go. I wasn't going to bring up a debate.
Sigh...I am done
now. I feel better.
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Questions, questions!
I know how important questions are
to learning. We observe something, we ask questions, we get answers, we
learn. And as a parent I'm supposed to foster my children's inquisitive
nature. But it seems there are just some questions that can't be answered.
Take my middle child, for example. He doesn't ask questions about why the sky
is blue. I can answer that one (believe it or not). No---he asks "mom,
why is our CAR blue?"
"Um...because that's the color Daddy and I wanted."
"But WHY is it blue."
Sigh...."Because that's the color the men painted it."
"But why did they paint it BLUE?"
"BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T PAINT IT GREEN!"
The thing is, with "Aspie" kids, asking that question once is never
enough. Off and on since we've bought our newest minivan (which is blue, in
case you haven't caught on), he has asked this question, not necessarily
because he's looking for a satisfactory answer, but because children with
Aspergers Syndrome tend to fixate on a particular subject, discuss it with
total strangers at the grocery store every time we go there, draw picture
after picture of it for weeks, perhaps months, and discuss the subject until
the parents are on the brink of madness. And, of course, they will ask
endless, often unanswerable questions about it.
Here's one for you, brought up during snack time: "Mom, what does the
inside of jello look like?"
Remind me not to feed him that EVER AGAIN!
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Butterflies are Free
Well, the one that survived is
free, anyway. We released the beautiful creature in the backyard yesterday.
The other two died before they could be "born again" as true
butterflies (poor little larvae). Our newer cat, Mitsy, kept attacking the
butterfly cage and claimed one little life. The other? Well...let's just say
it escaped and decided to attach itself to the back of a hairspray bottle.
The unwitting owner of said spray bottle inadvertently squashed the chrysalis
while attempting to spray her hair (name withheld to protect the guilty).
The moral of the story? Vanity reaps destruction...and a green squishy mess.
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My son, the Mom
Oh trust me, it was
hilarious. But let me start from the beginning.
Thursday: A hairy day.
The kids were ornery and fussy, and one in particular was doing
everything in his power to tease and push my buttons. To be fair, he
hadn't been medicated that day. He was overdue for his Psych appointment
and needed to be seen before his prescription could be refilled. So he
was, shall we say, rather energetic (an understatement, believe me).
As I prepared for
dinner Grant decided it would be funny to go out the front door, which would
lock behind him, then incessantly ring the doorbell or pound on the
door until I open it. He knows full well that the side door is open for
him, but he seems to think this is much more fun. Usually I ignore it so I
don't reinforce the behavior, but being worn down from the day, I let him
back in to cut short the act. Besides, I didn't want to cause a neighborhood
scene from the constant banging and ringing.
I turned back to the
complicated recipe I was trying to follow, and my son decided it was a
perfect time to pull the same stunt. I ignored him this time, and he was none
too pleased. After five minutes of ringing and banging, he came around the
side, entered the kitchen, and proceeded to behave rudely and spoke in
a way that was meant to be hurtful. Not trusting my ability to react
calmly, I locked him in his room until I could get a level head.
It occured to me at
this point that I had a selfish child who wanted his every whim to be
satisfied. If it wasn't, he would lose his temper and speak rashly. He had no
idea the hurt he was causing other people, not to mention his lack of
consideration for other's needs (particularly mine). Hmmm...perhaps walking a
mile in his mother's shoes might set him straight. His dad and
I informed him he would be Mom-for-the-day tomorrow, then sent him to
bed early without dinner.
Friday: My son was
eagerly waiting to serve breakfast to his hungry family (apparently he
thought this little role reversal might be fun). I bounded into the kitchen
demanding my waffles, buttered and with syrup, and something to drink. Grant
was pleased as punch to serve me. He placed my breakfast before me, as my
daughter happily munched away on a bagel. Son #2 stumbled in soon after and
plopped down beside me. My daughter, seeing my yummy breakfast, decided
the bagel just wouldn't cut it. She shoved it over to Son #2 for him to
finish off. So Mom-For-The-Day prepared a couple more waffles. My daughter
then asked me for a drink. I told her "sorry, can't do it. Ask your
brother." It was at this point that big brother was starting
to feel overwhelmed. After all, he hadn't eaten yet and had been trying all this
time to make some chow for himself. Finally he pushed some waffles toward her
and stuffed a couple more into the toaster. "Tell me when they pop
up, okay Mom?"
It was Son #2 who
was next to decide he wanted what everyone else was having. Here's how it
played out:
Son #2: Mom, I want
waffles now. I don't want this bagel anymore.
Mom: Sorry buddy.
can't do it. Ask your brother. He's in charge today.
Son #2: (Turns to
older brother.) I want waffles!
Mom-For-The-Day: Just a second!
I can only do one thing at a time!
Daughter: (Spills drink
everywhere), Oh no! I'm all wet!
Mom-for-the-day: Oh great! NOW
I have to clean this all up!
Son #2: I want a drink
too!
Just then the
waffles pop up.
Mom: Waffles are
ready!
Mom-for-the-day: Aaarrrgh! (goes
to corner and bangs head against wall in despair).
I finally had to
leave the kitchen before I split a seam! Honestly,
I don't think I could have scripted this to go any better than it did,
and I couldn't thank my daughter enough for her clumsiness. It was a nice
touch.
For the rest of the
day my son had a rather lengthy checklilst of duties to fulfill. he
vacuumed, did several loads of laundry, wiped down sinks and tables,
supervised others' chores, sweeped the kitchen, responded to sibling
requests, and cleaned up some pulled weeds I had left in the driveway. He did
manage to get in a little play time, albeit with the many interruptions that
usually plague my own moments of relaxation.
At the end of the
day, his father and I sat him down for a talk after the other two went to
bed. It was clear he had learned his lesson and was rather remorseful. Now, I
don't aspire to think that this has been a cure-all. Selfishness is not
easily squelched. But today during moments of griping or disobedience I would
simply say, "oh, do we need another 'MOM' day?" That put him back
in line.
My only regret is
that I didn't capture it all on film.
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Have you hugged your badly behaved child
today?
Nothing
stinks more than conviction, and lately I've been hit over the head with
it thanks to a couple of Steve and Terri Maxwell's books Keeping
Our Children's Hearts andHomeschooling with a Meek and Quiet
Spirit (see Titus 2 link at right). I really wish they'd let
up, and yet I dive into the pages of one book or the other each morning just
to see if they can make me feel worse than I did the day before.
All
kidding aside, this wonderful couple has a gentle, humble way of opening my
eyes to the wonderful truths of God's Word as it applies to both parenting
and homeschooling. I am learning so much, though it will be a lifetime to
master all of the things I have been challenged with. There is one bit of
wisdom that I have found invaluable, and I believe every parent
needs to put this into practice. The results might just amaze you. Here is a
quote from Keeping Our Children's Hearts:
"What
we discovered in our parenting was that generally it was easy to love a
child, but sometimes it required a choice on our part (I Corinthians 13:4-7).
When the child was struggling with wrong behaviors and bad attitudes--particularly
when this was ongoing--our natural tendency was to pull away from that
child. Instead we had to return love for his unkindness. It was
important to reach out to the child with hugs, pats, and physical
closeness. As parents, we needed to encourage each other in our loving
the difficult child and abundantly expressing this love to him. If
consequences were necessary, then we had to be very gentle, matter-of-fact,
and patient while giving them. Nothing could be done in a spirit of anger or
revenge.
If we
are to keep our children's hearts, they must feel our love so strongly that
there is never any doubt of it in their minds. They should know we
love them when they are obedient and when they are disobedient, when they
are happy and when they are sad, when they are diligent and when they are
negligent--all the time. This will be expressed verbally and through physical
closeness such as an arm around a shoulder, a good morning kiss, a smile when
we see them, or a walk-by hug." (emphasis mine)
Okay, I
admit it. When one of my kids balks at a chore or loses his temper or talks
back to me, my fuse is short and I take these offenses personally. How dare
he/she defy me. Heads will roll!
The
results of "strong will meets fiery indignation" don't make for a
good rest of the day.
So how
did this bit of Maxwell wisdom work in my home? Just the other
day when I asked my oldest son to empty the dishwasher,
one of his hated chores, I met with the usual opposition. But this time
I willed myself to come close to him, put my arm around him and give him a
squeeze while saying "I know you don't like doing this chore, but it's
very important to me and I need you to obey." I pushed out a
smile. "AND you'd be pleasing the Lord too." With a kiss and a
toussle of his hair I said, "c'mon, let's get this out of the way,
okay?" I was not prepared for his reaction.
That
strong-willed, work-evading boy dropped what he was doing and complied.
He still didn't want to, and I still needed to check in on him from time
to time to keep him on task, but his heart was softened when he realized
he didn't have to brace for a battle. I was shocked. It was like magic.
Do I
struggle with loving my child sometimes, both in attitude and action? Of
course! Is it normal? Some would say so. But is it the will of God
that I only show love to my child when he or she is well-mannerred
and compliant?Absolutely not!
I don't
ever want any of my children to doubt my love for them, even when they're
unloveable. After all, if a holy God, who HATES sin, can love
me, a selfish, sinful, disobedient, rebellious child, can I not do the same
with my own?
So...you
say your child just took the car without permission and crashed it into a
police vehicle? Grit your teeth and give him a hug, and tell him you're
glad he's safe. (THEN, ground him till he's forty).
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Aug. 17, 2008
Our Day at the Park
We went on a
picnic at the park with another family after church today, and had
an absolute blast. We waded in the stream, caught crayfish, spotted a
frog and a snake, watched bats huddle in the eaves of a covered bridge,
and went on a nature hike, where we learned that it's NOT always a good
idea to sniff unknown fruit you find growing near the
ground to see if it smells gross (it does). After extensive
internet searching I discovered that this particular plant is
a Mayapple, the fruit of which is edible when fully ripe, though
not tasty in the opinion of some. Apparently you can even
make it into jellies, marmalades and pies. The seeds are not safe
to eat and the rest of the plant is quite toxic. According to a few
accounts, a native american wishing to commit suicide would eat the highly
poisonous roots.
Another discovery I
made while we were munching on lunch was a little fuzzy white caterpillar I
couldn't resist bringing home. From my research it appears to be a Hickory
Tussock Moth. I guess the only way I'll know for sure is if it looks
like the proper moth when it comes out of its cocoon---that is, if
it lives long enough in captivity. Apparently it prefers the leaves of trees
like walnut, which were in abundance at the park, but not in my backyard. It
will eat other hardwoods, but it looks like I need to find some walnut trees
in short order to make it happy. In the meantime I need to keep the kids from
touching it as the hairs are irritating to the skin and eyes.
Regarding our
monarch caterpillars, one thing I am finding a challenge has nothing to
do with keeping a supply of milkweed on hand. No, the difficult part is
finding a place where our new cat, Mitsy, can't get to them (which would
be nowhere). She's quite the climber, and she's constantly knocking the
30" high mesh-enclosed habitat off tables and batting it
around on the floor. The poor things are getting motion sick. I've
contemplated hanging a hook in the middle of the kids' bedroom ceiling to
suspend it from. Can cats pole vault?
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Bursting at the seams with evidence of God's
glory.
Time to take
inventory of our total household population.
Let's see...I have one husband and three children. That's all. No,
wait...there's also two hermit crabs that are managing to survive.
Outdoors? Oh...well...we have at our bird feeders several cardinals, titmice,
chickadees, song sparrows, house sparrows, house finches, mourning doves, a
nuthatch or two, a few woodpeckers, one gray catbird, robins aplenty,
squirrels, and a pair of goldfinches, courtesy of our five feet tall
thistles. At night the raccoons come up to our porch for leavings from the
bird feeders.
That's all.
Um...then again, In the last few days we have also acquired
a hummingbird at our sugar water feeder. Our birdhouse has became home (after
many vacant years) to a family of Carolina Wrens. We also house a family of
moles under our side porch under a pile of grass clippings, a groundhog with
a complex underground apartment, and a mama deer with spotted twins on our
overgrown and woodsy hillside. Occasionally we're visited by a bunch of
turkeys, and just yesterday we set up a nursery on our kitchen windowsill for
a Monarch Butterfly caterpillar and eggs, which I found on some milkweed
leaves at the park yesterday.
We also have two cats who want everything on this menu for breakfast.
Geez! Do we REALLY have all this in our tiny little home and half acre in the
suburbs? Apparently so. I know this sounds like the stuff of country life,
but we've managed over the years to create a hospitable environment for the
creatures who now call it home. It all started so innocently when I decided
four years ago to develop a hobby Grant and I could share during the other
kids' naptimes, and it snowballed from there. Now even my husband (who
thought birding was for those who no longer had their teeth) has bought a
mini tripod so I can snap pics and video from my kitchen windowsill. It has
been well used, as you can see. I catch him staring at the feeders as often
as I do, and he doesn't DARE pull up those thistle weeds.
There is something about getting close to nature that can't be described in
words. The idea that they let us into their world at all is amazing. When the
hummingbird appeared after months of waiting, it could clearly see me staring
at it. It would hover near the feeder, cast a wary eye, and quickly poke in
and out of the feeding hole with its little bill. Then it would pull back out
and stare some more, just to make sure I wasn't up to something. I was
indeed---snapping pictres like I'd never see it again.
Of course, education plays a big role in what I'm doing here too, both for my
children and for us parents. We are learning so much about the world God
created and how it was fashioned with every detail in mind and working in
harmony, each part of nature playing a role in the survival of the other
parts. Who other than an amazing, detailed, intelligent creator God could
have designed something so complex and sustainable. Only He could have had
the wisdom to create bacteria that breaks down what once was living so it can
decompose and be returned to the earth to replenish the soil, encouraging new
life. Only God could create a hummingbird, with the brain the size of a grain
of rice, to possess the ability to remember what flowers it visited during
its 2,000 mile migratory route, returning to them each year. Only God could
have designed each plant species to bear seed in order to propagate itself.
Only God...
When I take for granted the world around me I become somewhat numb to just
what a wonderful, amazing, awe-inspiring world it is, and I forget to glorify
my Creator. What's more, in the awesomeness of what is around me, He thought
I was worth making. Do you all understand this? Each one of us has worth in
the eyes of the holy, perfect, glorious Lord. And we are made in His image,
we are the work of his hands (Ephesians 2:10), and it is we who God the Son,
Jesus Christ, was pleased to die for so we might enjoy eternal, perfect
fellowship with Him.
I am amazed...awestruck...humbled...inspired. And if I am given the gift to
enjoy His creation to a ripe old age and read His Word until I know it
forward and backward I will only have a glimpse of how wonderful this God of
mine truly is. "For we see through a glass darkly, but then [in heaven]
face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am
known." (I Corinthians 13:12)
In the meantime I will have to "see" and "hear" God
through His amazing creation and think of that beautiful hymn by Maltbie D.
Babcock:
This is my Father's world, and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres. [heavenly
bodies]
This is my Father's world, I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas, His hand the wonders wrought.
This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise;
the morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker's praise.
This is my Father's world, He shines in all that's fair;
in the rustling grass I hear Him pass, He speaks to me everywhere.
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And another...
Nothing
But the Finest for our Backyard Friends
(Summer, 2005)
Our
family recently took a weekend trip to upstate New York for a family reunion.
We stayed in a quaint little town complete with lake for swimmers and
boaters. One day while my oldest son, Grant, and I were wading at the water’s
edge, we made a fun discovery. We shared the lake with freshwater snails.
They were attached to a concrete wall that sectioned off the swimming area.
Being a fledging homeschool mom, always on the lookout for a science lesson,
I just couldn’t leave the snails there safe and sound. They’d have much more
adventure in the energetic hands of my 4 1/2 year old. Carefully I peeled two
unsuspecting creatures off the wall and put them in a bottle of water to take
home, along with some intact empty shells we also found, just in case they
survived long enough to grow out of their portable homes.
Amazingly
enough, they weathered the seven hour car ride home in better shape than my
husband and I, probably because they don’t have ears to hear recurring sounds
like, “I’m hungry,” ”I have to go potty,” and my all-time favorite, the
tearful, “Connor’s looking at me!” If I never hear Veggie Tales sing, On
The Road Again, it’ll be too soon.
The easy
part, actually, was getting the critters home. The hard part was figuring out
how to house and feed them. Freshwater snails can attach themselves just
about anywhere, but they’re picky eaters, preferring algae and microscopic
cuisine. Where was I gonna come up with that? About the only gross thing in
my home (besides whatever is growing at the bottom of my fridge) are dirty
diapers. I could wait for the kids’ wading pool to turn green, but I wasn’t
interested in entertaining mosquitoes as well. In the meantime, I placed the
snails in a plastic container with some tap water. We have city water, which
is chlorinated, and I wasn’t sure if our slimy friends could tolerate that.
If they died because of the sanitary conditions, I had the comforting thought
that at least they’d be well-preserved.
Apparently
snails are tougher than they look, and very smart too. They know how to play
dead. A few days after they settled into their home I decided to gently tip
the fake Tupperware back and forth. Unfortunately our two new pets floated
freely. I went outside to dump them before they started to smell, but when
all the water and empty shells were on the ground, I found them clinging to
the sides of the bowl.
They
live!
Fortunately,
by this time I had someplace more suitable for them. I’ve been rooting some
ivy clippings in a bucket for later planting, and the water they’re sitting
in has grown some algae. PERFECT! Welcome home boys! Or were they girls?
Actually they’re hermaphrodites, but I’m not going to get into a sex ed
lesson on snails. Look it up.
Satisfied
that I had made the snails happy, I turned to another task at hand, this time
dealing with some undesirable wildlife (as opposed to the slimy, one footed
creatures with retractable eyes who now call the bucket of algae their home.
Clearly I’ve lost my mind).
Recently
Ryan and I have tried our hands at a backyard garden. If you’ve ever seen our
property, this will make you laugh. Our house sits on postage stamp-sized
turf, eighty percent of which is on an unuseable 45-degree angle. In our tiny
backyard we have a swing set, sandbox, grill, patio furniture, kiddie pool,
and...oh yeah...a bucket of green water with snails and rooting ivy. The kids
never need to touch the ground when going from one thing to another. We cut
the grass with scissors. Obviously I overstate the case, but you get the
idea. Not much room for a garden, but we’re doing it anyway.
We’ve
worked hard to cultivate our squash, peppers, and tomatoes, so when we
realized we shared the backyard with a hungry groundhog, who made a burrow
for his home on our hillside, I realized we’d never see ripe produce while he
was at large. I immediately called animal control and they dropped off a
trap.
I
learned something about the intelligence of groundhogs, as opposed to the
stupidity of raccoons. For example. Did you know you can bait a trap for a
groundhog with the most succulent vegetables from the most expensive grocery
store, and they will turn up their noses? Yet a raccoon will see an empty trap,
say to himself, “why look, what an interesting contraption. Let’s see what
happens if I crawl inside.” We’ve caught six raccoons this way, which is fine
with me, because I’m tired of picking up garbage strewn all over my front
lawn after they’ve ripped open the misnamed Steel Sak.“Hello,
Hefty? I’m suing you for false advertising….”
Fast
forward to today. I called animal control to pick up yet another ignorant
gray creature we trapped sometime in the middle of the night. Before the
officer showed up to empty the trap, I thought now might be a good
opportunity to teach Grant about respecting wildlife. I took him out back to
see the raccoon. “Oh, how cute,” he said, “but I think he misses his mommy.”
How sweet, I thought, that he still has a tender soul that thinks of the
animal’s happiness, unlike his cold-hearted mother whose main objective in
life is to catch vermin, stand them all up in a row with blindfolds, and have
them shot. Okay, perhaps that’s a bit harsh, and I don’t really feel
violently toward God’s creatures. I love anything with fur or
feathers...can’t get enough of them, really. I put bread out for the deer,
fill the bird feeder for my winged visitors (and the squirrels, unfortunately),
and even take pleasure on a stray cat passing through my backyard. I felt a
little sorry for the forlorn creature in my prison, who looked up at me with
sad eyes. But I can compartmentalize my affection for animals when it comes
to the well-being of my kids and my garden. Off with his head!
I
explained to my sweet son that even though wildlife is enjoyable to look at,
he must never try to touch a wild animal, because she may bite and scratch in
order to defend herself, and he could get hurt very badly. While Grant
observed the incarcerated raccoon from a safe distance, I decided to check on
the snails. I was not prepared for what I found.
The ivy
that had been growing roots in the bucket were now strewn about, and not a
single snail could be seen. At first I thought they had made their escape in
the night. Then I saw it—broken shells all over the ground. I looked up at
the cage, and quickly put two and two together. Apparently our raccoon friend
came upon the gourmet dish while foraging, and had himself a tasty meal.
Then, like the idiot he is, he climbed into the cage for an after dinner nap.
Just
then the animal control officer came by to empty the cage. He thrust his pole
into the contraption, lassoed the animal, and lifted him out. All at once the
sweet, fuzzy creature with the soft brown eyes became an enraged,
demon-possessed thrashing ball of teeth and claws. He did not ruffle the
twenty-year veteran officer, however, who blithely swung the pole this way
and that, down to the street where he placed the animal into another cage
built into the side of his truck. In moments they were on their way to
wherever animal control goes to put critters to sleep. I don’t feel guilty
about his death in the least. He had a terrific last meal.
While my
son played in the back yard with a potato bug he found, I reset and baited
the trap with a piece of zucchini for the groundhog I know will not touch it.
Next I placed the ivy back into the bucket of water, mourning the loss of the
homesick snails that never knew what hit them. I’m sure they missed their
mommies too.
Our next
family reunion to New York will not be for two more years, but already I’m
looking forward to trying again with more snails. I’ll have a bucket of fuzzy
water sitting out in preparation for them, however, I plan to keep it higher
up so our innocent creatures have a greater chance for survival.
Escargot
anyone?
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Found another one...
Here's another little
story I found while cleaning out my hard drive. I wrote it a couple
of years ago after experiencing a day not to be forgotten...have a
good laugh on me.
Once upon a time there was a queen named Mommy who woke up one
Saturday morning determined to do everything she set out to do while being
cheerful and kind to her children and helpful to her hubby. She got out of
bed with a smile and served breakfast to her children, even managing to eat
herself. Feeling sorry for her overworked prince charming, she cooked a
special omelet for him along with some sausage, and made him his favorite
flavor of coffee. Since he had to work at home that day the queen knew prince
charming wouldn't be able to help very much, but she was sure everything
would be okay as long as she kept a cheerful, positive attitude. After all,
what could go wrong?
Her first goal of the day was to exercise on her machine for
twenty minutes. But as Queen Mommy began her workout, she noticed some
squeaks and noises coming from her machine. She rummaged through the garage
for the WD40 and some tools. Finally, a half an hour and four interruptions
later, she stepped onto the machine to begin her workout. But then her
little princess, in the joyful stages of potty training, needed some
assistance. After getting the princess situated on her little throne in front
of the television, the queen was ready to continue exercising. Prince
Charming even gave her some headphones so she could listen to music and block
out the children’s noises. Undaunted by the headphones, however, Queen
Mommy's royal children shouted louder in order to be heard, forcing her to
remove her headphones every two minutes to make sure that there was nothing
urgent needing her attention. Of course there never was.
After the workout it was time for a shower. But one of the
queen’s princes had been waiting patiently for her to play a game with him.
After tossing some clothes into the dryer which contained the only pair of
clean pants she had for the day, she was ready to play. But then her little
princess needed her throne emptied and her pants put back on, so that came
first. The prince, who had already set up the game and had been waiting for
her, grew impatient and threatened to interrupt Daddy, who was shut up in his
bedroom on a work phone call. Mommy finally sat down with the prince to play
Chutes and Ladders. Unfortunately the prince became discouraged that he was
only getting chutes, and no ladders, and stormed off the battlefield. Mommy
cleverly put on her psychology thinking cap and coerced the prince to return,
saying that she herself got a chute and had to go all the way to the bottom.
Feeling no guilt over her lie, she fooled the child, who eventually won the
game to the queen’s relief. During their play, prince number two constantly
begged to join the game, so Queen Mommy promised him a turn. During THAT game,
however, the princess wet her pants and needed to be changed. Prince number
two was growing bored anyway and left the game. Now was a good time for the
queen to finally get her shower.
The queen undressed and turned on the shower. While waiting
for it to get warm, she bent down to pull out her scale. Then she noticed a
puddle on the floor beside her. As she moved her pile of wet clothes from the
puddle, she realized the puddle was growing. Turning around she discovered to
her alarm that the shower head was cocked at an angle and water was spewing
onto the floor. Leaping to her feet, she whacked her head on the towel bar.
With skull throbbing, she pulled back the shower curtain and a spray of water
met her face. She reached in and adjusted the showerhead while trying not to
slip on the wet floor. At the same time the princess came in to use the BIG
throne this time, so the queen put her on it. Then she returned to sopping up
the lake in her bathroom. Picking up the throw rug, which dripped with water,
she noticed a suspicious circular stain on the underneath of it. One sniff
told her that one of her cats recently used it for a litter box. So, while
the little princess was still on her throne, choking the toilet with large
wads of paper, Queen Mommy gathered up all the wet and soiled items and
carried them to her bedroom hamper. Prince Charming, ever so kind and sweet,
laughed at her disheveled appearance, for she was cold and wet, had an
armload of dirty laundry, and not a stitch of clothing on. Taking pity on
her, he came to the bathroom to help the princess finish up. Finally, after
frequent visits from a prince or two inquiring when she would be finished,
the Queen Mommy stepped out of the shower. It was then that she discovered a
fresh yellow puddle on the floor. Deducing that her princess had not yet
mastered her potty training, the queen cleaned this up as well. After
partially dressing, for the queen’s pants were still waiting in the dryer,
her princess came to her with wet pants again, requiring another change. The
queen then decided to ban her from juice for the rest of the day. She barely
finished redressing the child when heard the other children coming. Still
half-dressed herself, the queen raced to her bedroom to hide, slamming the
door behind her. Prince Charming was sitting on the bed, working on his
computer. She begged him NOT to give away her position. Unfortunately the
noise of the slamming door gave her away, and the children pounded on it,
begging for a snack.
Prince Charming owed her one.
The queen then left the room to face the royal
pains…er…children. Determined to finish dressing, she made her way down to
the dryer with whining children in tow. Feeling ever so loving, she tenderly
yelled at them to leave her alone. Finally the queen donned her royal pants
and was ready to dole out some food. Desiring that her children only eat
healthy snacks, she served up some chocolate chip cookies and sent them to
the couch to watch TV, breaking her own rule about eating food outside the
kitchen. The queen became hungry herself, so she popped in a video to keep
them from disturbing her and went to heat up some lunch. The children,
however, were not fooled by her clever trick. Immediately disinterested in
their favorite Barney episode, they visited the kitchen frequently to ask for
drinks, beg for a different video or complain that someone had pushed them
off the couch. Fiercely defending her right to a hot meal, she practically
tossed them back downstairs. Suddenly there was a noise from the living room.
The queen rushed in to discover one of her cats (the one guilty of soiling
the bathroom rug) climbing up her sheers. Aghast, she leaped to the window,
shouting. The cat frantically scurried away, having had a few lives
frightened out of him.
Returning to her now cold meal, she gobbled it down before
something could interrupt her again. Sure enough, one of the princes came
along to remind her it was time for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The
queen’s heart sank as she remembered using up the last of the peanut butter
yesterday. Upon learning this, the prince broke down in sobs and hysteria,
crying royal tears. Knowing that the other children would soon follow suit,
the queen thought it best to hasten to the nearest convenience store.
After everyone had eaten their sandwiches, it was time for a
trip to the park, the weather being so nice. The royal children enjoyed
climbing, sliding, and swinging, and wearing themselves out good. While they
played, the queen took stock of her day. Despite the mishaps and
interruptions, the queen had managed to eat breakfast and lunch, exercise,
shower, and dote on her husband a little (which paid off when he emptied the
dishwasher for her). She even got to spend some quality time with each child
and play with them at the park. All in all it was a successful day. And
despite new piles of soiled laundry, cookies crumbs on the couch, a dirty
bathroom floor, snagged curtains, cold meals and frazzled nerves, they DID
all manage to live happily ever after.
The End
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Hobbies w/ the Kids
While cleaning out my computer files
I came across an article I wrote for no particular reason other than that I
was feeling inspired at the time and did not yet know about blogging. I
wrote it about three and a half years ago and thought I'd better post it here
in case I lose it. So here goes:
I never
want my children to be creatively challenged. I also don’t want them to miss
out on the wonderful world God has created for their enjoyment. I believe we
short-change God when we rob Him of the joy of seeing our children discover,
taste, see, smell and touch all His creation.
I love
the outdoors. It’s probably the reason I dislike winter. Sure, the snow is
magical, but the cold keeps me inside most days, and I quickly get cabin
fever. So, the first spring thaw we had, we burst forth like hungry animals
emerging from hibernation, and eagerly began searching for signs of
life.
Since I
plan on home-schooling my children, I’m always looking for ways they can
learn while having fun. Over the winter my four-year-old son, Grant, and I
discovered a tiny little bird braving the icy weather to find what little
sustenance he could forage in our front yard. The internet informed me it was
a black-capped chickadee. While I’ve never been interested in bird-watching,
I thought it might be a good educational opportunity.
During
quiet time, when Connor and Emily were taking their afternoon naps, Grant and
I would spread some birdseed on our front porch, lay on the floor on our
bellies and watch through the full-length glass storm door to see what would
come by. It didn’t take long for the birds to discover the new diner, and we
learned a lot just observing them eat. Chickadees, for example, were
happy-go-lucky, energetic little birds who fearlessly watched us through the
glass before picking up a seed and flying right back to their perch to eat it
(they can even be trained to eat out of your hand). Other birds, like the
blue jay, cardinal, and even a red-headed woodpecker, visited our fine
establishment. I never saw so much color in winter in all my life! How had I
not noticed them before?
Probably
the most amazing part of becoming a bird watcher was how interested in birds
my son became. Before long he was able to name many of the birds who ate off
our porch. He would laugh and try to imitate the funny way the mourning doves
walk, poking their heads out like chickens with every step. Even my then 2
1/2 year old, Connor, was picking up the hobby, in his own simple way.
Anytime we hear a bird singing while we’re in the back yard, he asks “what’s
that?” I resist the impulse to say “a bird,” and instead tell him exactly
what kind it is. We search through binoculars to try and spot the singer. If
it’s a new bird to us, we leaf through my field guide (a Christmas gift from
my hubby) to see if we can find out what it’s called. I had no idea how many
birds have made our little postage stamp-sized yard our home! Our birdhouse
is home to a house wren, whose mating dances entertained our family for days
on end (human males aren’t the only species who show off for a girl)! Up in
the attic we have a mommy and daddy house sparrow that chirp noisily all day
long. The other day when our family went fishing (a hobby my husband
instituted), we discovered a gorgeous shimmering tree swallow peeking out of
her nest box at us. She flew away when we got close and the boys and I had
the rare opportunity to sneak a look at her tiny white eggs while she watched
from a nearby tree. “See how carefully and lovingly she made her nest out of
grass and feathers?” I explained to my boys. “This is how she keeps them
warm. Isn’t God so amazing to make such a smart little mommy bird?” I hugged
them tight. “She loves her babies just like I love you!” My children are
learning the wonder of creation and living in awe and thanksgiving to the
Artist...and we are bonding. And later, if my husband ever catches a fish, my
sons will learn what fish like to eat and how they breathe underwater through
their gills.
My kids
enjoy the outdoors more than TV, and I prefer it that way. They also enjoy
doing things with their hands...building things, picking flowers, painting
and coloring, and sculpting with Play-doh. Perhaps bird watching isn’t your
thing. Maybe you or your husband like physical activity, woodworking,
painting, sewing, working on cars, hunting, growing a garden, or reading.
Whatever it is, involve your kids in it, even if it seems a little over their
heads. They’ll learn faster than you can imagine, and develop physically and
mentally ahead of their peers. You’re also fostering creativity and a
love of learning, and most of all, an appreciation for their creator and the
wonderful world around them. Doing a hobby together, you might find yourself
enjoying your kids even more, and they will enjoy being with you. A word of
warning: enjoying hobbies together often forms friendships, so don’t get into
a hobby together unless you want to be your kids’ closest companion!
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Background Checks...can you trust 'em?
In
reading Gena
Suarez's latest post on recent criminal
activity among school employees, I was struck with how
trusting we as parents can be when it comes to our children's care. The
article listed several links to news stories about school employees
(teachers, teachers aids, a bus driver, and even a cafeteria worker) who were
charged with drunken driving, sale or possession of illicit drugs, child
pornography and sexual assault. The parents interviewed in these articles
were either shocked, angry, or shaken. These families had trusted
the individuals whose children were in their care.
It can
be so easy to fall into this trap of trust, and I'm no exception. Let's face
it...when I'm desperate for a date night with my husband or have had an
especially stressful week, I'd be inclined in those weak moments to yank a
virtual stranger off the street to watch my kids. Because we as
Christian parents strive to create a wholesome environment for our
children, we generally want to believe that others who we put our trust in
hold to those same values or eithics, simply by virtue of the position they
hold. Not necessarily so.
I, for
one, prefer to believe the best about people, and not even because
they have done anything to deserve it. Perhaps it's my way of protecting
myself from the idea that there could be so much corruption in our world. I
know in my head that our society is corrupt, but I so want to believe that
such a cancer hasn't found its way into my sphere of contact. But then I open
the paper or watch the news and I learn that it's closer than I'd
like it to be.
Probably
the most unintentionally deceptive way to gain a parent's blind trust is
through the mandatory background checks that are required for employment in
virtually every occupation, especially those related to child care and
education. A church I once attended even ran one on me as standard
practice before I was allowed to serve in the nursery.
While I
see nothing wrong with the idea of a background investigation and
appreciate its importance, I have come to realize one thing...it is
FLAWED. Why? Because it can only check an individual's recorded history.
Let's face it...a pedophile who hasn't been caught in the act, and therefore
has a clean record, is still a pedophile, and an unacceptable choice for a
gym teacher. A woman who deals drugs but doesn't do them herself and
therefore has a clean urine test is still unfit to be driving an elementary
school bus. In one of the news articles listed in Gena's
blog, a parent was quoted as saying she was surprised that the
individual charged had an occupation at the school since the school performs
background checks. Basically she was saying the individual should have been
weeded out before he was hired. She put her faith in a flawed procedure.
Let's
think about this another way. A person who sexually
abuses children in his care had to have a first victim. There had to be
a first time. The seed had to have been planted in his or her heart at
some point in order to do such an atrocious act. But where would the
documentation on that be, which would warn parents not to trust that
individual with their children? You won't find it. It's impossible. It only
comes about (if at all), AFTER the incident has happened. But for that victim
it's too late. The damage has been done.
There IS
valid documentation on the state of a person's heart and
motives, and it comes from Jeremiah 17:9. "The heart is
deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Who can know it?" In
other words, don't blindly trust! A person left to himself is inclined toward
evil, not good. I don't mean to say we should assume the worst about
everyone or treat every caregiver with disdain (cynicism and disrespect
aren't holy), but what I do believe is thatwe should not assume anything.
I once
had a conversation with a police officer in my district who told me
he used to teach "stranger danger" whenever he visited schools, but
no longer. Why? Because kids aren't very good at recognizing strangers, and
are often abducted by people who are not strangers to them at
all. We as adults aren't much better. We seem to think that because
we are grownups we now have the ability to differentiate between the
good and the bad. But that's an impossible job! For example,
we might say "our son's 4th grade teacher isn't a stranger.
She's my son's educator. I know her." or "my daughter's bus driver
is so friendly. She smiles and waves to me every day when she picks my child
up in the morning, and my daughter really likes her."
Truthfully,
there are a TON of wonderful people who serve our children every day. They're
not all bad. So, your job is to know which ones are safe and which ones
aren't. And you only get one chance to be right.
Not so
easy, is it?
I had to
put my money where my mouth is recently with regard to my
son's therapy. For several months he was attending Wonderkids, a social
therapy group for kids with ASD (autism spectrum disorder). He spent six
hours there every week. Wonderkids has helped many an autistic child
learn the social and communication skills that are often lacking in kids
on the autism spectrum. Thankfully, as it seems, my
son doesn't struggle socially, but that's not the reason I
pulled him.
Every
day that I took my child to the therapy sessions we went through a
little side door in the basement floor of the building. We sat in a
tiny waiting room until the staff specialists (who looked more like college
students than professionals) opened a locked door to let all the
kids in. Parents were not allowed back. I'd hug and kiss my child goodbye and
send him off with the others for three hours. When it came time to pick him
up, I'd wait in that little room again until the locked door opened to let
him back out. I was not allowed to observe anything (for the sake of other
parents' privacy). I was never even invited to tour the facility or
given information on their techniques or their daily activity schedule.
I didn't like it, and I imagine it doesn't sound too good to most of
you, either. I didn't know those girls who took him from me each day. We were
never even introduced. I had to find out from my son what their names were! I
had no information on their credentials, their education, etc, except that
they were college grads. A school wouldn't even operate this way, and I was
to intentionally allow this for my son? Sure, he was having fun, and was
disappointed when it came to an end, but I believe I did the right thing
by him. We use other therapy services now, and it's much more
parent-inclusive and in the safety of my home under MY supervision. I
sleep better at night.
Some
final food for thought: It's certainly true that your child may NEVER
come in contact with a pedophile or a drug dealer during his entire
educational experience. I, for one, never came across any, either in the
public or private school. I thank the Lord I don't have those experiences to
haunt me for the rest of my life. But I can tell you that I
picked up on my fair share of garbage from other students. That opens up a
whole new topic I don't want to go into at length, but I regret
being exposed to things I should have been kept from, and I must note
here that the bulk of it was at the Christian high school I attended. I
did not choose my friends wisely, and they were a negative influence, and it
was one of the lowest points in my life as a believer.
One of
my relatives was devastated to learn her
elementary-age son was taught about all kinds of abberant sexual
behaviors from a friend--things she wouldn't have even imagined, as well
as all the crude phraseology to go along with it. She hadn't even had
the chance to teach her child about sex before he received a
corrupted version that will remain in his memory forever.
In
life our kids are going to bump elbows with lots of folks. Some
good, some bad, some downright dangerous. Consider the ways you can
reduce the probability that they will be jarred by the wrong elbow.
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Logic
It has been said
that it is impossible to reason with children since they do not possess the
necessary logic.
I beg to differ....
Enter my
five-year-old son, who is playing in the back yard. Upon realizing his
bladder is in need of some relief, he does what any hot blooded male child
would do and turns a corner of the yard into his personal bathroom.
Father, upon
catching son in the act, admonishes human fountain that this is
unacceptable behavior.
Chastised son
replies with "but Dad, it's cleaner. This way I don't have to wash my
hands!"
Now, how can you
argue with THAT?
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A lost art?
Recently dear hubby took on the
task of cleaning out the storage area in our laundry room. Y'know, the stuff
that you're sure you'll use but wind up forgetting for years, then finally
throwing away once you come to your senses.
Anyway, he came across an old box full of correspondence from my college
days. In it were letters from my parents, friends, and several from my dear
grandfather.
Pop-Pop and I shared a sense of humor that was best tickled by Reader's
Digest anecdotes. He would clip them out and tape the assorted quips to a
sheet of paper, along with a letter written in fantastic penmanship for which
he had won awards. In it he would give an account of the latest ministry he
and Mom-Mom were involved in at their little country church, tell stories
about their black labrador, or write about their recent trip to visit my
parents on their migratory route to sunny Florida for the winter.
As I thumbed through the letters in that box I felt like a college student
all over again. I remember checking my P.O. box (a daily, often futile
mission) and finding to my delight a letter addressed in that familiar
scrawl. I treasured every letter I got from home, but his were extra special.
I'd like to think I'm as tech savvy as the next geek's wife, but while email
is handy, free, and instant, there is nothing in my mind that could ever
replace the joy of receiving bona fide "snail mail", as it has come
to be called. Even my kids, who don't know anyone their age who can write
yet, ask almost every day if they got any mail. One would think after
hundreds of "no's" they would be deterred, but the hope is still
there. Eventually birthday cards do come!
When my grandparents moved to Florida and their health began to decline, I
thought it high time to return the favor. I began writing them at least a
couple of times a year.
So what did I write to my grandparents, and my grandfather in particular,
when it was apparent that his days on earth were few? I told him how much I
appreciated and loved him. How thankful I was for the spiritual legacy he and
Mom-Mom passed down to my mother and to me and my siblings. I told him that
he made a difference in this world, and in my life, and in the lives of his
great-grandchildren, whose pictures I included. I thanked him for his service
in the military. I told him things he needed to hear--things that don't get
deleted in an email after they're read, but are kept in a dresser drawer to
be found and reread again and again.
My grandfather is gone now, and my lonely grandmother spends her days in the
silence of an empty apartment. Once while thumbing through my latest issue of
Birds and Blooms (a magazine dedicated to gardening and bird-watching) I read
something that inspired me to write her and include the magazine. She enjoyed
it and my mother said it did her good to receive the mail. I realized then
that I had a new campaign of letter writing. There's many things she needs to
know, too, and I need to tell her. She also needs to feel that familiar
flutter in her chest when she opens her mailbox to find a letter...a real,
bona fide letter.
In the email world where capitalization is optional and atrocious spelling
considered acceptable, we have a generation of young people who would rather
play a video game or hang out at the mall than express themselves creatively
through writing. Perhaps I am a little biased. I did, after all, major in
creative writing in college. I am a bit old fashioned too, I suppose. But
writing and reading (another skill that has been replaced by TV and the
internet) are two essentials we would do well to cultivate in our lives, and
in the lives of our children. Writing, in particular, inspires creativity,
trains our brain to focus our thinking, and gives us an appropriate venue for
emotional expression.
There's nothing I enjoy more than reading a new "book" my seven
year old has created. He recently wrote one about a swing, and while it
was difficult muddling through the misspelled words and run on sentences, the
story itself was clever and creative, and I loved it. Often times he will
balk at writing when it is part of an assignment, and I try to be careful not
to squelch his desire to write by making it a boring, dry, mandatory thing. I
want to cultivate his desire to write, not make him hate it. It'll be a
delicate balance of discipline and freedom, but my ultimate goal is that he
will see writing as something enjoyable and worthwhile.
A lost art? I hope never.
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Steps to Buying the Perfect Christmas Tree
These steps are guaranteed to
bring you a most memorable Christmas tree buying and trimming experience:
Step 1: Go to tree farm. Wife will insist, upon husband's misgivings, that
she has found the perfect tree and it simply MUST come home with them. For
added effect, have other family members gang up on him and agree with wife.
Step 2: Lug oversized monstrosity into house (the husband that is---the wife
shall annoyingly direct traffic)
Step 3: Place in stand and put special tree bag underneath to wrap tree up in
after season is over (argue over how it should be placed, whether under the
stand, or over and inside the stand. Wife will win argument). Water tree.
Step 4: Discover that family can barely walk around tree to get to hallway.
Wife will then take up clippers and prune tree half to death. Spend hour
cleaning up branches, picking needles out of feet, and soothing scratched-up
arms.
Step 5: Husband will place colored lights on tree (which are begrudging
allowed by picky wife who has always preferred white--after all, it's for the
children).
Step 6: Husband will change sap-soaked shirt obtained by touching severely
pruned branches, and pick pine needles out of toes.
Step 7: Wife will decorate tree with kids while trying to avoid getting sap
on clothes, skin and hair. At one point she will notice tree looks a bit
crooked and make mental note to straighten later.
Step 8: Put last ornament on tree.
Step 9: Swiftly dodge tree as it plummets to floor.
Step 10: Clean up broken ornament and spilled water. At this point husband
will bite tongue about choice of tree in order to avoid inevitable argument.
Instead he will turn on kids, who are sharply told and retold to stay out of
room to avoid cutting feet on said broken ornament.
Step 11: Wife, not wanting to admit defeat, will reposition tree, restring
lights, and rehang ornaments. While doing this, she will rip out and dispose
of horribly mangled Christmas tree bag and pull sap soaked pine needles out
of hair.
Step 12: Suddenly remember that last year's star broke and there is no star
for tree this year. Husband will take son's enormously huge gaudy silver
cellophane snowflake and wedge it in between top of tree and ceiling.
Step 13: Wife will re-water tree and plop down on sofa, taking care not to
allow sappy skin to touch upholstery. She will then look up at cellophane
"star" and realize that she has sunk to a new low in Christmas
decorating standards.
Step 14: Grovel to husband that he had indeed more wisdom in picking out a
tree. Both will remember to laugh about it and decide that, for all the
trouble, they wouldn't change a thing.
Step 15: Search after season ads for next year's artificial tree.
(P.S. Yes, this is our story, for those of you who can't believe this could
actually happen to someone)
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Dec. 4, 2007
Family updates
I know...it's been too long since
I've blogged. It's out of character for me to wait so long, but with home
schooling, housework, and special home improvement projects, etc. etc., it's
hard to find time to write. Actually I wrote and discarded two that were
insanely long (lucky for you!), but this one will be a short update on
situations here.
Connor was recently diagnosed with Pervasive Development Order, Not Otherwise
Specified. PDD is a fancy term for a spectrum of disorders that includes things
like Autism and Aspergers (mild autism), and PDD-NOS just means that it's a
disorder that is not specified as another disorder on the spectrum. One
website puts it this way: A PDD-NOS diagnosis "means there is marked
impairment of social interaction, communication, and/or stereotyped behavior
patterns or interest, but when full features for autism or another explicitly
defined PDD are not met."http://www.med.yale.edu/chldstdy/autism/pddnos.html.
To make a long story short, it means Connor wil need some different long-term
therapies that will consume my time and energy, though thankfully not my
dollars, since mandatory medical assistance makes sure the state pays for it
(finally I am seeing my tax dollars at work for ME!!!) Keep us in your
prayers as I juggle these new responsibilities.
In more important news, my grandfather from Florida was laid to rest this
past Tuesday after suffering for years with a very weak heart and, more
recently, prostate cancer. The cancer spread over the course of a year and
was eventually what took him. He was surrounded by his family and had a
peaceful homegoing. The funeral took place in New Jersey and was absolutely
wonderful. It is certainly true that we do not mourn as those who have no
hope (I Thess. 4:13). My sister and I were able to attend the funeral and
were so blessed to be there with family once again. My grandmother is
holding up very well, considering, and she lives near my mom in Florida. She,
too, knows the Lord and there is a tremendous sense of peace in knowing that
there is a reunion waiting for us all in time.
My brother had to stay behind at his home in Virginia because he had a final
exam in one of his seminary classes. His wife is expecting their first baby
this summer, and I couldn't be more happy for them. They will be living with
my mom in Florida by then, saving for pre-field expenses, and will hopefully
be on foreign soil in a couple of years. Until then they have lots to do,
between language classes and visiting churches to raise support. My
sister, too, is expecting their fourth baby in May (SURPISE!!!). All I can
say is, I'm so happy for everyone, and very happy that it's not me! But then,
I'd better not jinx myself by saying so.
Merry Christmas to all who read this (yes, both of you!), and a Happy New
Year!
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Aug. 16, 2007
Lamplighter Books
In my latest issue of The Old
Schoolhouse magazine there's an article featuring Lamplighter Publishing, a
company that publishes Christian literature teaching life-changing truths and
Christian values. They have books for the very young (i.e. God's
Wisdom for Little Boys by Jim and Elizabeth George, as well as
several salvation stories for children) and also for adults (i.e. The
Spanish Brothers, a true account of the Spanish Inquisition). Many of
their books are rare and collector editions that I am drooling over at the
moment. They are beautifully bound and good quality written stories from as
far back as the 1800's.
If anyone out there has read any Lamplighter series books I'd love some
comments. For those interested in what they have to offer, here's the link to
their online catalog: http://www.lamplighterpublishing.com
Happy reading!
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Great toys that help teach Bible stories
Hey homeschoolers! Check out this
link for some fantastic Bible action figure toys that will help teach Bible
stories: http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/HSBCompanyBlog/368529/
You might even win $100 worth of free toys. Check it out!
Kim
The Battle for the Toy Box Contest!
I entered the Battle
for the Toy Box Contest
on the HSB
Company Porch. I hope to win
over $100 worth of, Tales of Glory, Bible-based toys
from one2believe!!
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My Bro's New Blog!
I'm so proud of my brother and his wife, Lindsey. They
just finished candidate classes to become missionaries with Associated
Baptists for World Evangelism (ABWE). Lord willing, will be in Iquitos, Peru
in a year or so. My heart is still in Iquitos in some ways, having lived
there for six months while my parents did some short term work alongside the
full-time missionaries. That was many years ago when Brent was but a
kindergartener! He's matured significantly since then. Check out his blog at
http://missionsiniquitos.blogspot.com/.
On another note, my 3-year-old daughter is running around al fresco right now
in the hopes she will be potty trained by this method. All other tactics have
resulted in a serious need for a quality carpet shampooer (thickly padded
underwear and rubber pants only hold so much).
I find myself saying once again, "if I can just get past this
stage..." then I realize that after one child-raising issue is dealt
with, there are five more waiting in line to take its place.
I need to go practice my smile for a few minutes. It really does work on
lifting my spirits and enhancing a positive outlook. Not to mention the kids
respond better to it.
Keep smiling everyone!
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Wanted: Someone to teach this homeschool
mother how to READ!
Last night I went to a PJ party at
my fellow blogger Melissa's house, where I FINALLY got to meet her friend
Maggie Hogan. We all had a blast, but after playing a few games I learned I'd
better brush up on my reading skills.
Here's what happened. We were all playing a great party game called
"Apples to Apples." Each person has seven cards in her hand.
Each card has a famous person, noun or verb on it. Some are rather bizarre or
gross (like "barfing" which was one of mine). A adjective card is
then placed in the midst of the group, and each person has to pick one card
from her hand that she thinks will best match that adjective. She then places
it face down by the adjective card. Whoever the judge is for that round will
look at all the cards and vote on the one she thinks is the best match (not
knowing whose card she has chosen of course). The person whose card was
chosen wins that round. It can get pretty funny, depending on the sense of
humor of the person who is judge for that round.
Then it was my turn to be judge...
The adjective card was "extreme." The cards thrown down for me to
choose from included words like "Madonna," and one that I thought
said "Marilyn Manson." Clearly they were both pretty extreme, but
Manson was my choice. Everyone was like, "whaaat? MORE than Madonna? How
is Marilyn Monroe more extreme than HER?"
Marilyn Monroe?
I looked at the card before me again and realized my reading error. I
tried to explain myself and one of the teenagers present asked, "who's
Marilyn Manson?"
"He's the guy who brainwashed some girls to commit murder," I
explained.
Duh!!! That would be Charles Manson. Apparently I also need to brush up on my
studies of the depraved minds of history. Poor Marilyn. Hasn't she suffered
enough?
All in all, it was a good laugh at my expense, which after 36 years I'm used
to by now!
I suppose not paying attention to words and keeping certain facts straight is
one of the perils of being an ADD patient, which by the way I was finally
diagnosed with last week. I'll be blogging on this in the future, I'm sure,
now that I have official papers to prove I'm in the club. To be honest, it's
a little embarrassing to be put in this category because I know it labels me
in the minds of some. But there needs to be more awareness and understanding
of the actual disorder. This is not about being stupid or forgetful or sloppy
or lazy or clumsy or air-headed or hyper or impulsive or a myriad of other
things that can be fixed with a proper education or some good old-fashioned
discipline. It's about the brain not correctly transmitting information from
one synapse to the other. Depending on the area of the brain affected, this
can manifest itself through emotional instability, anger, depression, lack of
mental clarity, and a basic shutting down of thought processes under stress.
Don't get me wrong. There are a ton of people who are lazy or sloppy or not
properly educated or not disciplined. I'm not talking about discipline issues
here. I'm talking about a disability that often manifests itself
as a discipline issue. Both exist but must be dealt with differently.
The result? Humiliation and embarrassment. Am I hitting a nerve with anybody
out there? Anyone own an ADD child who is starting to recognize those same
symptoms in him or herself? Anyone reading this who struggled in school
academically (and perhaps socially) despite your best efforts to do better?
Or were you the class clown who tried to make up for academic inadequacies by
being funny all the time?
This is not just a kid problem, and many kids correctly diagnosed do not grow
out of it. Instead they are left by the wayside when pediatric treatment
stops. Incidentally many of these teenagers and young adults turn to illicit
drugs because it gives them the same clarity of thought that the ADD drugs
once did (hence the incorrect assumption that Ritalin will turn you into a
junkie). Finding someone in my hometown who was open to receiving new adult
patients and who was qualified to diagnose me was hard enough. And the
journey to treatment is just beginning.
For more info on this, please, please, PLEASE visit Dr. Daniel Amen's website
www.brainplace.com. Also go to the library and find his books,
including Healing ADD. Dr. Amen pioneered the use of SPECT brain
imaging, which shows actual images of brain activity, or the lack thereof.
Y'know...the kind of lack of activity that turns Marilyn Monroe into Charles
Manson!
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The Great Debate--Immunizations!
Oh geez! Do I really want to
open this can of worms? Well, yeah. This is something I haven't been able to
completely settle in my mind. I bring new meaning to the word
"waffle" when I say that I keep changing my beliefs on this
subject.
When my oldest was a baby he received his two and four-month vaccinations (as
any good mother would, right?), then I met two different chiropractors who
introduced me to the concept that the cure might be worse than the disease in
this case. I never knew there was ANYONE who would even consider NOT
innoculating their children against diseases.
After doing a little research online (which is alwaysreliable...cough,cough),
and in reading various books on the subject, I learned some things that
concerned me about vaccine risks. I won't bother going into detail here, but
I decided as a result of my research to discontinue giving them to my son.
When my second son was born I second guessed myself and as a result his
vaccinations are current (interestingly enough, he has some delays which may
or may not be a coincidence...who knows but God?). For my daughter I
straddled the fence and allowed all but polio, which, as her doctor put it,
would be one he would skip if he ever believed in skipping any, since it's a
miniscule threat unless we travel abroad. Thankfully he is an understanding
pediatrician who doesn't believe in putting pressure on parents to immunize
their kids. I wish I could clone him (Many thanks to my friend, Linda, for
recommending his office. Best advice I ever took).
Anyway, I know there are homeschoolers (and non-homeschoolers) on both sides
of this fence, and I am desperately looking for some valuable wisdom. For
those of you who are die hard shot givers, I beg your gentle spirit. I know
for some this can be a hot issue. Comment away and don't be afraid to be
lengthy. I'll take all the advice I can get. I thank you in advance.
Meanwhile, if there was ever a reason for me to have kept Son #2 up to date
on his shots, it's this recent comment he made on the way home from the mall
when I told him to stop sucking his germ-infested thumb:
"But mom, I washed it with my mouth."
Gee, I feel better.
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Warm and Fuzzy Belongs in the Dryer
I thought I'd never
get through I Corinthians. I called my brother (a seminary student at
Southeastern) more than once for insight into several of Paul's writings. He
was such an eloquent writer, and coupled with the archaic language of the
KJV, for which I had to keep an NIV as backup, I had a hard time wading
through the verses. But I finally completed it, and darn it if Paul didn't
decide to write those people in Corinth a second time. So once again I will
be running up a phone bill talking to my bro.
Anyway, as I
finished up the last chapter yesterday, which contains Paul's closing
thoughts, I didn't figure on getting much meat out of my reading. As usual, I
was wrong. Here's the verse that smacked me around:
I
Cor. 16:14 "Let all your things be done with charity [love]."
I thought about what
motivates us as believers to do good deeds. We may say we are motivated by
love, but secretly crave the affirmation and attention. This is only human.
Not acceptable motivation, but human nonetheless.
I remember arguing
with someone who tried to convince me that any person's motivation for doing
good is ultimately selfish. I asked how he could come to that conclusion, and
he asked me, "how do you feel when you've done something for
someone?" Of course I told him I felt good inside, and what's wrong with
that? He said that was the ultimate motivator for people, and therefore an
act of selfishness. Now, mind you, this individual loved to argue a point, no
matter how ludicrous, but I could understand where he was coming from.
I would like to
think that my warm and fuzzy feeling is merely a by-product of a good deed
done out of love for another person, but perhaps in some ways we all need to
feel good inside about something, so we turn to good deeds in order to get
that emotional high, so to speak. But this motivator will ultimately
backfire.
A personal example:
Several years ago I was training a replacement for my job. I was about to go
on maternity leave (for which I had NO plans to return), and my office hired
a temp in the hopes that she would become permanent if she worked out. It
just so happened that she was a Christian. Things seemed to be going okay and
I was optimistic. During this time she had a falling out with her landlord, a
real scuzzbag. She was on her own with no place to live and desperately
searching for a new apartment. Out of compassion I offered her to stay at our
home, rent free, for a couple of weeks until she could find something else.
She was extremely grateful and took me up on it. I also took her to church
with me since she was looking for one.
Shortly after she
moved in I began to notice a serious deficiency in her office ettiquete, not
to mention her social skills. I took it in stride and tried to mentor her as
best I could. But things went from bad to worse and it was becoming clear she
would not work out. I had to honestly inform the temp agency of what was
going on. I knew it would eventually get back to her, but there were some
serious issues to be addressed that I could not avoid.
One Friday
afternoon, to my relief, she informed me she would be moving out of our home.
She actually removed her stuff quickly and left before I even arrived. I had
a feeling she was already aware of her poor review. That weekend I received a
nasty and insulting email. I was angry, then I was hurt, and then I cried.
"After all I did for her!" I said. My husband consoled me, the
office staff called me a saint, and I focused my energy on training someone
else more emotionally stable.
Why was I so
offended? Why did I tell everyone at work what happened? Why did I get angry?
Sure, she took my kindness and stepped on it, but it was more than that. She
took away my good feelings about what I was doing to help her. My motivation
may have been pure at first, but I was feeding on the compliments I received
at work about my patience with a difficult person and my willingness to open
my home to her. My motivation shifted from one of being kind and loving toward
a needy person, to feasting on the praise and the warm and fuzzy feeling I
experienced.
Emotionally
motivated do-goodism can turn you into a cynic. Everybody's gonna get burned
while trying to help others. A cynic's response is "forget it! If people
are gonna bite the hand that feeds 'em, I'll stop feedin' 'em!" But Paul
says we're to be motivated by love. We submit ourselves to helping one
another out of love for them as fellow believers, even if they turn on us.
Then, if they need our loving help, we give it again, and again, and again,
without the praise, without the affirmation, without the love in return.
It's really hard to
serve this way, with such pure motivation isn't it? I haven't arrived. When
Paul spoke of love as being a debt we can never pay off, I feeling like I
haven't even begun on the principal yet. My collectors are knocking down my
door. Do I love people? Do I love my family? Do i love my husband's family?
Would I do anything for them? Would I truly love and help a believer who hated
me? Would I do anything for a believer who hurt me? Would I only love those
who loved me back? Would I give the shirt off my back to an enemy?
In the comfort of
this vacation home I can say, "of course!" But in my heart I know I
am not so good as that. But I want to be. This is the type of love that sent
Christ to the cross. The kind of love that died for the people who mocked
him. There was no good emotional high in this. Christ was in physical pain
and emotional anguish and yet made the choice to stay hanging there,
forgiveness and compassion still on his lips. If I can't love someone else
this way, why on EARTH would they want fo follow my God?
Thank goodness I'm
done with I Corinthians. I've had it up to HERE with conviction.
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I Have Arrived!
That's right! To all
you drivers who slap oval "OBX" stickers on your back windshield,
as if to say "look where I've been, aren't you just soooo jealous?"
I say "HA! Brag all you want you snooty travelers, I have been to the
Outer Banks. Not so special NOW, are ya? C'mon honey--let's go buy us a
sticker!"
We are really
enjoying ourselves here in Duck, NC. We couldn't ask for more beautiful
weather or a more comfortable rental house. We all (Ryan's family that is)
chipped in for a nice place just a block from the beach. We've fished, swam,
shopped, and hunted for crabs on the beach at night. My brother-in-law took
some incriminating video of me losing my cool as I sqeamishly held a harmess
little sand crab...I'll need to organize a search and destroy mission for
that later.
The cousins are
having a blast together. It's really neat to see them enjoying the simplicity
of life. And Ryan is finally getting the break from work that he's deserved.
We are so thankful the Lord has given us this opportunity to unwind and
reconnect with his family.We only ask that our oldest son doesn't do anything
to land him in the emergency room like he did last vacation.
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Christian Contemporary Music, Part 1
While browsing through a Christian
catalog last November my eyes came to a book entitled “Why I Left the
Contemporary Christian Music Movement” by Dan Lucarini, a former church
worship leader. My curiosity was piqued. “Okay, I’ll bite,” I thought as I
added it to my Christmas wish list. Sure enough, it was under the tree, and
reading it has been an eye-opening experience. I would encourage any
Christian to get their hands on this book and read it with an open mind.
Let me just state
here first off that I am an intense music lover, and have prided myself on giving
just about every music style a chance, from alternative to classical (NOT
opera—blech). I’ve been singing contemporary music in my church for years,
and I have many albums I really enjoy. As time has gone by I have even found
myself open to some of the edgier sounds, though I have my limits.
Since I don’t listen
to any song (Christian or secular) without analyzing the lyrics closely to
make sure they agree with the Bible, I know that many of CCM’s lyrics are
indeed doctrinally sound and teach some great biblical truths. There are a
few songs that do not line up with scripture, and many are just mere “fluff”
and I wonder at the point of them. Ry likes to tease that I take all the fun
out of listening to a song!
All that being said, Lucarini’s
book makes some valid points which I may discuss in blogs to
come. For right now I want to tackle one point in particular that
I believe deserves some serious recognition, that is, the power of music on
the emotions.
Clearly, emotions
are God given and are as valid a part of us as our hands or eyes. And just
like our hands or eyes, emotions can be used for good or evil. Emotions can
motivate us to help another person in need, and yet can also drive us to
react in unholy anger. Over the last several months I have had to come to
terms with my own emotions and how some of my music choices affect them.
A case in point: For the past few
years I have been a huge fan of Josh Groban, a classically trained
twenty-something singer whose amazing voice, deep brown eyes, unpretentious
attitude and quiet charm turns many females to putty. His popularity has
grown over the last few years, and I got sucked in quickly after I first
heard him sing. Let’s face it, he’s a gifted singer, and I’m all about that.
Much of his music is in a different language which, if you interpret it, is
quite depressing, but the chicks don’t care—they dig ‘im. He does perform a
lot of English music to satisfy those who want to know what the heck he’s
singing.
I remember Ryan telling me once that he wasn’t too fond of Groban. I was
surprised. How could he not appreciate such beautiful love songs? Ry could
clearly see how they affected ME. “That’s just it,” he said. “I don’t like
anyone else doing my work for me.” I laughed at his comments, but now realize
he had a valid point. Groban’s music stirs up some pretty powerful emotions
that could easily draw many women to the musician. For a married woman, this
of course would be unacceptable.
Understand me now—my
heart belongs to Ryan alone. But couldn’t the power of music such as Groban’s
slowly and subtly turn my heart away from my husband? I had to honestly admit
that it could (you realize the risk I am taking by opening myself up here).
Be assured that my marriage to Ryan is wonderful and quite strong, but many marriages
are not so intact. A vulnerable woman (or man) who is constantly saturated by
modern secular music could very well be emotionally driven by the words, the
beat, the theme. The music becomes a tool that drives the wedge deeper,
turning once united hearts apart and toward alternate relationships or at the
very least into a fantasy world, which is unhealthy at best.
As far as teenagers
go, emotion-packed ballads can inflict just as much damage. Teenage girls
especially are driven by the desire for romance and love. Boy bands croon
their sweet words, fueling that fire, even feeding young girls the lie that a
sexual relationship is part of that romance. Once a girl experiences those
emotions encouraged by the secular music industry it’s hard to get them out
of her head. They’ll likely drive her to make mistakes she’ll regret. Maybe
some of you can even identify. If you’re a man reading this, you might think
it silly that a song could evoke such emotions in anyone, but before you
start casting stones, consider the testosterone induced "tough-guy"
music containing attitude-packed lyrics tempting men to tell off their boss,
throw their weight around at home, and toss back a few with the guys, no
matter what the wife says (country music comes to mind). As a matter of fact,
some of those same messages are being pumped into music geared for women. As
a result we have a masculinized, headstrong generation of women who feel they
are even above their husband’s authority--women who have forgotten the beauty
of femininity God gave them. As men can tell off their boss, says the secular
music world, women can tell off their husbands and usurp control. Not good.
This is the essence of secular music that toys with the emotions.
So what does this
have to do with CCM? After all, many of the lyrics are teaching Christian
truths and encouraging holy living, and these musicians are trying to reach
the lost using modern styles (both in music and in appearance) that many of
us, especially teens, can identify with. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I
used to think so.
In his book,
Lucarini admits he felt the same way until he took a closer look at what goes
on, especially at some of the edgier Christian rock concerts. Picture huge
crowds of people packed in tight, staring expectantly at a darkened stage.
All of a sudden, the artist makes his (or her) appearance to thunderous
applause, shouting, whistling, and sometimes screaming. The musician then
performs a couple hours worth of music to enchant his fans. When all is said
and done, no matter how many references to God are made during the
performance, the whole thing comes off as being more of idol worship and an
ego boost for the artist than an evangelistic opportunity. Many of these
concert-goers even have the artist’s poster on their walls, not to mention
the t-shirts and autographed CD’s.
There are some
pretty influential CCM artists who have also “crossed over” into the
mainstream pop/rock circles. Michael W. Smith and Amy Grant come to mind. I
have never been a fan of either, but I have enjoyed some of their songs. The
crossover arena, in my humble opinion, is dangerous territory for both the
performers and those who follow them. Complete strangers in the audience
falling all over them during performances…tons of fan mail…huge sales in
merchandise. It would be enough to give the holiest person a big head and
feel pulled toward the “love” coming from his or her fans. Being a Christian
artist doesn’t inoculate him or her against the temptation that comes with
that kind of attention. Some have indeed fallen and my heart breaks over the
mistakes and choices they have made, not to mention the destruction it
caused.
So now what? I can’t
make the choices for anyone but myself, and I am relying on the strength and
leading of the Holy Spirit to make the choices that will honor Him. I am
praying that He will help me to be honest with myself and be willing to part
with anything that would feed my flesh at the expense
of a closer walk with Him.
I covet your
comments, so please don’t be shy. You can remain anonymous if you prefer. And
if you have questions, post them as well and I’ll try to answer them in a
future blog.
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My tree!
I
think I understand Jonah perfectly now.
No,
I have not been called to preach to Ninevites at the risk of being boiled in
hot tar or anything. But Jonah, seeking shelter from the burning sun, became
attached to a certain tree. Then God sent a worm to destroy the tree, and
Jonah mourned it. I am now able to identify.
You
see, I’ve been sitting on an airplane for an hour and a half, however we’ve
only been in the air for 30 minutes. After boarding, the pilot told us there
was a malfunction in the process of being repaired. Though the risk of being
driven crazy by other people’s children was very high during this long, hot,
boring ordeal, surprisingly they were all largely content, especially since
they had their own electronic entertainment available. No risk of being
boiled in tar here! Finally, we took off. I have plenty of elbow room since
the seat to my left is unoccupied, and since I have a window seat (my
favorite) I can enjoy the lovely view. So far this promises to be a very
comfortable and pleasant flight, albeit prolonged. To make the most of the
next two hours and fifteen minutes, I whip out my laptop. I already blogged
during my four hour layover in Milwaukee, and I’m tired of reading my
magazine. Time for solitaire!
I
go to where it can usually be found, using my hubby’s work laptop he was
willing to loan me for my trip. I open the menu bar, click here, then click
there…hey…where’s the “games” selection?
In
front of me a baby starts to cry.
I
search through all the menus, my pulse quickening as panic sets in. Finally,
I request a search of the entire hard drive for the coveted game that will
ensure my survival from boredom. It is non-existent. WHAT? You mean to tell
me I have a two hour and fifteen minute flight on an airplane with several
children (one now screaming) and I don’t have SOLITAIRE!?
Dear
God, you killed my tree!!!
Wait—they’re
handing out meals…and homemade cookies. A new sprout rises from the ground.
Ooooh, they’re chocolate chip, and they’re warm.
Sigh…I
might just make it after all. Except, I really have to pee, and the very
large guy beside me is sound asleep. Perhaps an aisle seat next time….
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|
Shame, shame on me
Well,
here I am, halfway to Tampa. After the nagging thought in the back of my mind
that I needed to go down to help out my insanely overburdened mom, the
thought became a reality when my brother phoned on Thursday to tell me she’d
had a heart attack. Thank the Lord it was minor, and little damage was done,
but doctors agreed it was due to tremendous stress. And at fifty-munuhmunuh
years of age, she’s got way too much on her shoulders. Besides trying to run
her new business, my grandparents are temporarily living with them while my
Mom-Mom recuperates from a broken shoulder and elbow. My Pop-Pop, however,
has proved to be the more care-intensive of the two, as he is suffering with
prostate cancer and all that goes along with it. Rather than go into detail,
let me just say that Mom’s house has become a full-fledged nursing care
facility, and she and her friend, Kathy, have both worn themselves out
cleaning up after them and attending to their every need. My dear husband was
the first to speak up and insist that I needed to fly out there, as he could
easily take some time off work and take care of the kids. Upon my return I
fully expect him to be curled up into a ball in a corner of the room mumbling
something like “save me, save me.”
Joking
aside, he’s actually quite capable and trustworthy, though from experience I
know that being alone with the kids for several days can wear a person out.
I’m always glad when he returns from his business trips. It’s a funny thing,
I always seem to look forward to time spent alone without children hanging on
to me and begging for something, and yet my eyes misted over the minute our
minivan left me behind at the airport. I miss them already.
There
was no lack of opportunity to sharpen my parenting skills while waiting to
board the plane, however. I was entertained by an energetic toddler, whose
single mom was en route to Colorado. He was pleasant and kind and shared his
magic markers with me as we chatted and played. His mother assured me that he
has a dark side, and I’ve learned to believe moms when they tell me this,
even though it may not be apparent at the moment. True enough, his horns came
out when it was time to buckle him into his seat, ever so fortunately in
front of mine.
Oh!
The kicking and screaming and hitting. I didn’t know a two year old could
have such nerve to beau up on his mother the way this one did. I felt for
her. The flight was only an hour, and I did my best to help keep him
entertained for his mom’s sake. At one point I allowed him to sit beside me
at his request, but within moments of helping him buckle in he decided the
grass was not so green on my side and climbed right back to his mother. We
tried it again later at his emphatic request, but he changed his mind before
he even parked his bum in the seat. The flight was only an hour, but to mom
(and some of the passengers to be sure), it must have felt like ten. The only
word I can think of to describe how she must have felt was shame.
Shame…
It
seems to me I remember that feeling only yesterday at the boys’ gym class. My
oldest was less than enthusiastic about participating. In fact, he seemed
almost deliberate in having a lousy time. He hardly paid any attention to the
instructor who was leading the kids through a really fun obstacle course.
Truth be told, it wasn’t all his fault. I set the tone before we even
arrived. During the car ride there something irritated him and he got huffy
about it. My words of rebuke were harsh, critical, and communicated
disapproval rather than love. It would have been better for me had I remained
silent until I could cool off and choose my words more wisely, but I excel at
knee-jerk responses. My “attitude adjustment” lecture did anything but
encourage a better attitude. Instead, I realize, it only fostered and
intensified the crummy one he already had. It’s like I could hear him saying,
“Mom’s yelling at me again. Now I’m really mad. So I’ll be miserable on
purpose just to make her mad.” Well, it worked.
Twice
during the class I had to pull him out in the hallway for a scolding, and the
second time I actually had to take him out and give him a thump on the
behind. Oh yeah, that cheered him right up. By the time the class was over, I
felt that same sense of shame. I can only imagine what other parents there
were thinking—the same things I would have thought if I had been them.
The
day just went downhill from there. So what’s the “shoulda?” Well, I should
have calmly but bravely taken him by the hand and sat him down beside me for
the remainder of the class to watch his brother and the other kids having
fun. I unfortunately was not brave enough to do that, like perhaps the others
there would think I was being too harsh. I guess I also hoped that somehow things
would get better, but they didn’t. The ride home, needless to say, was pretty
ugly. Great—the day before I leave for a week, and this the memory I leave
with my child. Shame on me….
So
why on earth do I have the guts to expose myself for the crummy parent I can
sometimes be? Perhaps it’s my way of keeping myself accountable to others
through my openness and honesty. I also often reread my blogs, so this one
will serve as my constant reminder to be gentle, even when I must be firm,
and to be silent when I cannot trust myself to be gentle. Above all, I need
my kids to know that no matter what they do or how they behave, I will always
love them unconditionally. I don’t think my son felt that way as I put him to
bed. There was a bit of a wall. This morning all was pretty much forgotten,
but bit by bit I can see attitude issues creeping into his mind that stem
from many scenes like this one making an impression. Sometimes he is sullen
and withdrawn. His medication doesn’t help, as it can make him feel a little
depressed, but I know it’s not the meds alone.
I
earnestly pray that my time away will serve as a reminder to me just how
precious is each gift that I check in on each night before I turn in, and to
behave toward my children the way I feel inside. When I browse through my
baby albums and then see my children as they are now, I know my time with
them is shorter than I realize. I only hope and pray that God will give me
the strength to control my emotions so that eventually my proneness to anger
will simply die. In the latest issue of The Old Schoolhouse Magazine
Publisher Gena Suarez put it best when she said “I am not disputing that God
gave us emotions. I am disputing the idea that we are to be ruled by our
emotions…emotions themselves can be tailored and shaped and changed. We can
control how we feel. The things that we exercise and feed will grow…stop
feeding it and it will starve to death.”
Here’s
to self-control and a lack of shame in parenting!
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Feb. 21, 2007
Updates for everyone
Okay, as some of you already know
by word of mouth, we did have to get rid of Chester. Even after he was
treated for his bladder infection his new urinating habits stuck. My vet was
ready to try something stronger, but I had had it after he peed on my couch
cushions. I sobbed all the way to the animal shelter. It's a wonder I didn't
get into an accident. I think he's already been adopted because his picture
was only on the Humane Society's website for a short time. Some have been
there much longer, and since it's a no kill shelter now that they've expanded
their facility, I know he wasn't put down. He was too cute to put to sleep
anyway!
In other news, we initiated a no TV month, after the Super Bowl of course
(hooray for the Colts)! Ryan and I had been talking about how TV was
affecting their behavior, attitudes, and expectations. It was just not doing
their brains any good. Actually, I was doing the talking, Ryan did the
listening (such a good hubby), and after I had said my peace, he suggested we
unplug for a month. We've only cheated twice. Once was when we let the sitter
pop in a video for the kids when we went on a date a couple weeks ago. The
other was to watch the news to get updates on the snowstorm that hit the
'Burgh. Oh...it's also been on almost nonstop today because Grant was sick
with the stomach flu and I wanted to keep the kids separated. So Em and
Connor spent the morning in our room watching TV while I kept Grant in our
family room with TV to keep his mind off the queasies.
That's it in a nutshell. Believe it or not, I don't miss either the cat or
the TV as much as I thought I would. Ryan and I have played lots of Uno
(where I beat him at almost every hand) or just talked or read or surfed the
net. I have to make sure I don't spend too much time on the computer. I don't
want it to be the replacement for TV. Too many other things to do!
If anyone has ever tried to go without TV or ended up throwing it away
altogether I'd love to hear from you. I can use the encouragement. It's a
rough road, being addicts and all, but we're doing pretty well!
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From Russia With Love
So it's been nearly three weeks
since we turned the TV off in our house. It's staying off for a month, and so
far it's been pretty sane, believe it or not. I'll blog about the why's and
wherefore's in a later blog, after the month is up. If I don't remember to do
this, someone please remind me.
Since things were soooo quiet once the tube was turned off, I replaced it
with some educational computer games for the kids. I found that by
substituting several hours of TV with several hours of computer time had
similar negative effects, so I had to limit the computer time to an hour
tops. For a little background noise (as if kids don't provide enough), I
started playing classic music. I figured it was a good opportunity to
introduce a little culture. The kids all really seem to like it. If I try to
change stations or turn it off when we're out driving, they ask me to put it
back on.
Ryan and I have attended the Pittsburgh Symphony several times and we both
enjoy it. I've even taken Grant to a Fiddlesticks performance, which is
geared for kids his age and teaches them the basics of music with the aid of
a big cat named Fiddlesticks. Last week the Youth Symphony had a free
concert at Heinz Hall and I bravely brought both boys. Connor hoped fervently
that there would be a harp, and was sooo excited to see TWO of them on stage.
They kids actually did pretty well, even though we did leave before it was
over.
Then, just yesterday morning, I got an email about a free Piano Trio concert.
I had no idea what that meant, but figured it was three pianos playing
together. It turns out a "Piano Trio" consists of a piano (big
surprise), cello, and violin. When I checked out the video clips on the
Pittsburgh Piano Trio website I was impressed with their lively performance,
so I brought Grant and a neighbor friend of mine.
The performance did not disappoint. Since it took place in a smaller hall the
crowd was not so overwhelming and we had decent seats. We did have to prop
Grant up on my purse so he could see. He was clearly the youngest one there
by about several hundred years. During the second half of the concert Grant
started to get sleepy and a little bored (the performance went from 8-9:45
p.m.), so my friend provided him with a pen and paper for drawing. He
sketched what looked like a cello, but insisted it was a violin. On the way
out of the building after the performance we ran into the cellist, Mikhael
Istomin (he's Russian, if you couldn't tell). He was surrounded by a bunch of
old people who were giving him accolades and getting their pictures taken
with him. I encouraged Grant to greet him and thank him for his performance.
When Grant finally got his turn, he could hardly say a word before Mr. Istoman
noticed his drawing. He immediately took it from Grant and complimented his
work on such a fine cello. "It's not a cello," Grant corrected him.
"It's a violin." Mikhael screwed up his face, pretending to sound
disappointed, but was still very jovial the whole time. In the next moment,
another crowd of folks gathered around him, practically sweeping him away,
picture and all. I felt bad. "Is it okay if he keeps it, honey?" He
said it was.
We turned to leave, and all at once Mikhael literally bounded forth from the
throng, waving the paper in his hand and saying "OH! I still have this
boy's picture. I must GO!" He came over to us again and bent down to
Grant, telling him what a wonderful picture he drew. Then he explained how
the way he drew it made it look much like a cello. Grant said, "okay,
it's a cello." Mr. Istoman straightened quickly to his large height,
puffed out his chest and in a mock stern voice said, "okay, NOW we
talk!"
I asked if he would be willing to sign Grant's drawing. "Of
COURSE!" he bellowed, and sped over to a counter, grabbed a pen, and
enthusiastically signed it along with the comment "Great picture!"
I was amazed and grateful for this man's kindness and care for someone who
could not possibly have appreciated his music as much as the other
concertgoers. Finally we said goodnight to him and made our way home. I was
proud of my son for being so well-behaved and for drawing a picture that I
will NEVER throw away.
Grant came home sleepy-eyed but happy, and carefully hung that little piece
of paper on the wall above his bed. All day today he wanted to know more
about Russia, so I opened up our atlas to show him where it was. I also had a
book about the last Tzar, so he got to look through that too, and was wowed
by all the pictures of the ornately designed palaces. What's funny is, he was
looking for a picture of his new cellist friend, and I had to explain to him
otherwise.
Even if he forgets this day, I never will.
Not to add anything negative to this story, but Grant must have brought
something else home from the concert. It's 11:55 p.m. and he's got the
stomach virus. Sounds like we're in for another momentous night!
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It's a little DAMP around here...
A couple of weeks before Christmas
we got a second cat, an 8-month-old stray that had been wandering around my
sis-in-law's home. It has turned out to be a great thing for the kids, who
really enjoy him. Chester is a playful cat who is very friendly and even
though Cookie, our older cat, would prefer to be the sole ruler of her
kingdom, she begrudgingly shares the space (he acts more like the court
jester anyway). If Jester, er, Chester gets too playful however, Cookie gives
him a whack and a hiss. Luckily for Chester, Cookie just had about six teeth
extracted to the happy tune of $500, so she's less of a threat to him than
she used to be. With some forethought I could have saved the teeth, sold them
to some company who turns around and sends them to a Peruvian tourist trap
where they could be strung on necklaces and passed off as monkey teeth. Might
have been able to finance part of the surgery that way. But I
digress....
Cookie required some liquid post-op meds that had to be cleverly disguised in
soft cat food, so Ryan purchased some fancy-shmancy stuff good enough for a
person to eat. It even had whole pieces of shrimp among the shredded fish.
With this stinky concoction I managed to successfully get the medicine down
her. Not wanting to be left out, Chester came to the feline diner anytime he
heard me open a new package. In fact, he would leap over our other cat, race
into the kitchen, slide across the tile floor and crash into the cabinets.
Then he'd beg and whine till I shared some of Cookie's meal with him. Now,
even though the gourmet fare has been cut off and they are back to their
normal hard food, my stepping into the kitchen for a glass of water is
equivalent to ringing the dinner bell as far as Pester...I mean, Chester is
concerned. It's been two weeks since the last of the soft food was served,
and he still comes running, sliding and crashing into the kitchen. This same
cat has also been guilty of stealing chicken breasts off my counter. I think
I'm getting a taste of what it will be like to have teenage boys in the
house. I can hardly wait.
Now to the crux of my story. Chester has been litter box trained since we got
him, and up until a couple of weeks ago there were no accidents. Then I
started to smell urine in the living room and had to shampoo a small section
of the carpet. I began noticing the odor elsewhere. My relationship with the
cat was quickly turning sour. I like any cat till he pees in my house, then
it's off with his head. Ryan assured me that after he's fixed he'll be
different. Since he's a "whole" cat, he is trying to attract a mate
(aka Cookie). Seems funny to me that animals do this. "Hey baby,"
wink wink, "you're lookin' pretty good there...c'mon over here
and...smell my pee." How romantic.
Things really got bad after Ryan left on Monday for a business trip to
Chicago. It was promising to be a busy week. Aside from taking care of three
kids on my own until Wednesday, my uncle was in town on Tuesday to do some
consulting work, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. I
was also helping my pregnant sister-in-law who had hurt her finger and needed
help with her nine-month-old. And since I don't sleep well when Ry is gone, I
was a little cranky. Tuesday afternoon I was in my bedroom and smelled it
again. The cat had done something somewhere. I stuck my nose over every inch
of my carpeting several times but couldn't find the source. I probably
resembled a bloodhound, but I was determined to locate and annihilate the
stench. I finally found it...on my bed.
My down comforter, my sheets, and my blankets had all been used as a litterbox,
and I knew the culprit. Fuming, I dragged the now-ruined comforter down to
the garbage can (fortunately I wanted to get rid of it anyway). Then I
sprayed Febreze on the mattress. It wasn't wet, but I could smell the odor on
it. As if that weren't enough, he did it again right in front of me the next
day, just hours after I brought Ryan home from the airport. This time it
reached the mattress. Ryan and I spent some quality romantic "welcome
home" time in the bedroom on the mattress, shampooing it with the carpet
steamer.
Ryan promised to get the cat fixed right away, but I wasn't convinced this
was the problem. After all, he wasn't spraying, he was squatting. A cat
trying to attract a mate usually sprays. I began to wonder if he had a
urinary tract infection. My suspicions were confirmed last night as I sat on
the couch in my PJ's, all snug and cozy under a blanket. Chester, seeing how
comfortable I must have looked to him, hopped up on my lap, squatted, and
peed on me.
You read right...my cat PEED ON MY LAP!!!
We called the vet this morning, who told us that Chester certainly has some
kind of UTI and needs to be seen. Peeing on me was a desperate cry for help.
Often, she said, a cat will do this to the person he associates as being his
primary caregiver, and the one he has bonded with most.
Yeah...I feel the love. It is warm...and wet.
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Little Known Festive Foods
Everybody
has certain foods they associate with Christmas--egg nog (non-spiked of
course!) ....turkey or goose...candy canes,
etc. But there are a few holiday edibles that I'll bet you've never
considered: Garlic and Parsely.
That's right! My oldest son has informed me of their place in the culinary
Christmas tradition. Why, just the other day after we dropped Daddy off at work,
we drove around downtown Pittsburgh to admire the Christmas decorations.
Grant took one look at the garland hanging on one of the buildings and said
with excitement "look, Mom, Christmas garlic!"
And just this evening I was teaching the boys the Twelve Days of Christmas
song (don't ask me why...I'm a glutton for punishment). After singing it a
million times, I decided to let my boys try to fill in a few of the
"days." I sang all the way up to "two turtledoves, and
a---" and waited for them to finish the song. My oldest very seriously
and at the top of his lungs sang "and a parsely in a pear tree!"
So remember, as you make out your shopping list for your Christmas
entertaining, don't forget to toss that head of garlic and bunch of parsely
into your cart. Believe me...after consuming the garlic, you're gonna need
the parsely if you want your guests to stay.
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One of Pittsburgh's best kept secrets
We live just outside the city limits of Pittsburgh. Our neighborhood is
relatively quiet, but it's not exactly the country. My boys love to climb
trees and explore the woods, so I'm always looking for a great place to go
where they can stretch their legs. I found it yesterday (Sunday) at Beechwood
Farms Nature Reserve.
Beechwood is the Audubon Society of Western PA's
headquarters, located in the Fox Chapel area of Pittsburgh. It has five miles
of trails on 134 acres of land that also includes a small pond and a stream,
several little wood bridges, and big fallen trees to climb on. Our family had
a blast, and the weather was unusually warm for November at 68 degrees, so we
were quite comfortable. Off in the distance we could hear a woodpecker, and I
spotted deer tracks. When we got back to the nature center/gift shop we
visited this lounging area that had a huge picture window, from which we
could see birds of all kinds visiting the feeders hanging just outside. The
website even has a live action cam of the bird feeders that refreshes every
ten seconds. If you Pittsburgh locals (or visitors) are interested in a FREE
activity that will refresh your mind, body and spirit, and wear your kids out
good, do yourself a favor and visit. Check out the website for info and
directions at http://www.aswp.org/beechwood.html. Your family will love it.
We certainly plan to go back soon.
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Biology 101
Ahhh...It's
a perfect morning. I'm standing by the kitchen door, sipping my coffee as I
watch the birds fluttering from feeder to feeder...and my cat on the side
porch, eating the head off a mole.
I suppose moments of serenity that don't involve gore will have to wait
untill Cookie loses all her teeth. Soon to be realized, actually. She's due
to have most of her teeth removed later this month. I'm accepting donations
for the bill.
This brings me to the topic of my discussion. I know the day is coming when
I'm going to have to slice something open that was once alive and breathing,
for the purpose of education. I'm not the squeamish type, but I think I'm
gonna have trouble making that first cut. I could use a little help from
anyone experinced in field dressing vermin. What kind of tools do I need and
where can I get them? What's a good book to help guide me through the
process? If you don't have answers, please pass along the blog to someone you
know who might be of help. And be sure to post your responses in the blog
rather than via email. It'll help others in the future if the information is
more public.
Meanwhile, I'm going to go back to teaching Emily her colors. Much less
messy.
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Clever mommy
Sounds
like I'm tooting my own horn, doesn't it? Well, I don't mean to. I only wish
to humbly impart some ideas for any mom out there with young children more
inclined to play with legos than to sit and do a worksheet with their boring
mother (even if she does hand out M&M's for incentive).
Let me go back to the beginning of the school year. I had converted our
little office nook into a classroom setting for my kids that I thought they
wanted, complete with chalkboard, dry erase board, and bulletin board with
all kinds of decorations to staple onto it. I even purchased some old desks
from a local school and spent hours in my front yard in the heat of August
spray painting them a bright shiny red color...after I scrubbed them down and
scraped off all the gum. The spray paint had two objectives: first, to give
them a clean new look, and second, to cover over the bad words etched into
the old gray paint job. The classroom was now complete.
Day one: The kids bound in to see the new classroom, the appearance of which
remained a secret until opening day. They were all excited. But alas, things
fell apart before I could even complete the Pledge of Allegience. I remember
something about a fight over who should get to hold the flag. Then they all
wanted to use the dry erase board. "No, this is only for mommy," I
said, envisioning dry marker stains all over their clothes (they don't come
out, as I discovered weeks later). They all thought this was entirely unfair.
Things did not go well. I was past the idea of sending them to school,
instead entertaining the thought of shipping them all straight to Siberia.
I remembered the wisdom of Michael Pearl (No Greater Joy ministries) who said
that parents often try to recreate the school at home, which is a mistake. No
kidding. It was time for some new teaching strategies, not dictated by
curriculums or magazine articles, but based on my children's psychological
makeup.
Fast forward to this week. We played with play dough at the kitchen table,
shaping the dough into letters while learning our phonics. I recorded myself
singing and reading poems about the days of the week and the months of the
year, which the kids listened to during their playtime. They were like
sponges, absorbing everything, not even realizing they were learning.
My last remaining challenge was enticing my oldest to sit with me and do some
simple workbook page. Here's where I got clever. As my six-year-old sat
playing on the floor, I took his workbook in hand and plopped on the couch
with a huge sigh.
"Good grief," I said, as thumbed through the pages. "This is
impossible! I will NEVER figure all this out."
"What's the matter mom?"
"I can't understand what I'm supposed to do in this book."
Sonny boy energetically leaps onto the couch next to me. "I can help
you, mom. I'm really good at this stuff." Poor Mommy,he
thinks. She doesn't know how to do anything.
I smile, knowing I have won. In moments, he has completed several pages. In
only two of these sessions he has finished the whole 30 page book. My
middle child sees what is going on and wants to work on a workbook too. I
"indulge" him. We all have fun, and we are all learning. The kids
are learing how to read and write and add, and I am learning that homeschool
is indeed fun when I remove the desks and chalkboards from the equasion. Oh,
they still have their place. I let my oldest practice writing his letters on
the dry erase board with supervision. It's the first time he's actually
agreed to write his letters properly, rather than the way HE wants to do
them. And the desks? Well, they look impressive to the visitors.
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You CAN go back! But the trees will be
bigger...
...and there will be different buildings, and new road
signs, and traffic lights where they weren't before, and...oh, sorry. I'm
talking about my visit to New Jersey, where I was born and raised. I moved to
Pittsburgh eleven years ago when my husband and I married, and I've only been
back a few times for the holidays. I've never had much chance to just drive
from place to place and visit everyone, but two weeks ago my husband had a
business trip to Princeton, so the kids and I tagged along. It was a blast,
but boy did I have a difficult time finding something I recognized outside
the five mile radius from my neighborhood! I was hard pressed to find my way
around. So much had changed, and what hadn't changed had been hidden from
view by large trees that were mere saplings when I left. Even my own street
was shrouded by change, and yes, my very own childhood home. The new owners
were kind enough to invite me in to look around. That was a real treat! But
as delightful as it was to walk inside once more, there was a shadow of
sadness over me as I saw how the home had been transformed from what it was
when I left it. My late father's craftsman's touch had been visible all over
the house, from the family room and deck he added on, to the basement he
transformed into my bedroom, a bath, and a study. Some of his fingerprints
still remain, but some things have changed entirely. His crowning
achievement, in my eyes, was an enormous wall unit of shelves and cabinets
that were actually built into one of the walls. It measured about eight feet
across and almost to the ceiling. In it held our TV, childhood books, and a
display of antique cameras my father had collected (in his early years he had
been a photographer). I loved that piece of furniture. As I toured the home
that was no longer mine, my heart sank when I saw a couple of windows in
place of that beautiful piece of furniture. It had been taken out of the wall
by another owner. Goodness knows what they did with it. I later found a
portion of it sitting in the basement, my father's old woodshop, and the
current owners said they have plans to paint it white and use it in their
master bedroom. I wish I had thought of it then to ask if they'd sell it to
me, but the idea didn't occur to me until just this week. I left them a
message asking if they would consider it. I hope I hear from them soon before
they paint the thing! I'll keep you posted.
All in all, my trip to South Jersey was a wonderful one. I visited an old
neighbor, spent some time with a couple of really good friends, and met their
young children. I also got to reconnect with my uncles and their families.
Boy have my cousins grown! If I had had two weeks to spend there, I don't
think I could have packed in all I wanted to do.
As happy as I am to have been privileged with such a rare visit, there is a
bit of sadness attached to it. My life was a very happy one...not perfect,
but the memories are beautiful, and I miss them. I loved where I grew up. I
miss my dad who I was so proud of and close to. He worked hard and he loved
his family. If I could rewind time, it would be so tempting.
But then I look over at my kids playing together on our family room floor.
Okay, they're fighting right now, but...never mind about that. Anyway, God
has given me a turn to make precious memories with my kids that will carry
them into adulthood. As Paul put it, "forgetting those things which are
behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,I press toward
the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."
(Phil 3:13b-14). My calling of God is to raise my children to love and fear
the Lord. He wants me to create a safe haven from the world where they can be
themselves and know they will be cherished. In short, the Lord wants me to
give my children the home atmosphere I grew up in. I need to make beautiful
memories for my kids. They won't care so much about the great life I had, but
the great life I was able to give to them.
With that said, I promised to play Candy Land with my son. Gotta go! Enjoy
your day with your children.
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Managers of Their Homes
So
I purchased a copy of Managers of Their Homes, by Terri Maxwell of the Titus
2 ministry. I did it because I'm tired of the chaos and insanity that is my
home. I'm tired of collapsing at the end of the day after working myself half
to death, only to have the house look like nothing's been done to it for a
week. I'm tired of my kids running amok because there is no schedule on
which they can depend and feel secure in. Heck, I'm just plain tired.
What is Managers of Their Homes, you ask? It's a scheduling system unlike no
other. It's designed mainly for homeschooling families, particularly large
ones, though any home could benefit greatly. I've tried scheduling before,
but this one is different. To describe how would be too complicated. It has
taken me a week to create it, suffice it to say, and there are several steps.
But once the project is complete, changing the schedule around and making
sure it coordinates with other people's schedules is a breeze. If you want to
know more about it, visit their website (see link to right)
My hope in all of this is to establish order in my home where my kids know
what to expect and know what is expected of them. It'll be implemented
slowly, and I know I'll make changes as needed, but I fully expect that this
will streamline our days better. I'll let you know how it goes.
On another note, Grant is doing okay. He's taking Focalin now, instead of
Ritalin, since that was making his tics worse. His attention has certainly
improved, and he's not bouncing off the walls. There may be hope on the
homeschool front yet!
I'll keep everyone posted on his progress as well as the schedule's success.
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Self fulfilling prophecy
My
oldest son came into our room this morning to snuggle in bed with us (my
favorite time of the day). After a few minutes of idle chit-chat he said he
was ready for breakfast, and that he thinks he's going to get a toy in his
cereal. This was strange for me to hear because I don't ever buy the
"junk" cereals that have toys in them. I didn't even know he knew
that these toys in cereals existed. I told him "I don't think so, honey.
We don't have any cereal boxes with toys in them." That was the end of
that...I thought.
Since he'd become pretty independent with breakfast, he poured his own cereal
and milk before I actually made it to the kitchen. The frosted mini-wheats
were drowning in a huge sea of milk, but I knew he wouldn't waste it, so I
didn't really care. But as I bent over to give him a hug while he munched
away, I noticed something peeking out from the milk that didn't look like
soggy squares. Something small and black.
They looked like tiny wheels.
I took my son's spoon from him and fished out...a matchbox car. A car that
until yesterday had been outside all summer lying on the ground or sitting in
a sandbox.
The moral of the story? I'd better buy him some junk cereal.
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Discouraged and Burned Out
Oh,
goodness...where do I begin? My mind is a jumble of thoughts and
contradictions and self doubt and disappointment and discouragement. If only
I could rewind life, but I somehow think that things would still be turning
out the same as they are.
My oldest son, who is almost six, suffers from a disorder called Tourette's
Syndrome, which is accompanied (in small part) by Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder and (in VERY LARGE part) by ADHD. And if I ever hear anyone say that
it's a discipline problem, It will be all I can do to keep from lashing
out at their uneducated opinion! I guess, for the benefit of my small
readership I should start from the beginning.
Even before he was born I knew my oldest would be a challenge. He was
insanely active in the womb, irrepressably energetic from the moment he was
born, and a terrible napper, despite my following Ezzo's babywise to the
LETTER. Besides being born with hypospadius (abnormal location of the
urethral opening), for which he had surgery, he also had tubes placed in his
ears, then replaced a year later along with an adenoidectomy. He also has
very large tonsills which hopefully will shrink on their own (DH had his
removed in adulthood due to sleep apnea, and they were the size of golfballs,
literally). I had my son in two sleep studies over the course of three years
to rule out sleep problems as the cause of his hyperactivity, but the results
showed nothing abnormal, though he was plagued for three years by night
terrors, which occurred on average about three times a month (that experience
was absolutely AWFUL).
Being interested in naturopathic remedies over the traditional medical route,
I sought chiropractic care and natural remedies for the ear infections he got
as a child, as well as the hyperactivity he displayed beginning at 2 1/2. As
he got older it was clear that the hyperactivity went well beyond what I
would consider normal for a typical boy. I did everything from spanking,
yelling, taking away privileges, setting timers, reward incentives, etc.
Nothing worked. I prayed. I read everything I could get my hands on. Then,
beginning at age five, I began noticing the motor tics. He would blink his
eyes while shrugging his right shoulder a number of times. As this has
progressed I have seen everything from word repetitions (vocal tics),
constant throat clearing (it is really bad right now), and muscle tensing. It
often is disruptive and it can be hard to get through a single homeschool
lesson, though somehow we manage.
It has taken its toll on him emotionally as well. He is very hard on himself
and gets easily frustrated if he messes up with something (like a coloring
page, writing a letter, etc.) I haven't exactly been the model mom, either.
DH and I have done our share of yelling, scolding, and berating. I am ashamed
of my own reactions over the past year, before I finally faced the fact that
this is indeed a disorder that, incidentally, runs in my family and I suffer
with to a much smaller degree. In fact, it is my son's disorder that has
pointed my own out to me. I also suffered from ADHD as a kid. What I
described of my son's infancy describes my own to a tee. My mom, too, was
beside herself. Beginning in the sixth grade (incidentally, the same time I
got braces and stopped sucking my thumb), the motor tics began, as well as
mental ones (repetitive or obsessive thought processes...kinda hard to
explain unless you have them). Thankfully, as an adult, I am able to
recognize and suppress them to an extent.
Anyway, I began to seek out the help of a naturopathic physician. After
running some tests, he recommended removing certain foods from DS's diet,
which I did. He also gave me some naturo- and homeopathic supplements. I
bought natural foods, avoided high fructose corn syrup, MSG, dyes, sugars,
and a huge list of other no no's. Still no success, and my hubby's wallet was
crying out for mercy (no insurance coverage for this kind of stuff). It was
time to turn to traditional medicine.
I took DS to Children's Child Development Unit in Oakland, PA, where his
doctor gave him a prescription for Ritalin for the ADHD, and I am in the
process of seeking out the appropriate therapy for the Tourette's disorder. I
can't begin to tell you how much I feel like a failure. Then the blame game
begins: Did I consume something I shouldn't have during my pregnancy? Did my
bad attitudes as a new mom contribute to his problems? Is this punishment
from God? Should I never have exposed my child to TV that could have fried
his brain? Why? Why? Why, God? What would you have me to do? Tell me the
right thing to do and I will do it. How I wish for a verbal word from heaven
with the answer.
I hate what my son has/will have to endure. I know that socially he will have
a tough row to hoe, as I did. Thank goodness for homeschooling, where he can
learn without the embarassment and shame of teasing among his peers. Right
now the toughest challenges are the proper medications or medicinal
combinations to treat both the ADHD and the Tourette's. Sometimes Ritalin can
increase the intensity of the tics, so we have to monitor things and make
changes as the doctor and I see fit, and I need to decide what kind of
therapy will work best for him (drug or behavioral). Also, I want to try to
get therapy services that will come to my house, rather than having to take a
trip all the way into the city with three kids once a week in the winter
months. Getting therapy will also entail applying for medical assistance,
since insurance covers services like these only minimally. Thankfully, any
income bracket can qualify throught what's known as the loophole. It's just
more red tape for me to deal with.
DH is going through a pretty stressful time period right now at work, and
beginning in January he begins studying for his master's degree. I can't
begin to tell you the stress we feel as a couple. Tempers have flared and we
are both dealing with anxiety. I am trying my best to focus on the Lord and
his promises. I am sure this is His refining fire for me, and he is trying to
teach me something through all of this. I hope I am a fast learner.
On an encouraging note, I had a great experience at the Homeschool Conference
hosted by Steve and Terri Maxwell of the Titus 2 ministry. They were
absolutely fantastic and their ministry has been such a blessing to me in the
short time I have come to know them. I am including a link on my blog page,
so be sure to visit it if you have never heard of them.
I'll keep you posted on DS's progress. Keep me in your prayers.
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Boys Will Be Boys
I
always knew I wanted to have a boy someday. I grew up a tomboy, building
treehouses, handling snakes, etc. So when I became pregnant with our first
son I hoped and prayed for a boy, and I was sure I was carrying one. I was
right, in fact, and he was followed by another two years later. It's been an
exciting ride, but surely never dull. And even though my youngest is a
daughter, she is already a bit of a tomboy as well. Of course, being active,
injuries are sure to come, and I accept that as part of being a mom to boys
(See March 6 entry).
My oldest is now almost six and has had more than his share of bumps,
bruises, ER visits, and casts. He is now sporting his second cast in four
years, which he earned on our vacation last week. DH and I had taken the
three kids to NC to visit my sister and her family, and then our two families
traveled to Williamsburg, VA to stay at a resort. My oldest took one too many
trips on the monkey bars at the resort's playground and fell. Fortunately the
local hospital was only five minutes away and the folks there were really
nice. Funny thing is, I was thinking to myself earlier that week that it has
been a while since we'd made an ER visit and that we were about due. Anyway,
he's got a nice green cast that has to stay on for only a couple of weeks
since it's only a slight break. In the meantime, it hasn't slowed him down a
bit.
Also regarding boys, I refuse to raise a scaredy-cat or a sissy, and
that goes for my DD as well. I figure the best way to help them overcome
their fears is by example. Now I'm not the squeamish type, and there's few
critters that scare me, not even mice. In fact, I'm usually the one who
empties the mouse trap in our house, and I even rescued my mother from a
mouse (that's a story for another time, if anyone is interested). BUT, I have
one phobia...SPIDERS! I know you all share in my fear. Sure, they have a
place in this world, but that place is not in my basement...or my
bathtub...or in a corner of my ceiling. I'm doing my best not to show my fear
to my children, but my resolve was tested the other day when my oldest found
a daddy long legs in his sandbox.
He really wanted to pick it up, which is fine with me and I encouraged it,
but he was a little scared. I told him to use a shovel, and he did, then
placed the harmless but ugly creature on his cast. It proceeded to crawl all
over him and he eventually got over his fear and held the spider in his
hands. That would have been fine, but he wanted to show it to me up close. He
asked if they bite, and I said "no", though I know that technically
they can, though it's very rare and you can hardly feel it (according to the
Mythbusters on TV). Having that thought in the back of my head, I had to bite
my tongue to keep from saying "for goodness sake, put that thing down!!!
Don't you know it's a spider!?!?"
I'm proud of him for overcoming his fear though. One step closer to being a
man. I'm sure that at some point he'll be carrying around garter snakes and
toads and lizards. I just hope his future wife doesn't mind being married to
the next Croc Hunter.
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Air Freshener Scents That Will Never Sell
We
had the privilege of dog sittting last week for a sweet black labrador that
belongs to one of DH's coworkers. After my experiences taking care of the
dog, I have come up with some Air Freshener scents that are sure to never
make it on the grocery store shelf. Here is my compilation:
Fresh Dog Pile in Wet Grass Scent
Puppy Puke in a Kennel
Canned "Prescription Diet" Scent (the kind you get from the
vet when a dog can't digest anything else)
Stale Kibble
Regurgitated Rice
Eau de Wet Dog
Doggie Breath Fresh Scent
Pooch Toots Scent (the kind when your dog has an upset stomach)
Soiled Dog Bed
Hope this gives an adequate description of my week. Moral to this story: make
sure the dog you plan on watching is in perfect health before you decide to
commit to it for seven days.
Have a fresh, clean day!
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Wasted on Me?
Matthew
23:25 "Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make
clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of
extortion and excess."
I have never felt so ashamed in my life.
Having grown up in a slightly legalistic environment and having gone to a
"slightly legalistic" college (an understatement), I often find
myself struggling with a self-righteous attitude that I have no business to.
Then I went to church on Sunday. Big mistake. I found out who I really am. A
hypocrite, just like the Pharisees.
Our pastor has been talking about the attributes of God and how believing in
or relying on one specific attribute to the exclusion of the others is an
imbalanced view of God. He is loving, but he is more than loving, he is just.
And he is more than just, he is also holy. He is all powerful, he is
sovereign, and he is incomprehensible. When the pastor talked about focusing
only on the Holiness of God while disregarding His other attributes, it leads
to legalism, where we try to be "goody goodies" (not a direct
quote) who make up all sorts of rules in order to achieve salvation. The
rules could sound something like this: "If you drink alcohol, you're not
a christian. If you go to the movie theater, you're not a christian, etc.
etc." The Pharisees made up all sorts of rules like this that weren't in
the scriptures written by Moses and the prophets, and they impressed these
rules upon Jews, while blatantly disregarding other areas of the law, such as
honesty, care for the needy, etc. But I'm not like that...am I?
In my mind are a list of things that make me a "good" follower of
Christ. I don't do this, I don't do that. I think all the right things, I
believe all the right things, I might even say all the right things, but when
the rubber meets the road, I'm no different than a Pharisee who gives the
appearance of being holy, while inside is vileness and sinfulness. The
"cup" looks clean on the outside, but nobody would want to drink
out of it.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised at my conclusion of myself, because Christ
Himself said that "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh" (Matthew 12:34; Luke 6:45). It has been clear for some time
that my children are easily able to pull the worst out of me. My dear husband
also has seen my worst. I would be ashamed for others to know how my words,
attitudes and actions can so easily run away with me. I have often failed as
a wife and mother because I have not had the power of God in my life. When
the day gets stressful and I feel myself slipping into old patters, I pray
"Lord, please help me get through this day," as if he was some
fairy godmother waiting to grant my every wish and smooth the path before me.
Well, He doesn't, and I often find myself at the end of the day discouraged
and disillusioned and disappointed with myself. It is not a pretty picture.
So...how'd you like to have ME for a wife and mother?! Tempting, I know.
So why doesn't God give me his power to overcome my hypocrisy and be a godly
woman? Well, after what I learned in my Sunday School class, I can't expect
to have this power if I am not saturating myself in the word of God.
In our Sunday School class we've been going through the video series "In
the Dust of the Rabbi," put out by Focus on the Family (Dr. James
Dobson). The video series is actually footage of a tour of Galilee, let by
guide Ray Van Der Laan. Today was the final episode in the series, and the
one that was the most convicting. Today Ray Van Der Laan took his visitors to
the temple of the god Apollo. This magnificent temple was made completely of
stone and several stories high, with pillars 6 feet in diameter making this
construction an amazing accomplishment. It would take one stone chiseler his
entire life to carve one pillar, and there were hundreds of pillars like it.
What was the purpose of this temple? Well, whenever a person wanted some
wisdom regarding a decision they needed to make, they would make the 15 mile
journey on foot (about a five hour walk) to visit the temple. When they
arrived, the had to get preliminary approval to ask the god Apollo for an
"oracle"... an answer to such questions like "should I change
my occupation? Should I settle in this land" etc. In order to get
approval to ask for this oracle, they must bring a sacrifice, the best lamb
they had to offer. The priest would kill the lamb, inspect the liver and
other entrails, and based on what the priest saw, he would grant or deny
permission to ask a question to this god. If the individual was granted his
request, he would then wait for the inner temple doors to open (this could take
weeks) at which time he could ask his question to another priest who would
carry his question to the god. After the person asked the priest his
questions, the priest would say "I will ask Apollo your question,"
then he would shut the doors. The person seeking this oracle would wait in
the temple for his answer, often for months. Finally, after endless, patient
waiting, the doors would open again, and the priest would give the god's
answer to the person who had been waiting, at which time he dutifully carried
everything out exactly as the oracle told him to do in order to keep Apollo
and all the other gods appeased and enjoy prosperity.
The tour guide then drew an application from this that threw me for a loop
and brought me to tears. He explained that hundreds of men spent entire
lifetimes building a temple that they might not get to see completed before
they died. Seekers of wisdom would travel for miles and stay for days in a
temple waiting for the answer to JUST ONE QUESTION. They would sacrifice an
animal to get permission to EVEN ASK their question, and they waited for
months, at the expense of their jobs, their families, and perhaps their
health, in order to receive a tidbit from a false god.
I, on the other hand, hold the "oracle" of God in my hands. All I
have to do is open it. No sacrifices, no long walks, no waiting. I can know
the power and truth I need to know RIGHT NOW, and effortlessly by comparison.
So why am I so unwilling to make the tiny sacrifice of staying in God's word
twenty minutes, getting up a half hour early, or spending even ten minutes in
prayer? Why do I not make the time? Has God's Word been wasted on
me? Do I really think that just by keeping it on the table beside my
bed, unopened, will have ANY EFFECT ON ME WHATSOEVER??? That carrying it to
church will cause its wisdom to seep in through my fingertips? If I don't
open it, I am destined to failure in my life. I believe that with every fiber
of my being because I see it happening before my eyes. I am failing my
children, I am failing my husband in many aspects of my role, and worst of
all, I am failing the God who saved me by rejecting his "oracle" to
me. Worse yet, if I do consult his "oracle," do I obey it to the
letter?
Realize that this is hard for me to write because I know there are going to
be people who will read this and think I am horrible, or else tell me I am
being too hard on myself. Well, don't tell me either. I know that without the
grace of God I am as vile as the next person. I put all this in writing so
that I will never forget. There is no room for pride or self-righteousness.
This entry is meant to be my reminder to open up the word of God and
dedicating myself to it, as the source of power, wisdom, understanding, and
joy. I want to be more than I am, and it begins with the "oracle"
of the Bible.
Amen...may it be so.
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Gettin' Noticed
I
Peter 3:3-5 "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as
braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead,
it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and
quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight. For this is the
way the holy women of the past who put their hope in God used to make
themselves beautiful." (NIV)
Deep breath...okay. I'm about to attempt to tackle a difficult subject with
regard to social norms. Fashion statements, to be more specific.
With the advent of reality TV has come a plethora of shows for every aberrant
lifestyle that could possibly be appealed to. Just the other day I learned
about a program called "Miami Ink" which is basically a day in the
life of a tattoo parlor. People come from all walks of life to have tattoos
imprinted on their body that reflect their emotions, their tastes, their life
stories, etc. Personally, if your life story can fit onto one forearm, you've
lived a very boring life, but I digress.
While we're on the subject of tattoos, here's a question. Should a Christian
have one? What about body piercing? What about anything added to the body
that is not there by nature (excepting clothing, of course). I could go down
a legalistic spiral here very easily.
I've spent some time meditating on I Peter, which addresses wives and how
their conduct and apprearance should be, though I feel this passage would be wisely
applied to any woman. Is this passage telling us we can't braid our hair or
wear jewelry??? Well...I won't go down that path. I know you were all wishing
I would, since I have ALL the right answers, but you're gonna have to hash
those issues out for yourselves. Know for certain that I have pierced ears
and LOVE Mary Kay makeup. I also paint my nails.
So what's right and what's wrong? Does right and wrong change? No. But
clearly we can't be expected to dress the same way as they did in the Apostle
Peter's day, can we? Of course not. But then how do we apply I Peter 3:3?
I'm no theologian, so take my application of this passage with a grain of
salt. But if I had to whittle it down to what I believe this verse is talking
about, is has everything to do with what people see when they look at me for
the very first time. If I only get one chance to make a first impression,
what do I want that impression to be? I have to go back to what my purpose on
this earth is. Everyone say it with me: TO GLORIFY GOD!
Our purpose on earth is to reflect the image of the invisible God. My next
question becomes, "is there anything about me that is distracting
another person from seeing the image of God in me?" This could apply to
everything from wearing skimpy clothing to putting on too much makeup. It
could even apply to my speech. Am I a loud, obnoxious, woman who is drawing
attention to herself by bragging or showing off? When I sing on stage, do I
draw the audience's attention to me, or to the God who saved me?
I've known women who have the gentle and quiet spirit Peter talkes about, and
it speaks volumes of their character and of the God who lives within them. My
mother-in-law is a prime example. I don't think I've ever heard her speak out
of turn or so much as raise her voice, though my dh swears she has. I'm sure
he deserved it. Anyway, she is an inspiration
to me as someone who has a spirit that does not desire focus to be drawn to
her, but to the Lord. I only hope I will attain this meek and quiet spirit
sometime before I die. Guess that means I'd have to quit blogging!
On the converse, I've seen groups of teenagers hanging out at the mall, and
it's a sight to behold. The girls are flirting with the guys, laughing too
loud, or screaming over something some boy is doing to tease them, or using
profane language to impress their peers. They're showing too much skin and
pretend to hate it when the guy next to them tickles their bare belly. They
are secretly loving the attention. They are drawing attention to themselves,
often to attract the guys they are with, but it's a cover for low
self-esteem, really. They want people to think they are something special.
Something worth noticing. I hope that I can successfully teach my sons to
steer away from the kind of silly girl who feels the need to be noticed in
such a destructive way. I also hope I can teach my daughter that it is more
important for her to follow Christ and be attractive in ways that matter than
to try to get some stupid boy to pay attention to her.
As far as what I wear personally, I'm showing my age, I guess, by saying that
I don't feel comfortable letting a lot of leg show, and a low neckline makes
me squirm. I'm not exactly well-endowed, and my legs will never be found on
the cover of a magazine, but that's not the point. I don't want to distract
anyone by my appearance, nor do I want them to stumble or give them a wrong
impression of my character. DH and I had a conversation about this the other
day. I have a pair of shorts that has material over the top of it that makes
it look like a miniskirt. It's more than a skort, which you can see from
behind is just a pair of shorts. The stretch knit material goes all the way
around. I bought it last year and really liked how it looked on me. DH
especially loved me in it, and that was my motivation to continue wearing it.
Then I started thinking, "if Ryan really likes it, what other men are
out there liking it too, in a not-so-good way?" When I told Ry about
this, he agreed maybe I shouldn't wear it out. After searching through my
closet, I've come across other items I need to pitch for the same reason.
With regard to non-essentials like tattoos and body piercing, I will NOT be
accused of telling someone it is wrong. I have my beliefs as they apply to me
personally. But let me say this. If I was to decide to get a nose ring or a
tattoo, or even a second piercing in my ears, I would first need to ask
myself, what am I doing this for? Is this going to draw people to me because
they want to know the God living inside me, or do I draw attention solely to
myself? Honestly, it's easy for any of us to want to draw attention to
ourselves. It's fun to get noticed. I love compliments as much as the next
person. But this fleshly desire to be noticed can run away with us.
Do you know what I've learned draws people to want to know more about my God?
It's the joy they see on my face. It's the peaceful contentment in any
circumstance that confounds people and makes them want to know what's at the
bottom of it. Unfortunately I haven't been doing a very good job at it,
especially in front of my own kids and husband. As far as my kids go, if I
can't impress upon them the true joy of the Lord, why on earth would they
want to follow my God? Pretty sobering. So pray for me, all you who read this.
I want to be that I Peter 3 woman, and that Proverbs 31 woman. I've known a
few of these women, and they are the most beautiful people I have ever met,
even without their makeup. I just wanted to be around them, to learn from
them, to be a better person just by spending time in their presence. I could
see God in them. And there were no distractions.
God help me if I only see a reflection of myself.
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I've Moved In!
Well, life's all about change, and
while I set up a blog on a different site only months ago, I was introduced
to this one by a friend who uses it and I like the layout and ease of use
much better. Every entry listed before this one is from my old blog, so if
you've already suffered through reading all of it, there's no need to do so
again.
It was hard deciding on the template for this blog. Sooo many to choose from.
I decided to go with something meaningful to my own life. There was one that
had some pretty crayons scattered on a surface...no, that wouldn't do. In my
real world all the crayons scattered on my surfaces are broken. Nothing true
to my life there! And since there weren't any options that had pictures of
folded clothes that ended up scattered all over an unvacuumed floor, then
jumped on, dragged through the house before ending back up in the washing
machine, I decided on this one. A snapshot of the simple country life, which
I yearn for as you will find out from my previous blog.
I'm excited to be a part of both the homeschool community and this homeschool
blog site. More later!
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An Impossible Dream?
I'm about to level with all of my
readers (yes, both of you). There is a Pioneer Woman in me just waiting to
get out. I have watched every Little House on the Prairie episode and read
every book Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote. I'm slooowwwwly learning the lost art
of sewing, and have an almost finished quilt draped over my machine. I enjoy
horseback riding, though I haven't been in years. I have a teeny garden from
which I hope to have enough tomatoes to fill one canning jar. I love to light
my hurricane lanterns in the winter, turn out all the lights, and try to read
something (no wonder Mary Ingalls went blind). And at the first sign of warm
weather each year you'll find me setting up a clothesline so I can hang my
laundry in the fresh air. Unfortunately, the birds remind me each year that
there are high treetops over most of my back yard where they like to perch
after breakfast...you get the picture.
Perhaps the most telling sign that I am a homestead-minded pioneer woman
wannabe is my annual trek to Greene County for the Waynesburg Chamber of
Commerce sponsored event, Chix in the Stix, which I participated in again two
weeks ago. Formerly a part of the National Turkey Federation's Women In The
Outdoors, Chix in the Stix is for women who want to get back to nature and
learn some outdoorsy skills. One of my friends who introduced me to this went
to one where she learned knife throwing. I was immediately intrigued and
signed on. Unfortunately they haven't offered that class since but I hope
they do again. After all...you never know when that 24 lb. turkey or twelve
point buck is going to walk through your front door. Ya gotta be ready!
At this year's event I opted to camp there overnight along with some of the
other attendees. I didn't pitch a tent like the others, though. I slept in my
minivan since the temps dropped to the low 50's. Thank goodness for stow and
go seating! It was so relaxing to sit around the campfire with other women
roasting hot dogs, making smores and exchanging stories with other women I
had never met before, then rising early for breakfast and a fun-filled day of
classes. Last year when I went I learned how to properly handle and shoot a
.22 rifle and handgun, ride an ATV over hilly fields (that was a BLAST!), and
attract wildlife to my backyard. This year I learned about fishing, bird
dogging, and the best class of all, muzzle loading. I actually got to load my
own rifle with gunpowder, stuff a bullet in with a ramrod, and shoot at a
target. I felt like Annie Oakley by the end of the day. On the feedback card
the hosts of the event wanted to know what classes I'd like to see offered
next year. I told them I'd like to learn how to properly prepare something
I've hunted and killed.
Kinda hard to believe I actually wear a dress and heels on Sunday, isn't it?
Why such an attraction to all of this? It can only be my desire for the
simple life. The 1800's in early America lacked the 21st century
"clutter". No TV, no computers, no text messaging, no shopping for
a million christmas presents at a crowded mall, no fancy cars to keep up.
Simple. Peaceful. And I want this as much for my kids as I do for myself.
Children used to be an integral part of a family's survival. They helped with
the farm or the family business. They got a sense of self-worth and
satisfaction from an honest day's work, and their contributions made them
valuable. They were learning to be self-sufficient, responsible members of
society. They had healthy pride in what their hands found to do. They knew
the value of a dollar and of the work it takes to make that dollar. Besides
all that, they were too tired by the end of the day to get into much trouble.
Fast forward to today. My kids can't get enough TV (read my earlier blog
about the week-long TV ban), would rather play than lift a finger to help me
around the house, and are narcissistic enough to believe that I am the one
responsible to make sure they have a sippy cup in the car for the drive to
church. They are lazy, by comparison. And so am I. I want to be more
productive and tougher than I am, and I want our family to have common tasks
and goals that unite us, like families of yesterday did.
Only problem is, can I really go back? I mean, I'd love to throw out my TV.
I've fantasized about it often, actually, before remembering that at the end
of the day I'd have some explaining to do! And when yet another microwave or
coffeemaker threatens to bite the dust, I recall the days when my mom used to
reheat soup on the stove, and my grandmother used a perking stovetop
coffeepot. Hey...I could do that! I don't need all these modern conveniences!
Well...perhaps I WILL keep my bread machine and dishwasher. No sense getting
crazy.
My dream would be for us to own a simple house on a few acres where my kids
will have the freedom to roam free outdoors building treehouses and fishing
in a stream, after they've collected the eggs (from my organically fed free
range chickens, of course!) and milked the goat (yes, I want a goat. Less
work than a cow, while still getting raw milk benefits) I want them to learn
how to trap and skin a rabbit if they want to, or learn how to use a knife to
whittle a whistle. I want the great outdoors to be their favorite toy.
4-H looms on the horizon for my oldest, and I can't wait to see what he
decides to try. We homeschoolers really are a strange breed. Actually, my
husband (NOT homeschooled) was raised this way. He even had his own sheep.
I'll have to post some of his hilarious stories another time. His mom still
lives on the three acres she and her husband bought years ago, where they
kept pigs and a rather large garden. Ryan and his siblings are all hard
workers to this day, and have a "pull yourself up by your
bootstraps" attitute.
Do I sound crazy? I'm sure I do. But there are families who do live like this.
I actually have an aquaintance who has recently chosen to live this
"unplugged" lifestyle with her family, and her kids are thriving.
So perhaps one day I'll live the dream. I've already told Ryan I'd like a few
acres out where we're allowed to keep a couple of farm animals. I just can't
picture myself in a cookie cutter development, even though I grew up in one.
We're semi-seriously looking for a new home, but who knows what God has in
store? He knows the desire of my heart, and if He is indeed the one who put
it there, He will bring it to pass. Until then I'm stuck doing laundry on my
own, while my kids are being entertained by some noisy toy somewhere. Now,
where's my washboard...?
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Merrily...Merrily...Merrily
I've come full circle in my life.
That's right, at 35 years old I've been sucked back into the world which is
Mister Rogers. I'm not sure how it happened. Perhaps it was my desire that my
kids have something slower paced, not that they watch any Sylvester Stallone
movies or anything. My oldest is pretty energetic and talkative, so I figured
a man on camera who sits a lot and only speaks about seven words a minute
might be a good influence.
I even went so far as to check his books out of the library, just to see if
some of his calm and peaceful mindset might rub off on me. After all, I AM
raising three young kids, and there are days when I'm pulling my hair out and
begging my husband to let me run away from home (or at least to the mall). It
didn't exactly work. Maybe it's a personality thing.
I guess the main reason why I like Mister Rogers is that he does his best to
help kids deal with some of the stresses and fears of life, like when there's
a fire, or your friend moves away, or you're afraid of going down the drain.
You heard me...he sings a song about never being able to go down the drain
when you're taking a bath. Oh to have such simple fears again!
I'm not so sure that Mister Rogers is rubbing off on my almost four-year-old
though, who, the other day, sang his own version of "Row, row, row your
boat," ending with the words, "merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
life is down the drain."
Kiddo, if I were a cynic I'd be inclined to agree with you!
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TV Withdrawal
TV ban day one. I think I'm going
to lose my mind......
That's right...no TV for an entire week. Not even for me and my husband.
Believe it or not, it was HIS idea. We were all getting addicted, especially
the kids. I knew it was getting bad when after three hours of watching Oobi
and Miffy, they demanded more...yes, cried and screamed...when I insisted the
TV go off. I had allowed my kids to become television junkies.
How did this happen? I certainly didn't watch much TV as a kid. Back in the
70's my sister and I had a couple of shows available to us in the morning or
early afternoon. At night, the only choices were the news or some sitcom that
was way over our heads. We played with toys, our parents read to us, then it
was off to bed. Pretty simple.
Nowadays kids can watch TV round the clock if they want to, thanks to cable
and all the "kid friendly" channels that come with it. I didn't
actually know that you could watch Thomas the Tank Engine at three o'clock in
the morning until I was up late one night with my five-year-old who had an
earache. I was flabbergasted. What child needs to be up at three in the
morning watching TV???!!!
Uh...mine apparently.
Well, what parent would turn TV on at three in the morning for their child.
Uh...me.
I realized in horror that not only were my kids TV junkies...I was the
PUSHER!!! I pushed TV on them when they pestered me while I tried to answer
email, talk on the phone, surf the web, or when I was just too mentally
exhausted to deal with them. It was so easy for me to push a button and give
them instant diversion so I could finish whatever I was doing or take a break.
Gee, now that I see this in writing, I look pretty bad, even to me. And yet
it's a trap we moms (and dads) fall into so easily.
Even now, as I am blogging, I am constantly being interrupted by my children.
Either there's a dispute over a toy, someone needs a drink or help in the
bathroom, or else they're just wandering through the house getting into who
knows what (probably my makeup again). Each time I pass the TV on the way
back to the office my mind screams "TURN IT ON! TURN IT ON!" I can
feel it calling me.
Perhaps it's just a matter of priorities for me. My kids are popping in and
out of the office asking me to sing a song or watch some new trick or answer
some nonsense question, and I'm getting perturbed. Why? Am I doing something
that much more important than attending to their needs and desire to be with
me? Shouldn't I be flattered that they want to be with me? I suppose that
some of the pitfalls of parenting are that we are selfish individuals. There,
I've said it. I'm a selfish mom. Any mom that hasn't struggled with this
please say so now. Yeah, I didn't think so!!!
Truth be told, I could sit in a corner of the couch with a hot cup of tea and
a good book and stay there all day. Or I could blog all day on the computer
or work on a craft for hours or call all my long-distance friends (thank
goodness for flat-rate calling plans). I have tried to do these things with
three kids running amok, but to no avail. I finally give in to their needs,
but am pretty cranky at the constant interruptions. Good grief, what did I
expect?! I'm a mom of three kids ages 5, 3, and 2. Life is going to be full
of interruptions, and those kids are to be my first priority. It's certainly
not the TV's job to babysit them.
Now, this doesn't mean I think I need to give my kids a dog and pony show all
day. Hardly! They need to learn how to play well by themselves and with each
other. I want my kids to be self-sufficient and creative, and also learn the
social skills of getting along with siblings (if you can learn to get along
with your siblings, you can get along with ANYBODY!!!) But I need to be
AVAILABLE to them when they need me. If I'm doing something that requires
them to wait, fine. They can learn to wait. But they need to know I am there
and that they are important to me.
Having said that, I'm signing off.
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To Eat, Perchance to Choke
With two active boys I have made
several trips to the emergency room. It's a wonder CYS hasn't come knocking
on my door, but even if they did, a few moments spent with my sons would
assure them that I am not to blame for their injuries.
Up until now my almost two-year-old daughter has managed to dodge the bullet.
Oh she's brave all right, and will attempt anything the boys do, but she also
possesses a little extra common sense that boys don't seem to have.
Unfortunately, I can't protect her from her brothers, as was proven on
Friday.
Grant was snacking on some unshelled sunflower seeds that morning. At one
point he spilled them all over the floor (when I was in another room of
course), and my daughter immediately snatched one up and popped it in her
mouth. By the time I got to her she was coughing and spitting out pieces of
seed and shell, but even after she spit it all out she kept crying and
coughing and gagging. I couldn't figure out what was wrong until I finally
got one of my sons' craft sticks and a flashlight and looked down there.
There it was-- a piece of shell sticking out from behind her left tonsil. I
couldn't get to it so I knew a visit to the doctor or emergency room was
imminent. Off we went to the pediatrician's, who after taking one look at the
offending object immediately chickened out on removing it and sent me to
Children's in Oakland.
The ear, nose and throat doc got it out without much trouble, then proceeded
to convince me she should have x-rays and a scope put down her airway (under
general anesthesia) to make sure there she didn't inhale any more pieces.
Before I could really think this through, I okayed the procedure, and she and
I waited the five long hours required for her stomach to empty completely
from breakfast.
Soooo....we waited and waited and waited, had x-rays, and waited some more.
Finally, around five o'clock that little girl had had enough (so had her
mother). Up to this point she had been poked and prodded and stuck with an IV
needle and starved. After wrestling with her to stay close to the wire
attached from her big toe to the pulse oximeter (not sure why she needed that
just yet), I finally came to my senses. My daughter was about to be put
under, a scope fished down her windpipe, then after a while she would wake
up, cranky and nauseated, and if we were lucky we'd be released at 9:00 p.m.
or so, assuming she ate something after the procedure and didn't need to be
kept overnight. All for the very slight possibility that there might be some
debris in her airway. Hmmm....sounds tempting, but....NO.
Check, please!
By the way, she's fine. Not a single cough or wheeze to show for her ordeal.
And my daughter has now joined the ranks of her brothers as Emergency Room
veteran. They are SO proud of her accomplishment.
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So Much For Ambiguous Body Part Names
It has always been a philosophy of
mine not to refer to certain body parts by their proper names during my kids'
bath or potty time. I know that most modern mothers and every parenting
magazine out there would decry this firmly held belief of mine, saying that
it confuses a child to have to be retaught the proper names in science class.
But the other day when my five-year-old son fell while playing in our
church's playground and cried loudly amongst a large crowd of parents and
children that he had hurt his wee-wee, I knew I had made the right decision.
Unfortunately, embarassment is a huge part of parenthood, and despite my
efforts to keep my children's lingo benign, I learned that some things are
simply out of my control.
I have been an avid bird-watcher for about a year now. It was my way of
finding something educational that my pre-kindergartener and I could share as
a hobby. It became addicting, and the addiction spread to my kids. My husband
reluctantly hopped on the "birdie bandwagon," voluntarily buying
huge bags of sunflower seeds and letting us drag him to our hometown's aviary,
which we did last Saturday. He even bought us all a year-long membership
(what a guy!)
Meandering through the halls of the aviary, my hubby and I and our three kids
(five and under) were enjoying the exotic species that crossed our path. One
corridor had large picture windows where passersby could watch larger species
of birds in their natural habitat. Our family stopped to admire a majestic
bald eagle up close. The kids were enthralled.
"BOOBIE!!!"
The sound echoed up and down the hall. I looked down in front of me to my
23-month-old daughter who was strapped in her stroller. To make sure we all
heard her, she pointed a stubby little finger to our nation's bird and said
it again. "BOOBIE!!!"
The few men who were there whipped their heads in our direction, only to find
a darling little girl with an obvious pronunciation problem. Sorry folks,
nothing to see here.
I made several attempts to correct my daughter during the rest of the visit,
but it didn't stick. Throughout the remainder of our tour she chanted her
version of "birdie" up and down the halls until we finally left. I
can obviously laugh about it in the solitude of my home as I write this, but
I fear that unless my little girl's pronunciation improves soon, that yearly
membership might just go to waste.
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