Shoe Idolatry

To say "Gracie loves shoes." would be a massive understatement--like saying "Minnesota has a lot of lakes."

Happy Mom

I LOVE MY KIDS!

I know. If you are a regular reader you are saying "Duh! That's almost all you talk about!" But I am discovering, or rediscovering a love for them that goes beyond the cute stories and the excitement of watching them grow and do wonderful things. I don't know that that could rightly be called Love in the first place as it is focused on my own pride and self-gratification through my children.

I'm talking about love that gives up (extremely) precious minutes of sleep at 2:30 am to comfort a little girl terrified of the train whistling across town.

Love that daily confesses her sin of anger or grumbling to her kids and asks them to forgive her.

Love that sets her book down 15 times in just two pages to listen--really listen--to the endless, rambling, nonsensical and crucially important thoughts of a 5 year old.

Love that cleans up the clutter that grows faster than dandelions on a Minnesota lawn--and does it with a song on her lips.

Love that reads the facial expression on her friend that says, "Your daughter is begging for a spanking!" but instead offers a gentle, private reprimand because she knows her daughter’s defiant response just now really sprang from a late bedtime the night before combined with a lack of maturity and self-control—not (this time) from a rebellious defiant heart.

Love that purposes to enjoy her daily tasks and responsibilities—not because cooking and cleaning and teaching are such a jolly good time, but because she really is thankful for the opportunity to share in her children’s lives, and because she doesn’t want them to ever feel as though they are a burden that is keeping her from something else she’d rather be doing.

Love that smiles and holds her tongue as a child persistently scrapes crumbs off the table into her hand with a fork, then shows her how to vacuum up the ones that didn't quite make it.

Love that finds ways to motivate her active children to sit quietly for 15 minutes a day—reading their Bibles because it is better for them than air and water.

Love that puts soft soap on her own tongue in front of her kids because she said a naughty word in front of them.

Love that expends the energy to solve yet another "I had it first!" argument by encouraging one or both of them to lovingly think of the other as better than herself and willingly give up the disputed object.

Love that notices the irritated looks of other people in the restaurant at the volume of her children, gently whispers to them to tone down, and refuses to roll her eyes or act in any way embarrassed or unnecessarily harsh toward her children just to prove to people that she’s "in control."

Love that notices not only every time a child disobeys, but takes special notice of their obedience--and affirms them for it.

Love that turns off the TV and helps her children to find something creative and interesting to do with their time.

Love that finds or makes ways for her children join her in serving others sacrificially—when it is hard, or unpleasant and there is something much more fun we’d rather be doing.

Love that sees a daughter who is having a terrible time controlling her body and emotions, gently and firmly removes her to a private place, and takes the time to pray with and teach her how to calm herself when she feels out of control--instead of just yelling at her to "Chill out!" or "Quit it--NOW."

Love that turns from unfinished dinner preparations to snuggle and tickle the tummy of a girl whose "love language" is physical touch.

Love that lets her daughter sit on precious kitchen counter space and "help" for hours a day because she loves to be with Mama.

Love that makes no apology for dirty bathroom and kitchen floor when company comes for dinner because she used excessive amounts of time during the day to talk and pray with her girls about attitudes and how to make guests feel welocme in our home--no matter what.

Love that sees the critical looks and hears the "unspoken" expectations of others regarding "a good mother" and vows never to burden her children with the pressure of trying to behave just right—just so others will think she’s a good mom.

This is the kind of love I am talking about. It is not a formula or a procedure. It is born of God—hour by hour, (or minute by minute) through the work of the Holy Spirit in my life. By the graciousness of God, it sets me free from the heavy and darkly oppressive rules, formulas, expectations and fears that sometimes hang very low over my head. It is courageous, and terrifying, potent and gutsy, and I am so thankful to God for leading me along this road—trod by so many others and paved by Jesus Christ himself. May God grant me and you the courage and faith to persevere and not faint as we walk this road with our children each day.

A Sign of the Times?

Oooh! Should I call a doctor?

Am I soon to be the proud (?) grandmother of an alien-esque lavender pony from outer space?

Or just the amused Mama of a suburban princess cowgirl?

Ride 'em Hannah! Hold on tight!

[Whatever happened to broom handle ponies? I guess this is the new millenium.]

Oh ME of Little Faith

A few months ago, during our only snowfall this year that stuck around long enough to let us pile, throw and eat it, we made a terrible discovery. Grace had outgrown her mittens, and had nothing to protect her little hands while she piled, threw and ate the new snow!

So, I left her to snuggle on the warm couch with Daddy while I walked to Wal-Mart with Hannah for mittens. However, before I could get out the door, she specially requested that I get "sparkly mittens." Now I have never found much of anything in stock at Wal-Mart right after the holidays, and had certainly never seen sparkly mittens there at any time. I told her not to get her hopes up. I would just do the best I could.

As I moved towards the door, Daddy piped up and suggested we pray and ask God for sparkly mittens. I rolled my mom eyes (the ones on the back of my head--so my family couldn't see them) and stepped back into the room to pray. Not wanting to her to be disappointed, I said, "How about if we just pray that they have mittens." Jack just gave me "the look," and prayed.

As Hannah and I trudged to the back of the store where the racks of children's hats and mittens were, I was much relieved to see that they were stuffed to overflowing with hats and mittens of all kinds. Surely I could find something she would like in her size and my price range. But as we got closer, a little sparkle caught my eye from the very middle of that warm wooly chaos.

I could hardly believe it when I pulled out the only two pairs of sparkly mittens from the whole aisle of winter accessories! One for each of my sweet girls!

I was more than a little sheepish on returning home bearing gifts. . .sparkly mittens for her hands, and a deeper love for the God who cares-- even about the silly childish pleasures of my little girls.

Cranial Peace

This took place a while ago, but I think of it often as it is sort of my "nutshell" picture of what I cherish so much about my Gracie.

You see I have this hair problem. There are these strong-willed tufts of hair on each side of my head that occasionally tire of blending in and following the crowd. Seized with rebellion and resisting all natural and chemical efforts to control them, they sometimes rise up in a coup and demand to be noticed. On such days I have two options. Three actually, but since I look rather silly in hats, I am left to wear little barrettes just over my ears like my girls, or go about my day resembling a great-horned owl.
During one such recent uprising, I spent no small amount of time trying every trick I knew to appease those willful little tufts into submission for a trip to Costco. Just when I thought I had finally achieved a temporary peace with my hair, Grace came up to me with a look of wonder and admiration on her little face.

"Oh, Mama!" She exclaimed with all of her dramatic sincerity, "That's pretty! You look like a butterfly!"

Not really the look I was going for. And yet. . . I made a different kind of peace with my hair that day. Because no matter how bad I think my hair day is, my daughter thinks I'm pretty!