Piper, pipe that song again...

I was seriously wondering whether I should have dubbed my 1 1/2-year-old "Piper" for this blog.  It seemed like it fit at the time I was thinking of names, wanting to go with a bird theme for reasons best known to myself. ;)  "Rosefinch" was easy to shorten into a perfectly human sounding name, and "Sandpiper" would actually be a kind of hip name if only I was actually a hip person.

In case you hadn't picked up on it, I'm not hip.  I am a little bit crunchy, which is hip, but that's not why I'm crunchy.  I'm crunchy because I'm a paranoid OCD control-freak.

Just being honest here, folks.

But back to Sandpiper.  It fit because she has sandy-colored hair, yes, but primarily because she, um, pipes quite well.  She pipes particularly well when it is supposed to be bedtime, and she can scream pipe for a surprisingly long time with no apparent intention of stopping, until she suddenly gets tired of it and turns it off like someone just flipped a switch.  It's really unnerving - she just about has me convinced that she is completely inconsolable and then it's quiet.  I usually think she's dropped dead and lay one hand on her back and frantically wave my other hand around in front of her nose to see if I can feel her exhaling.  Of course this usually rubs her the wrong way and she starts "piping" again.

"Piping" is a very nice term for what actually sounds much more like a banshee.  Actually, no, that doesn't even quite nail it.  She sounds like this (and please turn your speakers down lower before you click on the link):

Click if you dare...

Not even kidding.  It's hair-raising.  And it sounds much more humorous than it actually is.  See how you feel after you've been listening to a ring wraith scream for two hours.  It seems to upset us more than it does her.  She sounds like she must be dying of some severe, unseen affliction. Ring wraith one minute, peacefully-sleeping angel the next.  It's uncanny.

Well, this all vanished about the time I dubbed her "Piper" and started blogging.  It was wonderful.  She would just go to sleep fairly calmly and not, you know, shriek.  She would sometimes object, but it was more of the normal kind of objection you might expect from a toddler who isn't ready to go to bed yet.  Not hair-raising, blood-curdling shrieking.  I was relieved.  And somehow "Piper" didn't seem like it fit her anymore.  I kept finding myself wanting to call her "Skylar" for some reason whenever I started to write "Piper."  I know, I'm weird.  I am a name nerd or something.  But nerdiness aside, "Piper" just didn't fit her anymore.

Until last night.

Last night, the ring wraith came back.  With a vengeance.

She could turn it on or off at will, whenever she pleased.  We stayed up with her trying to get her to go to sleep until she finally calmed down and laid there talking quite cheerfully to herself for 30 minutes.  Then, finally, (with breaks here and there for hugs and cuddles that she didn't seem terribly interested in - she just wanted to be put in the floor to play) after being in the bed for 2 1/2 hours - she fell asleep.  And slept through the entire night.  But wow.  Just...WOW.  I, of the soft voice, always being told to speak up because no one can hear me - I just can't fathom how somebody so small can pack so much lung power.

Future soloist on our hands?

I think it is possible.

Yes, I could totally see her doing that someday.

But today, you would never know that last night was anything out of the ordinary.  Piper is playing quite happily with Rosie and seems bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even though she only got 8 hours of sleep as opposed to her usual 12.  We may have an early naptime today.

Then again...probably not.

So I think I'll just call her "Piper" and leave it at that.  We have quite a vivacious, strong-willed personality on our hands, methinks.  And for the purposes of my blog, "Piper" suits her just fine.

Where I've been, Wheat Belly, and Whatever

I know that, as frequently happens, there have been rumors circulating that I must have dropped off the face of the earth again.  I say "again" because it happens regularly in my blogging life.  I am on, blogging almost daily, and then suddenly I disappear for weeks with no explanation or apology.  The fact is - are you ready for this?

I'm not very organized.

There, I said it.  Bet you would never have guessed that, right?  It's not like it's obvious or anything.

I won't bother with all of my reasons - it's been a very busy few (more like lots of) weeks since I last posted and I am ready to make a go of it again.

And there I go talking like Kipper and his friends again.  For the uninitiated, this is an adorable British animated show that my children love to watch.  Talking animals with delightful accents who say things like, "Let me have a go," and "Brilliant!" and "Ohhhh, NOOOOO!  The sun's gone in."

In other news, we are currently embarking upon a culinary adventure.  I hope to share some of it with you here, perhaps even including recipes.  I don't dare make any promises, but I do intend to try.

I think it is also showing that I have been reading "The Chronicles of Narnia."  My writing has gotten all British-ified.  You can always tell what I'm currently reading by the way that I write.  I'm doing it all with a British accent at present.  (See?  "At present."  "I don't dare."  "I do intend to try."  Lovely, but not exactly American, right?)

But I digress.  My husband and I have decided to try going completely wheat-free, and since we already know that Piper is sensitive to wheat, Rosie is along for the ride.  She doesn't seem to be missing wheat at all, though - and she's actually starting to eat some veggies.  And likes them.  YES!

Manly read most of "Wheat Belly" by Dr. William Davis.  And yes, it is all the rage which makes it immediately suspect to my cynical little mind (which is in so much denial on the subject that I misspelled "cynical" twice just now).  However it does contain some very compelling arguments against wheat, which has apparently been bred and bred to produce the "perfect" variety of wheat - to the point that it has virtually been turned into a mutant grain.  It's all complicated and I won't try to explain it here.  Just know that after he read it, told me about it, and I read some of it for myself - we're pretty convinced that we should stay far away from wheat.  I would love to write more about this, but I don't really have the time because it would take a lot of referencing and such - I am no expert.  I would recommend that you read the book for yourselves, if you are curious.  (And no, no one is paying me to say that.  I don't think it's a miracle book, but it does seem to be very well-researched.  My data-loving mind appreciates this.)

So, explanations aside, we are a week into our wheat-free journey.  So far, so good.  We're actually really enjoying the food - we're not really missing the wheat that much!

And this concludes my greatly-abbreviated summary of what I've been up to since my last disappearance.  I take heart that I do have two blog posts written up and nearly ready to post - I just need to run them by my Proof-Reader a.k.a. World's Greatest Editor a.k.a. my husband.  :)

Imperfection

Today a new week starts and company is coming in just a few short hours and the house looks like a tornado passed through over the weekend.

One of life's great mysteries - how the house can be so trashed as a result of no one being here for a couple of days?  We were running errands - in and out, in and out - all weekend long.  Good busy - but very, very busy.  And I feel the stress creeping up my spine as I survey the mess around and race madly trying to get abreast of it so that I can find a place of quiet this morning before the little ones get up.

But I want to pause and think for a moment about what my job really is.  It is good to get on top of the mess - to create a restful haven rather than a place of chaos.  But if I find that cleaning the mess is causing me to dread my own children's waking - perhaps I am placing too much importance on the mess?

Perhaps if I step back and breathe - slow - and remind myself that I am their soul-nurturer and guide today.  Is it a better witness to walk slow by their sides and love them or to toss them into highchairs, give them breakfast, and go back to racing around getting the physical house in order while leaving spiritual houses in disarray?  We have had a busy weekend.  They would benefit from some time with Mommy just to sit still and be quiet and to talk (or at least hear me talk) about things of importance.  Just to cultivate relationships there.

Because their little souls will be forever and this house will bend and break and in the far reaches of eternity no one will remember or care whether the kitchen table was spotless for company on this day, April the 16th of 2012.  But somewhere ahead in that eternity, the work I do on these little souls will be going on and on.

These are precious jewels for me to hone, by God's grace and mercy.  Imperfect and in-need-of-honing as I am myself.  Still I must polish and attend to the things that need to be taught and gently lead these precious ones on this path of grace, pointing them towards Christ.  Yes, the cleaning is important.  But I needed to sit down and write it out this morning to remind myself that I must have my children's needs in the forefront of my mind, as my first priority.  If my cleaning spree is interrupted by a little voice calling, "Mommy!" it is not an interruption.  It is the real beginning of my work today.

And this work is beautiful indeed.

Little one, pointing at the birdies outside - may I point you to Christ today.

-----------------------------

Gifts to dwell on today:

- Out-of-town friends coming to visit

- Our new minivan (part of why our weekend was so busy - picking it up and surprising our families with it!) and the new space it provides - so thankful to have this!

- Little ones breathing soft and sweet and slow in sleepiness.

- Whirring dryer, swishing washing machine, humming dishwasher.  The sounds of domestic busyness.

- Leftover pizza for breakfast.  It feels freeing after frantically dieting all last week - just to relax a bit and say..."It's okay to enjoy these good things in moderation...it's okay."  And it is.  But that's a different post.

Today In The Handprints Household

We've had some interesting comments from Rosie today, all trending slightly towards the gross side.  I mean, it happens when you're a parent.  Those little details you never thought about when daydreaming about parenthood.  Yep.  You hear things you never...really...thought of...hearing.  I'll give you the three best samples from the day:

1.  Rosie, this morning at breakfast:  "I want prunes.  I wanna poop."

And I had no idea that she was so well educated in prunes', uh, usefulness.

2.  Rosie, when getting up from her nap:  "Help, Mommy!  I got boogers on my watch!"

And yes, she did, and no, it wasn't pretty.  I won't give any more details.  It was not my favorite clean-up job of all time, I can tell you that.  Wait.  Do I have a favorite clean-up job of all time???  I'll have to get back to you on that one.

3.  Rosie, while I was, um, cleaning up her watch:  "Look, Mommy!  I got hairs in my foot!"

What I thought I heard at first was, "Look, Mommy!  I got hairy foot!" which would have been even more interesting.  I think this was her way of suggesting that perhaps my next cleaning job should be vacuuming the carpets. I'll take it under advisement, kiddo.  ;)

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*Edit: Moments after originally posting this, Piper apparently decided to get in on the action, too.  So she came up to me and pulled a big wad of hairs out of her mouth and graciously handed it to me.  I don't even know where I am anymore, I'm so confused.  I just vacuumed in here!!  ;)

Always keep your face turned up...

Always reaching for the Son.

Beauty Hunting

Today, my friends, may you look with eyes wide open...

Looking for beauty like precious gold...

Knowing that it is everywhere,

For the Creation is good...

From the hand of a good God Who lovingly crafted it,

And Who always does all things well.

May you have a blessed day, friends.

Plans Made and Plans Broken

Last night, after a long day of running noses and whimpers, I paused to scribble in a bedside notebook: “May I see You in the snotty noses and hear You in the cries.”

It didn't sound quite as poetic as I had wanted it to, but I was too tired and feeling too honest to come up with a way to poeticize snotty noses. No, “poeticize” is not a word, as my spell-check is reminding me. But it should be. So for today – I declare it one.

But I liked the thought. I prayed over it and fell asleep with bright hopes for the day ahead.

And all too quickly, the day started. And before I had even managed to start breakfast it had become clear that none of my expectations for the day were going to pan out. Not that any of the expectations were really that important. But they had seemed that way to me.

I pouted my way through the whole morning, praying often for help in overcoming the bad attitude that I just couldn't shake, and apologizing to the girls for it. They forgave me. Well, Rosie did. Piper was blissfully unaware, except perhaps for when she caught me sniffling over the spinach smoothies. She looked at me very strangely then.

It's just not a great situation when the babies are walking around happy and Mommy is the one sniffling in the corner. It's just not.

I struggled with how to approach the day until a few minutes ago, after putting the girls down for naps and coming into the kitchen to start making dinner for the next couple of days. My gratitude journal was sitting on the kitchen island, pen ready to write down gifts.

I knew that I was feeling self-pity and I further knew that it was completely ridiculous. Perhaps the best way to shake the childishness would be to engage in some childlike thanks?

So I picked up the pen and began to write and immediately saw that John Piper was right when he said, “There are eyes in pencils and pens.”

175. “Broken expectations that shatter the cloudy glass of self-sufficiency and make me cling to Christ.”

That was my answer for the day. It wasn't living up to my expectations. Jesus, make it beautiful unto Your Name. It doesn't matter if it's beautiful in my eyes. Make it beautiful in Yours. And help me to trust You as You guide this day, and may I honor You no matter what direction it takes.

And then I saw the brownie sitting wrapped in cellophane, pinched off just a bite (okay, two) and wrote:

176. Chocolate.

And then I couldn't stop.

177. Washing machine hum.

178. Sun sifting through glorious spring green

179. Menus already planned for the week.

180. Anticipation of getting together with friends this weekend.

181. Louis Giglio on “How Great Is Our God.”

May the Great God who stretched the stars in space and formed you cell by cell in your mother's womb, Who promises to hold His children in His hand and never let us go – may He reveal Himself to you today, whether it be through the glory of nature or scrubbing the floors or through the voices of little children. And may He draw us all nearer to Himself through plans made and plans broken, for in it all, His plans are never thwarted.

Joy Unknown

Today is Resurrection Sunday and we are staying home from celebrating with the saints because the babies are sick – runny noses, little coughs, sleepy eyes. We rise and have breakfast and soon they are all worn out again, and down for naps they go – and I sit at the table with my husband and my trusty iPad, and read Scriptures and listen to hymns and read blog posts pertaining to our resurrected Savior.

And as one song in particular moves me, it strikes me that even when my inside shouts with joy, my exterior stays rigid. I am the control freak – the perfectionist – the one so concerned about how I appear to others. And to me it had always seemed strange to raise the hands during a song or to stand up to praise or to sway or to dance, no matter how calmly and with self-control it might be done. I sing a song and recognize that the words are doctrinally sound and I say “Amen” and I do not allow myself to be moved. I am firm, immoveable, and no sound of music can sway me from my rigidity.

And for the first time, I have been questioning myself about it, and today brings the questions that have been swirling back to the forefront. Why am I so staid when singing about Christ's resurrection? Why do I sit still in my chair, face barely cracking a smile, and uttering no more than a deeply cultured and profoundly civilized, “Amen?”

What if my children were awake at this moment and watching me? Would my calmness make the love of Christ look like a thing to be sought after and longed for, His Person one to be hotly pursued and passionately loved? Would the resurrection seem miraculous or immaterial? Celebratory or cerebral?

Will it seem real to them, as they see me laugh aloud when watching an old TV show but sit silent and unmoved during the songs of our faith? Is it possible that I have taken the verse, “Let all things be done decently and in order” a little farther than it was intended to go?

What if I have focused so much on doctrine – important as it is – that I have forgotten that doctrine must have feet and hands and breath to fully function? What if I brought myself down from my high place of thinking and knowledge and acknowledged that the doctrine which is known should lead inevitably to joy unknown?

And joy unknown can lead to joy unbridled.

Didn't David dance for joy? Am I more spiritual than he? Am I superior – more mature, more civilized, more...proper?

Perhaps I should be careful lest my propriety makes the Gospel look dead to my children. And perhaps if so-called “impropriety” be the food of joy to make my children hungry, perhaps I should add a little more of it to my life.

I don't mean impropriety in the sense of sin, of course. I mean letting go of my own ideas of what is “proper” and instead turning to child-like faith. If a child receives a gift, does she placidly say, “Thank you, because you are good and you give good gifts and I am thankful,” or does she shout and dance and throw back her head and laugh - arms spread wide to unbridled joy?

What if my children learned to grow mature by seeing a mother unafraid to act childlike for her Father? Will they learn true doctrine if I teach them only true words and live cold and closed to joy? Or will they learn it better if I not only teach it with words, but show by my every action and my readiness to rejoice in Christ that it is real and it has changed me and it is power and life and light and bread and living water?

Will they be better taught by a mama who sits with hands folded quiet in the lap and listens to a hymn and says, “That is lovely,” - by a mama who walks outside into the wild beauty of nature with its devastating color and crushing weight of glory from the Glory-Giver and merely sighs and says, “Isn't God's Creation good?”

Not that this would be bad. But would it be an improvement if that mama, instead, listened to a hymn and when the soul rose in praise and speechless wonder – if she let go of staid propriety, raised her hands, let the tears fall, or laughed, or danced, face turned up to Jesus and basking in the wonder of His grace? Or if, instead, when faced with His glorious Creation, she dared to raise the hands, perhaps to spin in the grass, to use both verbage and body language to show that she loves passionately and gives glory to the Creator for the good things He has given?

I think of these things and I believe that it is time for change. I imagine that it will feel awkward to me at first, but even children must learn to laugh. A baby's first chuckles sound distorted and choked and mangled, but they are precious to her parents' ears. A child's first dance is uncoordinated and often ends in a fall to the ground amidst tangled curls and giggles. But it is beautiful to her daddy and mommy.

Perhaps a little raising of the hands, a little head-thrown-back-for-joy laughter, a little dancing, a little shouting for delight, a little more exuberant wonder...

I am ready. Lord, make me ready. Help me to show a vibrant and real and exuberant faith and joy to our children. Not forced, not foolish – but full of joy unknown.

Growing Pains

We've reached the wee hours of the morning and still we are up, Manly and I – he working on taxes and I keeping him company, huddled close to an outlet holding my charging iPad, reading “One Thousand Gifts.” It is my second time through it, but it has been a year since I read it and I have forgotten much.

I am realizing that I have been living like a Martha yet again. Busy, busy, busy – much too busy to take time to stop and sit at the feet of Jesus. All week long I scurried to get ready for the weekend and Friday night came and the children came down with colds and all night long was a duet of alternating wails – first one, then the other. I didn't get to sleep until 4:30 and then it was time to get up again at 9:00. And I was grumpy. I had a pleasant interlude when I managed to pull off a pan of perfect scrambled eggs and they didn't even stick to my stainless Belgique. But I was still grumpy. And it showed more and more until I melted into tears when Piper's nap ended all too quickly and I realized I wasn't going to get to nap while she did. My sweet husband commanded me to go to sleep and he would take care of her. 

It was not a glorious night of parenthood, Friday night. Those nights happen.

I do not subscribe to the view that parenting is mostly chronos moments interspersed with rare moments of kairos. But neither do I think that it is only pure ecstasy. There are moments...sometimes even hours...that you wonder if you are going to survive. Last night I wondered, as I dragged myself back to re-insert a pacifier for Piper or peeked in to make sure that Rosie was only wailing in feverish sleep and not in real trouble of some kind, my head splitting with yawning and my eyes struggling to focus from sheer exhaustion.

I felt dry, depleted, and uncertain that I could possibly give any more of myself.

And then I realized, much later than I should have, that I should pray for a better attitude. So I did. And it came to me, groggily, that tonight was Good Friday. That just the night before this, 2000 years ago, Christ had asked His disciples, “Can you not watch with me one hour?” I had just read the passage earlier that day, as I sat in an Indian restaurant waiting for take-out. “Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation.”

It didn't really sink in last night. But I felt convicted enough by the thought that Christ had been up all night alone, deserted by sleeping disciples, praying fervently, sweating blood – and then, without sleep, dragged away to be crucified – and He never once complained about it.

And here I was, up all night because I was watching over two sniffly but otherwise healthy, living children, and wailing about my hard, hard life.

I was silenced for the time.

But today I forgot again, when I still felt groggy and bleary-eyed and aching with exhaustion, and naptime wasn't going well. I forgot. I was grouchy. I was unthankful. All I wanted was sleep. It is important stuff, sleep. But I wanted it so desperately that I forgot Who I should be wanting even more.

Reading “One Thousand Gifts” tonight, I highlighted frantically as every line in Chapter 6 seemed to be aimed right at me. And I was struck by the line, “Looking is the evidence of believing.”

And I paused and wondered when I had last looked for things to give thanks for. Why had I not stopped in the chaos of last night and given thanks for it? Christ was giving thanks in the Garden of Gethsemane. Could I not have given thanks in the sleeplessness of sniffly little noses and feverish little brows?

I looked across the room and noted my gratitude journal, buried under a pile of papers. Sure evidence that I had not been looking.

No, I had spent all week forgetting to look. I did not stand with eyes wide open and weigh down each moment with me all here, and I did not remember to look for God in everything. My days revolved around whipping the house into shape – running, running, running, working, working, working, and I was very productive from Martha Stewart's perspective but I had not done so well from the perspective of Mary of Bethany. I had not paused to look for Christ all week. And if I am not looking for Him, should I wonder when my little ones do not look for Him? When I spoke of His death and resurrection to Rosie, she looked at me a bit blankly and wanted to talk about Kipper the dog instead.

If she does not see me living and breathing a relationship with Him, looking at everything as from His hand and looking, looking, constantly looking for Christ in everything – how is she to learn to want Him, either?

I know that I must want Him more. I must stop starving my soul by obsessing about weight loss to the detriment of spiritual weight gain. I must stop revolving my day around my physical workout if it is to the detriment of my own spiritual muscles. I must step back from frantically organizing my house if it means my soul is falling into shambles, and I must walk away from passionate cleaning if my heart is left gathering cobwebs.

I don't want my children to remember a house that was spotless and a kitchen that never had a dirty dish in it for more than 1.2 seconds or floors that shone if that means they will remember a mother who was spotted dirty with impatience and selfishness and irritability.

Perhaps instead of viewing my children as inconveniences to be managed I need to remember that they are souls given to me – me, unworthy – to water and nurture and grow. And a soul can starve while being fed gourmet, gluten-free dinners and living in a perfectly-organized, spotless house – and a soul can be well fed in a home where Mommy leaves the dishes in the sink to stop and point out the window at a bird to tell children of the Creator, or in a home where cobwebs hang from ceiling fans but Mommy is hard at work sweeping cobwebs out of hearts with prayer and thanksgiving and this wild, relentless hunt for Christ's joy.

Of course, so much better to have a clean house and a clean heart. But I speak of my own obsession with one to the neglect of the other. I spent the week frantically preparing the house for the weekend, and working out and eating the correct number of points for the day, and then with the weekend came A Test and I discovered that I had been exercising the wrong muscles all week long and the weight of that Test was crushing me.  I was not ready for the weekend, after all.

That night was not pleasant. Sleeplessness is not a blessing in itself. And yet...what if, instead, I had been “all eye,” as Ann Voskamp said in the chapter I read tonight, like the cherubim who have eyes on their heads, hands, feet, and wings? If, instead of looking selfishly at the inconvenience of it all, I had looked for the place of learning? If I had paused and looked for God in the sleeplessness? But I did not look. My eyes were closed and I lived last night in a spotless house with unbelief in my heart. I had prepared materially for the weekend and left my soul starved, and when the weekend came, I was not ready.

Oh, my husband read Scripture to me all week long. I listened. But as soon as it was over I jumped into my to-do list and the busyness quickly drowned out any still, small voice that might have been speaking to me in the small moments, preparing me for the Test that was coming on Friday night.

If I could only learn that those stretching moments – those times when it hurts and you just want the pain to stop so that you can get back to enjoying yourself – if only I could learn to view them like I view my workouts. When they hurt – when the muscles burn – that's when they are growing. Fat burns off when the muscles scream for relief. And I don't exercise to the point of comfort – I exercise to the point of break down. When I can't do one more press, then I go ahead and do one more and I feel victorious, because I know that I am affecting change in my body.

So, too, when life hurts, isn't the great Refiner of my heart turning up the heat to burn off the dross? Is He not, in an infinitely greater sense, my great Guide and Trainer who ramps up the spiritual exercise in order to help me grow? He pushes me to the point of break down so that my spiritual strength will increase. And my spiritual strength will only increase if He increases in my life. Why don't I feel victorious when faced with spiritual exercise? Probably because I don't push through in His strength. I holler “uncle” and wail that it's not fair and that I deserve some sleep and what are You thinking not letting me get any sleep and how am I supposed to be a Proverbs 31 woman after having a night like this?

I stop mid-exercise and refuse to press on. I refuse to cling to my Help and instead revel in my bad attitude which, at the moment, I always feel that I am completely entitled to having. My living Martha-like all week long left me weak and unprepared where I needed it most. The floors were clean, but my soul was dirty with the slime of self and the grit of ingratitude.

This week, instead of focusing so much on the external, may I put my focus first and foremost on spiritual house-keeping – tending my own soul well so that I may better tend the souls of my children. May I run first to His Word when my attitude slips, rather than pushing more to get more things done – my constant busyness drowning out His voice. May my children see in me a woman who, rather than being desperately in pursuit of a perfectly-groomed home, is desperately in pursuit of God. And if the house gets a little grimy in the process, may it be because our souls are filled with God's Word and sparkling with the joy of Christ.

Piper cries out and I hasten back to her room – and rather than put in the pacifier and race back out again, I put in the pacifier and pause to look, calling this place holy ground and declaring it to be all joy. I stroke her head and arrange the blankets around her chin and watch as her back rises and falls quiet and the pacifier moves in gentle rhythm – her eyelashes falling against her cheeks and little button nose all baby-soft. And she is beautiful.

On Serving Unseen

The following quote applies to many people, but it touched me as a stay-at-home mom...where so much of what you do goes unseen by the world, and not only goes unapplauded, but is usually derided.  Stay faithful, mommies.  It is a noble calling that we pursue.  Let us pursue it heartily.

"I do confess to wondering this –
if the call isn’t so much about carrying your Cross across a lit stage
but down the Via Dolorosa
and if the truth of it is
that the word altar comes from the Latin ‘altus’ meaning high —
because the realest altars burn
where only Heaven sees."


- Ann Voskamp

The Exercise Conundrum

Here I sit, embodying the conundrum that many mommies struggle with these days: why is it that I do my workout and reward myself by sitting down on Pinterest and pinning dozens of fat-laden, carb-infested meals? They look so amazing that they make me hungry. I want to eat some s'more pie right now. Or one of those 25 Best-Ever-Chocolate-Chip-Cookie recipes that I have now accumulated. All different, by the way. Or even that taco pasta I just found. Something. Anything that is loaded with white flour, and from there it must contain cheese if it's savory, or chocolate if it's sweet. Oh, and butter all around.

And then I bend over to scratch my ankle and my stomach gets in the way. So I sigh deeply and go and eat a cheesestick.

That or I guzzle water and try pinning a few things on my weight-loss inspiration board.

I actually don't have one of those. I just hide them in the one where I put all of the quotes I like. I like to pretend that I'm not actually trying to lose weight that way, even though one of my boards is called something like “Weight Watchers Friendly.”

I'm not sure how a foodie is supposed to lose weight. I'm really not reconciled to the prospect of going through my entire life eating Lean Cuisine while cooking gourmet meals for the rest of my family. I mean, remember what happened in “Last Holiday?” (*See note at bottom*)  But Queen Latifah showed us what can happen if you eat Lean Cuisines. You might live a boring life until you find out you're dying. At which time you will finally bust out of your shell and travel to Croatia and eat every item on the menu and go dam-diving and ski and otherwise live it up. I love that movie. So inspiring. I really do love it.  

In fact, it inspired me so much that I promptly went out and bought a bunch of Lean Cuisines as soon as I finished watching it.

Wait. Did I miss the point of the whole movie? I guess I'll just have to watch it again.

Oh, and just in the interest of keeping it real: that workout I mentioned? It was Jillian Michael's 30-Day-Shred. I'm on day 2. It only takes 20 minutes. It's tough, but it is much more do-able to me than the last workout I tried. Which was an excellent workout, by the way: ChaLean Extreme from Beachbody. It's amazing and I learned a lot from doing it, and I will probably try it again someday. Chalene is an incredible trainer. I've seen people get jaw-dropping results from the program. My problems with it were two-fold. 1. I got stronger, but didn't lose any fat whatsoever until I got the flu and had to STOP doing the workout, and 2. Because it took 45 minutes to complete each day. Maybe 35 on the shorter days. That's enough time to clean the whole kitchen or vacuum the whole house or fold a couple of loads of laundry. Or just spend some incredible quality time cuddling and reading to and playing with my precious little girls. Some people can fit all of the above in, including the 45-minute workout. For me, things were sliding that were really too important to be sliding.

So I'm re-evaluating the way I approach exercise. I'm questioning the way our whole society approaches it. I like to question things. I like to ask “why?” And I have a lot of questions. I'm trying some different methods for exercise and for achieving my weight-loss goals. I can't report success yet, because I have only just started. But I'm hoping that if I write about it, I will stay inspired to keep it up. And maybe some of you will gain some benefit from reading about my attempts to make exercise – not just a 45-minute slot of my day – but to fit it in all day, every day.

Trust me, it's better than it sounds. Stay tuned.

*"Last Holiday" is an excellent movie if you watch it with a filter (e.g. Clearplay) - it has some language and apparently a couple of unnecessary scenes.  I'm not sure what kinds of unnecessary scenes, because I watched it with the filter and I only know that it skipped a couple of scenes.

Tan Bellies

And no, the title is nothing like what you're thinking.  Just keep reading and all will become clear shortly.  ;)

This morning, Rosie watched closely as I sat down to eat my Lean Cuisine breakfast. She was very concerned. Not because I was evidencing such a complete lack of culinary discernment, I fear, but because my plate contained green beans littered with almonds and...ladybugs.

She was sure they were ladybugs. And Rosie adores ladybugs. There they were, plump and red, all over Mommy's plate, and she watched in alarm as Mommy raised the fork to her mouth, two helpless ladybugs perched on top, hastening towards certain doom.

“Mommy?” she said softly, but with a distinctly alarmed edge to her voice. “You...eat...ladybugs???”

I stopped with my fork in mid-air. For a moment it was my turn to be alarmed as I checked to make sure I wasn't about to consume some undesirably-packaged extra protein. But no, there were no ladybugs in sight. Only turkey, green beans, almonds...and cranberries.

The poor child saw the round, red cranberries and was convinced that I was a ladybug-killer. I set her mind at ease immediately, and she sighed with relief. “Oooooh,” she said. “TAN-bellies.”

Yes. Tan-bellies, cranberries – it's all much better than eating ladybugs.

.morning snapshots.

- When Rosie, my 2-year-old, wants to read "Guess How Much I Love You," she does not even try to say the title.  She tries to ask to read "Nutbrown Hare."  But it comes out like this: "Mommy, wead Bwown Haven?"  I love it.  Brown Haven.

- Rosie is the type to wake up as the little butterfly that she is, and immediately start socializing.  My 1-year-old, Piper, on the other hand...well.  She wakes up and, after her initial ear-piercing shrieks to let us know she's ready to be retrieved from her room...she goes silent.  Until after she's had several cups of juice and breakfast.  She will smile and be happy to see us...but only Daddy rates any squeals before breakfast.  The only word she will say before breakfast is "Uh-oh," and this is only employed if she drops her baby doll or her pacifier.  No words, no games, no giggles - until after breakfast.  A girl's gotta have some priorities.

- Note: Rosie and Piper are not their real names.  I've changed them for privacy's sake.  But I liked the idea of doing bird names for our kiddos on the blog, so Rosie and Piper are short for "Rosefinch" and "Sandpiper."  And they really fit the personalities surprisingly well.  ;)

In Which I Am Disorganized, Shop, Stress, and Laugh

So the sun came out and it's not a cloudy day after all. It's actually warm and glorious and spring came back again. I'm sure that's why the birds were singing so much – they knew winter was faking us out. Again.

It's actually been a rather disappointing winter, in that it's been entirely too warm even to light a fire on the long winter's nights. But the days are getting longer now and the weather is only getting warmer, so I'm giving up on winter and going ahead and getting in the spirit of springtime.

Of course, we could still have a blizzard in March. It wouldn't really be surprising, and definitely not unheard of. You just never know around here.

But as for my list of things-to-do. Well. We went shopping. And that is all we've done so far. The kitchen is a mess, and the kitchen table is absolutely covered with...stuff. I don't know where Stuff comes from, but it is always showing back up just when I think I'd conquered it. I have trouble believing the sheer amount of Stuff that ends up piled on the table.

All of you organized people out there...my hat is off to you. Except that I never wear hats. But really...I admire you. Immensely. When I get hit with Stuff, I can never seem to figure out what to do with it in just seconds, because there isn't a really satisfactory Place to put most of it. So I put it in piles that are as neat as possible. Because, really, if I file away coupons for free dishes at restaurants, I will never remember that I have them. Of course, when they get buried under new magazines, catalogs, and ads for Events that I want to Remember...well...they kind of get forgotten anyway. Until three weeks later when I get sick of the piles and go on a cleaning frenzy and discover – oh, yeah – I could have gotten two free dishes at the new Mexican restaurant. Too bad they expired yesterday.

That's life as a disorganized person who desperately wants to be organized, because I'm not good at being disorganized. It doesn't seem to inconvenience some people. It really flummoxes me. But my brain is surprisingly not wired when it comes to simple concepts like: where is the best place to put this flier about the new nature center that I want to remember to go visit soon, and what to do with journals that I'm wanting to remember to actually write in...because for me, if it's out of sight, it's out of mind.

Perhaps I should convert one entire wall into a giant bulletin board. That might do the trick. And it would be really, really ugly. But I still couldn't pin a journal to a pinboard. I would probably stick it in a basket, and of course we all know how that would turn out. I'd never see it again. At least, not until the basket overflowed with Things To Be Sorted and I had to clean it out again.

But, disorganization aside, we had a lovely time. In spite of the fact that, invariably, when I am in the middle of loading or unloading the two littles from their carseats, the cars parked on either side of me immediately begin to buzz with activity. Seriously. I came out of a store with my one little find – yes, I talked myself out of some over-priced Easter dresses for the girls and was feeling victorious – and began to load up my eldest. Immediately, the people belonging to the cars on either side of me showed up. The parking lot was not that busy. Just the two cars on either side of me. Yes. I think the odds are curious, too and was pretty sure I was flunking some kind of Stress Test. The Lord sends me a lot of those and I continually flunk them. When will I ever figure out to just calm down? Breathe, honey. It's okay. Really.

But there I was, panicking a bit inside as I realized that I was surrounded by people wanting to leave and who were probably not a bit happy to find me there holding up the works. The man on the left side just looked at me like, “You do realize that I am about to back this car out whether you are finished getting her in or not.” And I did, in fact, realize that, and was already clearing out of his way to go put my youngest in on the other side.

At which opportune moment the lady parked on that very side showed up. She was trying to be polite and waited quietly. This made me even more nervous so I just halfway buckled Baby and backed out of the way, telling her to go ahead.

“Oh, no,” she said very sweetly, “That is fine.”

It was nice and all, but I knew that I still had to finish buckling, tighten the straps (which never goes as quickly as it ought to) and unclip and reclip the pacifier holder. This is fine when no one is waiting on you, but it was stressing me out having to do it with someone standing there waiting for me to finish so they could get on with their Entire Day. Oh, and I never love having someone standing there staring at me while I'm bent over. It's just not the most dignified position to be caught in for extended periods of time.

I was very rattled by the whole thing when I was finally out of everyone's way. But then, of course, at our next store – wouldn't you know it? Right when I came out and started loading my baby up in her carseat, someone pulled up and decided that, of the 20 empty parking spaces surrounding us, they wanted That One. The one right next to me, where I stood trying to load my baby up.

So I frantically got out of the way again, this time to avoid having me or my babies run over by the person in question. I was angry. I probably showed it. But thankfully, since I'm shy, I didn't have enough nerve to say anything. In this case, this was a good thing. I usually mutter to myself when I'm upset, but I am learning that this is Not Okay. It's not okay whether anyone's listening or not, but it's especially Not Okay when you have children listening to you sharing your bad attitude with them. It's excellent accountability. Had I muttered, “That person is selfish and rude,” my 2-year-old would have shrieked, “That puhson SALFISH? WOOD??? Dat BAD lady!!!” And it would have been extremely awkward. I am learning a great deal about self control already, and that's a good thing. If only I could learn how to control my facial expressions a bit more. I'm pretty sure I looked like a thundercloud. I tried to hide my face so the offending woman would not see. It wouldn't have accomplished anything.

Anyway, those kinds of things stress me out, but it was otherwise a very nice shopping trip. I found a few springish things to wear. I am never the same size for more than a few weeks at a time, these days. I'll take it. It's for an excellent cause. And no, in case you're wondering, I'm not growing. I am still shrinking. ;)

I melted when I put on a very pretty cardigan with a very pretty skirt, and my 2-year-old looked at me in the mirror and froze, smiling. “Oooooooh,” she whispered. “Pretty Mommy.” I was so touched, even though the skirt actually looked absolutely dreadful on me. It was a beautiful skirt, and she was appreciating that. So I kept the cardigan and got rid of the skirt.

A few minutes later, I tried on a shirt that I was not quite sure about. Jokingly, I asked my big girl about it.

She crinkled up her nose and cocked her head to one side. “Ummmmm...” she had a very definite Now-How-Do-I-Put-This-Delicately look on her face. “Ummm...it's not very bad, Mommy.”

“What?” I squealed, trying not to laugh.

She looked sorrowfully at me, with eyes insisting that I-Cannot-Tell-A-Lie, and whispered sadly, “Umm...it not very bad, Mommy. I no like it.”

This from a two-year-old. I started howling with laughter and she looked extremely relieved that I was taking the bad news so well. I assured her that I didn't much like it either, and put it away. I love the honesty. I love that we're starting to have these little conversations. It is all so. Stinkin'. Sweet.

:)

What else I love:

Standing outside the shop looking at the $2 rack and watching my big girl out of the corner of my eye as she stomped up to a springish-clad dress form and shouted, “Whatcha doin' there, you boy?”

Me: Trying not to snort too loudly

She: “Come on, boy! Dat's a BAD thing ta do. You never not never not do dat AGAIN. Now. Dat's bettah. You ah such a clevah boy.”

She sighed deeply.

“Buzz Lightyear...” she still seemed to be addressing the dress form, her volume rising with each word. “You. Ah. A. TOY!!!!”

I'm lovin' it. Only a 2-year-old could pull quotes from Winnie-the-Pooh, Toy Story 2, and Veggie Tales, and weave it all into one surprisingly entertaining monologue.

So many gifts, my friends, so many gifts. If I'd stopped to count them while I was stressing about being parked around, perhaps I would have stressed less?

Beautiful afternoon. Blue skies, glorious warmth.

Dishes to wash. I'd better go.

As The Birds Sing...

So Monday comes around again, and this time wearing gray. Gray skies, solid gray, spanning the horizons, stretched across barren gray tree trunks spreading their gray fingers against the clouds above. Slate gray roof, hanging over the black grill shimmering gray in the damp. Gray decking. Yes, we have a gray deck. It was there from before. Personally, we both would have chosen something with more true-wood coloring. But there it is, gray. Gray, gray, gray, under the gray grill and the gray roof and the gray, naked trees touching the gray, clouded sky.

It's not the cheeriest looking day.

And yet, from the barren treetops, birds are singing. Caroling. Praising. Rejoicing with joyous abandon. I fling open the kitchen window to let the joy inside, with reckless disregard for allergies or the cool air. It's only for a few minutes. I'm soaking in the sound of little created beings who do not care that the sun is covered today. Who do not care that the beautiful spring weather was halted in its tracks by an actually seasonal snap of cold air. They are not complaining. They are singing even more than ever.

And, perhaps, that is the best time to sing, in a way. When our expectations have been met, it is easy. But when they have not been met...that is the hard thanks. And that is the time when our souls need it most.  Need most to be reminded of how much we have to be thankful for, and so how much reason we have to rejoice greatly.

May I remember to sing praises – if not aloud, then at least in my heart; if not singing, at least whispering thanks – all day. Even if expectations for the day are not met. Even if my grandiose plans of hand-washing all of the dishes (owing to a certain broken dishwasher) and doing several loads of laundry and tagging clothes for a consignment sale and going out to run some errands with the girls all fall by the wayside.  They probably won't all be met, for it's an ambitious list.  Even if it is yet another day of snuffly noses needing wiping and little souls hungry for cuddles and book-reading and just sitting still and being together. Some days need to be like that. And it is okay if my house looks like a warzone temporarily because my children needed some extra doses of loving to chase the sniffles away.

I will probably have trouble remembering this when I am in the middle of trying to do laundry and have my little 1-year-old tugging on my pants leg, blowing bubbles from her poor little nose and sobbing “Maaaaaa! Maaaaaa!” and rather than getting frustrated...to remember how grateful I am and how good it is that I have a little one there to want me and need me.  It's good to be wanted. It's good to be needed. It also gets tiring – especially when I feel so tired most of the time anyway. But I think of Jesus, so tired that He fell asleep in a ship tossed by raging seas. And he did not rebuke the disciples or get angry or roll His eyes when they woke Him, frightened, needy. He rose and drove their fears away – attended to their needs – didn't tell them to leave Him alone because He needed some Me Time. He did not rebuke the multitudes who followed Him everywhere, needing Him, never letting Him be alone. He looked on them with pity and served, and served, and served.

May I serve and serve and serve today. I had attitude trouble with the whole Being Needed Constantly thing last week. May I remember these things this week, and may this be a week of grace. At the moment things look promising. Everyone is peaceful and serene and we are having a cozy, snuggly, at-home kind of day with lots of sweet little conversations with my 2-year-old. We are talking about how God made the birds and how beautiful their songs are, and we are dressing teddy bears from Mimi in different little outfits, and we are talking about how Jesus is good all the time and wouldn't it be nice to be good all the time, like He is? My 1-year-old is sleeping surprisingly late, which promises great things for a happy day ahead for her. But it might not pan out to my expectations. What promises to be a sunshiney day may turn cloudy when you least expect it. And my response is usually to pout and whimper and complain at my unmet expectations. As if I had some right to the day turning out like I wanted it to.

I hear little whimpers coming from the back. I am needed again. Being a mommy brings so much reward, and at the same time requires so much giving, giving, giving. And yet, how can I hope to help my children learn thankfulness if I do not show it first? If I do not meet my baby's expectations, she wails. This messes up my expectations, so then I wail, too. We're really not that different. I just think I'm all grown-up and mature. And yet here I am, still struggling to learn the same lessons I am trying to teach her. I am grateful for the Lord's grace to me when I fail to learn things for the 100^th time. May I show grace to my little ones when they are needy yet again, because that is what I would want from my Jesus. And that is what He gives. Grace, abundantly. Grace, even when my expectations are not met. Grace, even when a sunny sky turns cloudy.

Grace to sing.

Outside, the chorus has only continued to crescendo as I write. Rising, rising, louder and more joyful. It's a cacophony of praise. May my words and my life and my attitude today, add to the noise another note of praise. May I bring the sunshine in with my thankfulness, even if my day doesn't go as planned. Days often don't go as planned when you're a mommy, I'm learning. But every day as a mommy is such a precious gift. These children such jewels. It is good to be needed constantly. It may be hard on the days when I feel that I have nothing to give, but it is good.

The gray skies fill with little birds flitting from tree to tree, singing joy into our hearts.

“Mommy,” says my 2-year-old, “I lub boords.”

“I love them, too, sweetie,” I smile into her shining blue eyes. To her, every day is beautiful and sunshiney, because she sees everything with eyes of wonder. May I take that wonder in my heart with me today, and never lose the wonder of being a Mommy. Of being forgiven. Of being Christ's.

I have every reason in the world to sing.

Gifts today, and it's not even 10:00:

~ Bird's songs piercing the morning air with joy

~ Wonder in my eldest's eyes as she looks out the window

~ Whispers of, “I lub you, Mommy.”

~ Hugs from my youngest

~ Tottering, joyful first steps

~ Little lisping lips saying, “God made de boords.”

~ Baby giggles and kisses and hugs

May you have a blessed Monday and a grace-filled week, my friends.

Happy Joy

I read a blog post in the quiet of the morning, as the girls watch a little movie and I had intended to quickly wash the dishes and go join them. I still will go and join them, but perhaps the dishes won't be washed when I do. But I stopped to think, and sometimes thinking is best done when the mood strikes these days, and the dishes left until later. Because the thoughts pass through my busy mommy mind like water through a sieve and are gone if I don't pause to capture them in their flight.

I read about joy, and about living joyful in this crazy, awful, frightening world we find ourselves in today. The world that frightens me so much that I am afraid to read the news. The world that frightens me so much that I am afraid to read about Corrie ten Boom anymore because sometimes I think that it's all about to come to that again, only on our own soil this time. Perhaps I am wrong. But I hear tales and I see things and I worry.

I worry when I try to watch children's shows with my babies and they are so foolish and full of rebellion and anti-Christian sentiment that I have to turn them off quickly and wonder what happened to the simple little things I used to watch as a little girl. So we watch old shows. From simpler days that weren't really that long ago.

I worry when I see the Constitution being re-written or discarded before our eyes. I worry when I go through check-out lines and look at all of the young people – not much younger than I – who are at the registers or walking through the store, and I see the hopelessness and anger in their eyes...and I think that they will be running the country sooner than I'd like to think.

I worry when I see the scores of the anti-rich acting like they think they're actually poor and swarming the streets demanding their just deserts – namely fancy cars and huge homes and gated communities like the 1% get to have – while all around the world millions live in squalor that would make a trailer look like a palace.

I worry when it seems that the tales of abductions and rapes and murders and abuses just pour in faster and faster every year, and I look at my two little girls and feel terrified for their futures in this wild and crazy world, and hope that they will have a brother or two or three to look out for them when their Daddy and I can't be there anymore.

I worry about a future that looks like it could be very dark indeed. It could be farther off than it appears, and perhaps it will not come in my lifetime. But I see dark clouds ahead and they are coming straight for us. I know that if I don't have to sail into them, my children will. My children who sit now so sweet and innocent and thrill to the melodies of Mary Poppins and squeal with joy at the sight of a squirrel on the back deck...they do not see the clouds that I see. To them the world is a place of wonder and excitement.

And I so often forget this and see it as full of fearful things and frightening unknowns and dark terrors looming around each bend in the road ahead.

But I do not want this to be the life they see me lead. I do not want them to see me live full of fear and anxiety, even if everything around me seems to demand it.

I want them to see me leaning on the Everlasting Arms. I want them to see me fearlessly laughing at the future, like the woman of Proverbs 31. I want them to see me welcome it with open arms, knowing that whatever comes is whatever God allowed, and that no matter what happens, HE is with me, and HE is with my children. I want them to cling to Him, and if they have learnt to cling to Him with all their hearts and souls and minds, then I need not fear the future for them. Their bodies may suffer, but their souls will be safe.

And isn't that what really matters?

I crave comfort. I like leisure. I want my children to have freedom from fear and freedom from want and freedom from all the things that I fear await in the stormy seas that may be ahead.

But those things are not promised us in Scripture. What is promised us is the faithfulness of our God. That He will never leave us or forsake us. That His everlasting arms will always be there. That He is our strength, and He is our joy. That in Him, we are commanded to rejoice, turning our worries over to Him. We are to rest and trust in Him, and obey Him, and there we will find true joy.

Joy that goes above all the fear and tumult of the world around us. Joy in the midst of the maelstrom that swirls around us and joy as we watch our culture swirling around the drain and wondering if we will be dragged down into darkness, too.

Joy is above all of the fears of this age. Joy is bigger than suffering. Joy is not happiness. Joy is not a foolish denial of reality.

I think to myself...what is joy? I have always known that it was apart from happiness. That it was something other. Something serene and pure and entirely different from the happiness that Americans are sworn to pursue. The happiness that fills our lives with cheerful noise and racket and that drowns out the noise of fear around us by distracting us with baubles and parties and fun and laughter and pleasant things. It's lovely, but it could all be snatched away, and then what would be left if we didn't have joy?

And then the thought comes to me, quiet and slow.

Perhaps joy is the Great Quiet that swallows up the noise of the self-destructing world around us so that we can hear the still, small voice of God. The still, small voice that whispers, “It is I.”

“It is I. Be not afraid.”

“I have overcome the world.”

His quiet voice drowns the roar of the world that seeks to deafen us.

His quiet voice silences the gale.

And in joy, as we listen to the quiet all around, we will be happy.

Happy. Come what may.

Little Helpers

I have written two blog posts in the past week.  This might be a new record for me.  I am reminded, however, of why I am having trouble blogging these days.  Because I can't write a short blog post.  They always come out to be 6 pages long or something, taking an entire naptime to write.  It's not working so well for me.  I don't usually want to use an entire naptime to write, because there are other more pressing things to attend to.  Like eating something.  Or just sitting and staring out the window and listening to the quiet for a few minutes.  Or not.  It's more like the best time of day to do some dishes and laundry and maybe even get dinner on so that I won't have to be cooking during Grumpy Time.  Grumpy Time usually hits around dinner-prep time, and it has taken me 2 years to realize that maybe this means I should choose a different time of day for dinner-prep.

Oh, and excuse me for a moment.  My 2nd born has a long string of something hanging out of her mouth and she is standing on her head and playing with it.  One of those moments.  They happen.

Well, that went well.  I got back and she had cleaned it up by crawling through it.  Thanks, girl.  You're such a big helper!  I write this even as she takes all three nicely folded blankets on the couch and hurls them to the floor.  Okay, so maybe we need to keep working on the big helper thing.  It will come.

And now she stands here, trying to get the blankets back onto the sofa.  And it's not going very well.  She is small.  The blankets are big.  And she is huffing and puffing and tugging and it's not working for her.  The more she huffs and puffs and panics, the worse it goes, in fact.  She pulls harder.  Tugs harder.  But it doesn't help.  She gives up and leaves them in the floor and walks away to find other pursuits more worthy of her time and effort.

All she had to do when she was struggling so was look up at me and say "Mama?"  And I could easily have helped her.  In fact, I don't usually wait to be asked.  I just help.  But she's usually so busy looking down at whatever she's struggling with - whether it's putting a puzzle together or pulling giant blankets from the floor - that she doesn't even realize she's been helped.  She thinks she's done it herself.

I rarely get thanked.  But I help her again next time anyway.  Because I'm her mommy, and that's what mommies do.

Of course, I'm not always that happy about doing it.  Sometimes children can need help at very inconvenient times.  Usually when I've excused myself to use the facilities for two minutes.  That's when life always falls apart, it seems.

Why am I so quick to forget that my Father is always there to help me?  That He is always gracious and loving?  When I'm struggling with loads that seem too heavy - even if they aren't really as heavy as I make them out to be - He is always gentle and kind to me and ready to help.  He doesn't find it inconvenient or annoying.  It doesn't matter how many times I need help, He is always there with those mighty, everlasting arms.  I struggle and struggle and sometimes I think I have succeeded at licking a problem myself.  When I should be recognizing all of "my" strength as God's strength - as God's mercy and grace - and thanking Him for His aid.  For giving all credit where all credit is due.  I thank Him for His gracious patience toward me.

May I remember this the next time that I run to help a child in need at an inopportune moment.  Before I laugh too much at her complete assurance that she just conquered the problem herself, oblivious to my involvement in the conquering process - may I remember to pause and thank God for enabling me to respond well to the perceived inconvenience of the moment, or pause to repent if I did not`.

She's at it again.  Trying to get those blankets up on the couch.  I'll go help her this time.  And if she doesn't remember to thank me...I'll just smile and say, "You're so much like your mama.  We both have a lot to learn."

Thanking God for His patient instruction in righteousness,

Me