Just wanted you to know that this blog has moved! Our new address is www.princessgeneration.org. Join me there to find how we're raising up a whole new generation of girls to discover who they are by serving others. See you there!
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
The Princess Generation
Just wanted you to know that this blog has moved! Our new address is www.princessgeneration.org. Join me there to find how we're raising up a whole new generation of girls to discover who they are by serving others. See you there!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
My Last Best Word
How does it feel to come in last place?
If you're answer isn't "Pretty darn rotten," then I would like to know your secret. Finishing last has to be one of the most horrifying, humiliating, and helpless feelings in the entire world. I know. I've been there. When I was in the fifth grade, I signed up for the local track team. I had been running with my dad for weeks, but when it came time for that first race, I was completely unprepared for the competition. I'll never forget the image of my cartoon character body, running and running, but somehow not moving. Throngs of people raced by me. I even got lapped. Yes, it's hard to type those words. I got lapped. Clearly, I didn't understand pacing, and I never even bothered to evaluate my competition prior to the race. More than twenty-five years later it's still horrifying and humiliating because in my memory I was helpless to do anything about it.
How did I respond? Well, it was four long years before I ran again. I forbid anyone from my family to attend the meets. Woe to the person who even hinted at coming to one of my races! On the day of the race, butterflies invaded my stomach and I turned into a ball of nervous energy. I dreaded every single race. My biggest fear: Coming in last. To this day, I can't tell you why I ran. Whether it was peer pressure or an innate desire to prove something to myself, I ran, though I never became a super-star. I did what I was supposed to do. I attended every practice and weight training session. I ate right. I drank lots of water. Then, I counted down the weeks until the nightmare was over. At the end of the season, to my great surprise, I even qualified for regionals. Accckkkk!!! Is there no mercy for the weary?
It's one thing to come in last; it's quite another to be picked last. And believe me, I've had my share of those, too. As a child, I was shy and soft-spoken. There was a huge gap between the me I was (shy, soft-spoken, and insecure) and the me I wanted to be (dynamic, chatty, and interesting). That "me" was buried so deep that no one ever saw it. And since they could only evaluate what they saw, no one placed much confidence in me. Except my dad. The same one who ran with me, who encouraged me to keep running, and who said, "It's OK" when I came in last. Whenever he could, he also said, "You're good enough. You're pretty enough. You're smart enough". Even if no one wanted me to be on their team. He did. And that was enough.
Now I have a daughter who is just like me. She's twelve, so she's trying like crazy to assure the world that she is nothing like me. But just yesterday, she too, was picked last. And my heart broke. Because I know how that feels. It's humiliating and horrifying. Maybe she felt helpless, too, but as her mother I was the one who felt helpless. I wanted to march up to that school and tell the world, "Look what you're missing! Look at this beautiful, creative girl! How could you not want her on your team? You're all a bunch of idiots!"
Instead, Gavin took her in her arms, and he said, "You are good enough. God made you, and he loves you, and no matter what happens, girl, don't you ever forget that. As you get older, you'll find people looking for validation in all kinds of places and from all kinds of people. But you--you remember that God made you. He's the only one that matters."
We were all together when she softly admitted her sadness, so I'm glad that I got to say, "If you lined up all the kids in the entire world end to end and I had to choose any one of them as a daughter for myself, guess what? I would choose you. I'll always choose you."
I'm not sure what kind of teacher allows Middle Schoolers to pick teams. Even worse, I'm not sure what kind of a teacher doesn't allow the kid who was picked last the day before to be a team captain on the second day she initiates this nonsense. But in a weird way I'm kind of thankful that it was my kid. I'm not winning any Outstanding Parenting Awards, but if there's one thing I understand it's that people matter. Words matter. As a mother, I have a unique opportunity to speak truth into my children's lives. I get to share Jesus with them. I'm thankful that I have a dad who showed me that I matter even when I came in last. And I got to share it with the kid who came in last. My kid. (Oh, the irony of the whole thing!) If it had been anyone else's daughter, I wouldn't have been able to tell her that she matters. That she's important.
Earlier this week, in this same class, my daughter came home with a failing grade on a project/presentation. She worked for weeks on the project. She researched her subject and made a beautiful visual aid. But she bombed the oral presentation. See? I told you she was shy like me. We're working on it, but she doesn't know how to look an audience in the eye and make a compelling presentation. Fail. Fail. Fail. Last place.
Traditional school boasts many fine qualities, not the least of which is the high value it places on healthy competition. When a child doesn't perform up to standard, though, does the school also have a responsibility to help that child navigate the disappointment, inspire them to achieve more next time, and validate their personhood, even while condemning their academic performance? In spite of the separation of church and state, I wish that Christian principles governed the way our schools respond to the kids they're entrusted to teach. They spout rhetoric about self-esteem and standing up to bullies, but is anyone really listening? How would our schools be different if everyone just did what Jesus did and considered others better than themselves? Wouldn't it be easy to say no to drugs if a child understood how much God loves her? Would the "cool" table even exist? Would we need it? Would the lowest performing kids hang their heads and cause trouble at every turn? Would kids be tempted to give in to the selfishness and greed that comes from comparing themselves to an unattainable standard found in magazines and on TV?
I doubt it because the Christian principle that would address so many of these issues is simply this: Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others (Philippians 2:3-4 NIV).
Problem solved.
If you're answer isn't "Pretty darn rotten," then I would like to know your secret. Finishing last has to be one of the most horrifying, humiliating, and helpless feelings in the entire world. I know. I've been there. When I was in the fifth grade, I signed up for the local track team. I had been running with my dad for weeks, but when it came time for that first race, I was completely unprepared for the competition. I'll never forget the image of my cartoon character body, running and running, but somehow not moving. Throngs of people raced by me. I even got lapped. Yes, it's hard to type those words. I got lapped. Clearly, I didn't understand pacing, and I never even bothered to evaluate my competition prior to the race. More than twenty-five years later it's still horrifying and humiliating because in my memory I was helpless to do anything about it.
How did I respond? Well, it was four long years before I ran again. I forbid anyone from my family to attend the meets. Woe to the person who even hinted at coming to one of my races! On the day of the race, butterflies invaded my stomach and I turned into a ball of nervous energy. I dreaded every single race. My biggest fear: Coming in last. To this day, I can't tell you why I ran. Whether it was peer pressure or an innate desire to prove something to myself, I ran, though I never became a super-star. I did what I was supposed to do. I attended every practice and weight training session. I ate right. I drank lots of water. Then, I counted down the weeks until the nightmare was over. At the end of the season, to my great surprise, I even qualified for regionals. Accckkkk!!! Is there no mercy for the weary?
It's one thing to come in last; it's quite another to be picked last. And believe me, I've had my share of those, too. As a child, I was shy and soft-spoken. There was a huge gap between the me I was (shy, soft-spoken, and insecure) and the me I wanted to be (dynamic, chatty, and interesting). That "me" was buried so deep that no one ever saw it. And since they could only evaluate what they saw, no one placed much confidence in me. Except my dad. The same one who ran with me, who encouraged me to keep running, and who said, "It's OK" when I came in last. Whenever he could, he also said, "You're good enough. You're pretty enough. You're smart enough". Even if no one wanted me to be on their team. He did. And that was enough.
Now I have a daughter who is just like me. She's twelve, so she's trying like crazy to assure the world that she is nothing like me. But just yesterday, she too, was picked last. And my heart broke. Because I know how that feels. It's humiliating and horrifying. Maybe she felt helpless, too, but as her mother I was the one who felt helpless. I wanted to march up to that school and tell the world, "Look what you're missing! Look at this beautiful, creative girl! How could you not want her on your team? You're all a bunch of idiots!"
Instead, Gavin took her in her arms, and he said, "You are good enough. God made you, and he loves you, and no matter what happens, girl, don't you ever forget that. As you get older, you'll find people looking for validation in all kinds of places and from all kinds of people. But you--you remember that God made you. He's the only one that matters."
We were all together when she softly admitted her sadness, so I'm glad that I got to say, "If you lined up all the kids in the entire world end to end and I had to choose any one of them as a daughter for myself, guess what? I would choose you. I'll always choose you."
I'm not sure what kind of teacher allows Middle Schoolers to pick teams. Even worse, I'm not sure what kind of a teacher doesn't allow the kid who was picked last the day before to be a team captain on the second day she initiates this nonsense. But in a weird way I'm kind of thankful that it was my kid. I'm not winning any Outstanding Parenting Awards, but if there's one thing I understand it's that people matter. Words matter. As a mother, I have a unique opportunity to speak truth into my children's lives. I get to share Jesus with them. I'm thankful that I have a dad who showed me that I matter even when I came in last. And I got to share it with the kid who came in last. My kid. (Oh, the irony of the whole thing!) If it had been anyone else's daughter, I wouldn't have been able to tell her that she matters. That she's important.
Earlier this week, in this same class, my daughter came home with a failing grade on a project/presentation. She worked for weeks on the project. She researched her subject and made a beautiful visual aid. But she bombed the oral presentation. See? I told you she was shy like me. We're working on it, but she doesn't know how to look an audience in the eye and make a compelling presentation. Fail. Fail. Fail. Last place.
Traditional school boasts many fine qualities, not the least of which is the high value it places on healthy competition. When a child doesn't perform up to standard, though, does the school also have a responsibility to help that child navigate the disappointment, inspire them to achieve more next time, and validate their personhood, even while condemning their academic performance? In spite of the separation of church and state, I wish that Christian principles governed the way our schools respond to the kids they're entrusted to teach. They spout rhetoric about self-esteem and standing up to bullies, but is anyone really listening? How would our schools be different if everyone just did what Jesus did and considered others better than themselves? Wouldn't it be easy to say no to drugs if a child understood how much God loves her? Would the "cool" table even exist? Would we need it? Would the lowest performing kids hang their heads and cause trouble at every turn? Would kids be tempted to give in to the selfishness and greed that comes from comparing themselves to an unattainable standard found in magazines and on TV?
I doubt it because the Christian principle that would address so many of these issues is simply this: Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others (Philippians 2:3-4 NIV).
Problem solved.
Monday, April 9, 2012
The Benefits of Boredom
We didn't go anywhere on Spring Break this year. As the academic year winds down, I realize that we've had no less than six weeks off school, in addition to a number of teacher furlough days. If our family traveled every time there was a school holiday, we would surely be in the poor house. Of course, I'm perfectly okay with that. As a mom of four kids ages 4-12, I'm never bored. My four kids ages 4-12, however, are always bored.
I didn't even realize that we were the only ones home this week until I got on Facebook and saw everyone's beach vacation pictures. Now, there's something that will take the wind right out of your sails. I was sitting there all content catching up on my laundry and spring de-cluttering when all of a sudden I realized that the rest of the world was lolling the day away in a sunny paradise. I thought, We have to do something! The kids can't go back to school on Monday after having been home all week! What will they write about when the teacher asks them to take out their journal and compose the dreaded theme: "What I Did on Spring Break"?.
But the thing is--we really didn't go anywhere. We couldn't. I'm trying to start a little non-profit and the van needs new tires and well, we just spent several days vacationing out of town in February. And honestly, with the way time is flying these days, that just seems like yesterday. So back to point: I'm never bored. I'm completely engrossed in a Stephen King novel and I'm doing a little writing and I'm researching this nonprofit thing, and every morning the kids are waking up and the first thing out of their mouths is, "What are we doing today?"
Blah.
I'm just thrilled I'm not getting up at 5:00 AM to squeeze in my workout before getting the kids up for school and I'm thanking the good Lord that we're eating dinner as a family every single night because no one is rushing off to soccer practice and I'm relaxing with my book and my laptop in the evening because I'm not having to help anyone with homework. Truly, if there is a heaven on earth this is it.
I don't need a beach.
And yet everyday during the last week, I heard the words, "I'm bored" at least four times because each kid had to say it at least once. We watered the neighbors plants, we planted our own garden, we decorated cookies and Easter eggs and made s'mores in our backyard fireplace. We played at the park and stopped at Starbucks for hot chocolate--just because. We turned on the lawn sprinklers and played make-believe store. How can we say we're bored? Our family played together. Did you get that? We stayed home and played.
Like I told you, I'm never bored. But these four kids (ages 4-12), well, I don't think they are either. It took a couple of days, but once they got used to the space they figured out how to fill it all by themselves. We didn't have to go anywhere on an airplane. And we didn't uncover this secret by digging in the sand. Boredom doesn't have a chance in a realm where space and time intersect. Creativity flourishes, and ultimately four kids (ages 4-12) realized how much they really do love being together. But don't ask them about that. They would never admit it. Ask them about their Spring Break, and the answer you'll probably get is, "We didn't get to go anywhere! And my mom is so boring!"
Oh, well. I'll take boring over broke any day of the week.
I didn't even realize that we were the only ones home this week until I got on Facebook and saw everyone's beach vacation pictures. Now, there's something that will take the wind right out of your sails. I was sitting there all content catching up on my laundry and spring de-cluttering when all of a sudden I realized that the rest of the world was lolling the day away in a sunny paradise. I thought, We have to do something! The kids can't go back to school on Monday after having been home all week! What will they write about when the teacher asks them to take out their journal and compose the dreaded theme: "What I Did on Spring Break"?.
But the thing is--we really didn't go anywhere. We couldn't. I'm trying to start a little non-profit and the van needs new tires and well, we just spent several days vacationing out of town in February. And honestly, with the way time is flying these days, that just seems like yesterday. So back to point: I'm never bored. I'm completely engrossed in a Stephen King novel and I'm doing a little writing and I'm researching this nonprofit thing, and every morning the kids are waking up and the first thing out of their mouths is, "What are we doing today?"
Blah.
I'm just thrilled I'm not getting up at 5:00 AM to squeeze in my workout before getting the kids up for school and I'm thanking the good Lord that we're eating dinner as a family every single night because no one is rushing off to soccer practice and I'm relaxing with my book and my laptop in the evening because I'm not having to help anyone with homework. Truly, if there is a heaven on earth this is it.
I don't need a beach.
And yet everyday during the last week, I heard the words, "I'm bored" at least four times because each kid had to say it at least once. We watered the neighbors plants, we planted our own garden, we decorated cookies and Easter eggs and made s'mores in our backyard fireplace. We played at the park and stopped at Starbucks for hot chocolate--just because. We turned on the lawn sprinklers and played make-believe store. How can we say we're bored? Our family played together. Did you get that? We stayed home and played.
Like I told you, I'm never bored. But these four kids (ages 4-12), well, I don't think they are either. It took a couple of days, but once they got used to the space they figured out how to fill it all by themselves. We didn't have to go anywhere on an airplane. And we didn't uncover this secret by digging in the sand. Boredom doesn't have a chance in a realm where space and time intersect. Creativity flourishes, and ultimately four kids (ages 4-12) realized how much they really do love being together. But don't ask them about that. They would never admit it. Ask them about their Spring Break, and the answer you'll probably get is, "We didn't get to go anywhere! And my mom is so boring!"
Oh, well. I'll take boring over broke any day of the week.
Could I Trouble You?
"As long as it's not any trouble."
That's what my friends say when I invite them over for lunch. When I ask them to stay the weekend. When I offer to babysit their kids. When I volunteer to carpool.
When did "trouble" suddenly go out of fashion?
I used to love to visit my grandmother's house in Florida. She always went to so much trouble--a hot meal, a clean bed, and a fully stocked fridge in her garage. Maybe that's why her house was always my favorite. For all the trouble she went to, as a guest in her home, what spoke to me loudest was the humble way in which she said, "You're welcome here. I knew you were coming, and I'm glad you came."
There's familiarity in dust bunnies and paper plates and hand prints on the windows.
When I'm at my house. Not when I'm at yours.
Call me crazy, but I just don't really like being a guest in somebody's home and and finding toothpaste in the sink or a half-eaten hot dog under the kitchen table. Truly, I find it quite disturbing. It's sort of like discovering a dirty diaper on your kid. Sure. I have a kid, too, and I change diapers all the time. But that soiled bottom is all yours. I'll wrinkle my nose at that funky smell because it's foreign to me. Unnatural. I sense that I need to do something about it, but I'm all awkward, and it makes me feel funny.
I never felt that way at Grandma's. I dropped my troubles at the door and basked in the aroma of fresh-baked bread, a cozy couch, and a warm bed. A bed that smelled of soap and sun and that beckoned sweet dreams. I doubt if Grandma felt like she was going to a whole lotta trouble when it came time for our visits. She just understood hospitality. Other families might hug or kiss to show how much they care, but mine's not very touchy-feely. Try to hug me, and I feel my shoulders tense up. In fact, we rarely even say "I love you." (But I'll save the commentary on those two things for another post). No, in our family, the way we show our affection is by going to some trouble.
"Mom, I forgot my Math homework." Her reply: "I'll bring it to you."
"Dad, can you come to Parent's weekend...in Indiana?" His response: "Absolutely."
"Grandma, we're leaving the beach a day early. Is it OK if we stay the night at your house?" Her reaction: "I'd be mad if you didn't!"
Would any of these examples be "trouble"? Sure. But for all their trouble, that's how I felt love. Even today, that's how my family demonstrates their affection. Grandma now lives in an assisted living facility near my mom, and my great aunt (who has no immediate family nearby) lives there, as well. Certainly, my mom has gone to more trouble in an effort to care for them adequately than anyone anywhere should have to. Before they moved, she cleaned their apartments, measured their medications, and shuttled them to doctor's visits and weekly trips to the grocery store. But she's done it. And done it well. That's just how we Adams roll.
My polite Southern vernacular taught me to say, "It's no trouble at all!" But if I never go to any trouble, I'll miss out on an incredible opportunity to spread the hospitality that's also an inherent part of my stately Southern upbringing. When Jesus said, "Let your heart not be troubled," he followed it with the promise of an incredible place he's preparing in heaven just for you. And for me. In the meantime, I hope that I can be like my grandma--maybe going to some trouble to manage my home in such a way that people feel welcome here. May my heart be so full of love that no matter what the day brings I can say, "I was expecting you, and I'm glad you came. Drop your troubles at the door, and come right in." After all, wasn't it Jesus who said, "each day has enough trouble of its own?" (Matthew 6:34)
That's what my friends say when I invite them over for lunch. When I ask them to stay the weekend. When I offer to babysit their kids. When I volunteer to carpool.
When did "trouble" suddenly go out of fashion?
I used to love to visit my grandmother's house in Florida. She always went to so much trouble--a hot meal, a clean bed, and a fully stocked fridge in her garage. Maybe that's why her house was always my favorite. For all the trouble she went to, as a guest in her home, what spoke to me loudest was the humble way in which she said, "You're welcome here. I knew you were coming, and I'm glad you came."
There's familiarity in dust bunnies and paper plates and hand prints on the windows.
When I'm at my house. Not when I'm at yours.
Call me crazy, but I just don't really like being a guest in somebody's home and and finding toothpaste in the sink or a half-eaten hot dog under the kitchen table. Truly, I find it quite disturbing. It's sort of like discovering a dirty diaper on your kid. Sure. I have a kid, too, and I change diapers all the time. But that soiled bottom is all yours. I'll wrinkle my nose at that funky smell because it's foreign to me. Unnatural. I sense that I need to do something about it, but I'm all awkward, and it makes me feel funny.
I never felt that way at Grandma's. I dropped my troubles at the door and basked in the aroma of fresh-baked bread, a cozy couch, and a warm bed. A bed that smelled of soap and sun and that beckoned sweet dreams. I doubt if Grandma felt like she was going to a whole lotta trouble when it came time for our visits. She just understood hospitality. Other families might hug or kiss to show how much they care, but mine's not very touchy-feely. Try to hug me, and I feel my shoulders tense up. In fact, we rarely even say "I love you." (But I'll save the commentary on those two things for another post). No, in our family, the way we show our affection is by going to some trouble.
"Mom, I forgot my Math homework." Her reply: "I'll bring it to you."
"Dad, can you come to Parent's weekend...in Indiana?" His response: "Absolutely."
"Grandma, we're leaving the beach a day early. Is it OK if we stay the night at your house?" Her reaction: "I'd be mad if you didn't!"
Would any of these examples be "trouble"? Sure. But for all their trouble, that's how I felt love. Even today, that's how my family demonstrates their affection. Grandma now lives in an assisted living facility near my mom, and my great aunt (who has no immediate family nearby) lives there, as well. Certainly, my mom has gone to more trouble in an effort to care for them adequately than anyone anywhere should have to. Before they moved, she cleaned their apartments, measured their medications, and shuttled them to doctor's visits and weekly trips to the grocery store. But she's done it. And done it well. That's just how we Adams roll.
My polite Southern vernacular taught me to say, "It's no trouble at all!" But if I never go to any trouble, I'll miss out on an incredible opportunity to spread the hospitality that's also an inherent part of my stately Southern upbringing. When Jesus said, "Let your heart not be troubled," he followed it with the promise of an incredible place he's preparing in heaven just for you. And for me. In the meantime, I hope that I can be like my grandma--maybe going to some trouble to manage my home in such a way that people feel welcome here. May my heart be so full of love that no matter what the day brings I can say, "I was expecting you, and I'm glad you came. Drop your troubles at the door, and come right in." After all, wasn't it Jesus who said, "each day has enough trouble of its own?" (Matthew 6:34)
Monday, March 12, 2012
Scrap-happy (Not)!
When I was a little girl, I came across an old metal file cabinet in the recesses of our garage. Upon opening it, I found that it was indeed full of files. The rows of folders were labeled chronologically simply, "1974," "1975," "1976," and so on, and the files themselves were filled with the family photographs that corresponded to that particular year. No one could accuse my parents of not being organized.
I'm sentimental, though, and I longed for the heavy book filled with photos donning fun captions, such as "Chantel's First Tooth" or "Look Who Caught A Fish!". I envied my friends' frayed and faded books filled with photos, newspaper clippings, and letters. Instead, I clutched the manila folder from "1974." It would have to do.
On the heels of having my first child, I vowed that things would be different in my family. Like any proud mama, I took tons of pictures. I printed them out and carefully labeled each and every one. Then I discovered an "easy," new scrapbooking method called Creative Memories.
For me, Creative Memories was anything but easy. I went to evening parties where I sat hunched over a table piled high with idea books outlining elaborate layouts and and cut and glued to my heart's content. The only thing was that my heart wasn't actually content. I envied the spectacular books the other moms created. And I lamented my own sorry excuse of a keepsake. I never could cut in a straight line! Yet, at the end of that first year, I did have a book, and if nothing else I can say, "I did it!"
But here's the thing, scrapbooking just isn't my thing. I could have kept up the ruse. I could have faked my way through three more books (since I did have three more children). But I just wasn't any good at it. I didn't love it. God didn't make me crafty that way. Seeing the lovely books that other mothers created for their children, I mistakenly thought that I was supposed to make books like that, too. And after all, as I child, hadn't I always wanted a scrapbook of my very own? Wouldn't my daughter want one, too?
Not necessarily. What she probably wants more is a mother who is fully present, one who is using her God-ordained gifts to enrich the lives of her family and friends. Becoming a mommy didn't make me different. I wasn't saying goodbye to one thing simply so I could embrace something new. I didn't need to come up with new ways to prove myself just because I had a new day job. No. Now I understand that the gifts I've always had have stayed with me. It's just that God gives me new ways to use them. In children, they call this "divergent thinking"--understanding what is and imagining the possibilities of what could be. Problem solving and creativity are the inherent result of divergent thinking.
I loved the "Scrap-Happy Girls;" I just wasn't one of them. So, although I imagined the possibilities of what could be, I was clueless when it came to understanding what actually was. I wish I had learned that lesson before I attempted three more books. I'll probably never be able to cut in a straight line!
Sometimes, I still have trouble embracing who I am. Successful divergent thinking is only possible when the two parts work together. When I find myself frustrated over not being able to complete a project, I often need to ask myself: Is this who God created me to be? If the answer is "no," then it's time to take a second look at my motives. Why am I doing this thing? Who am I trying to impress? Where should I re-direct my attention?
I may not ever be able to piece together a decent scrapbook. And that's OK. Instead of a metal file cabinet, I have a few folders filled with pictures on my computer labeled "1999", "2000", "2001", etc. It's a lovely thing.
I'm sentimental, though, and I longed for the heavy book filled with photos donning fun captions, such as "Chantel's First Tooth" or "Look Who Caught A Fish!". I envied my friends' frayed and faded books filled with photos, newspaper clippings, and letters. Instead, I clutched the manila folder from "1974." It would have to do.
On the heels of having my first child, I vowed that things would be different in my family. Like any proud mama, I took tons of pictures. I printed them out and carefully labeled each and every one. Then I discovered an "easy," new scrapbooking method called Creative Memories.
For me, Creative Memories was anything but easy. I went to evening parties where I sat hunched over a table piled high with idea books outlining elaborate layouts and and cut and glued to my heart's content. The only thing was that my heart wasn't actually content. I envied the spectacular books the other moms created. And I lamented my own sorry excuse of a keepsake. I never could cut in a straight line! Yet, at the end of that first year, I did have a book, and if nothing else I can say, "I did it!"
But here's the thing, scrapbooking just isn't my thing. I could have kept up the ruse. I could have faked my way through three more books (since I did have three more children). But I just wasn't any good at it. I didn't love it. God didn't make me crafty that way. Seeing the lovely books that other mothers created for their children, I mistakenly thought that I was supposed to make books like that, too. And after all, as I child, hadn't I always wanted a scrapbook of my very own? Wouldn't my daughter want one, too?
Not necessarily. What she probably wants more is a mother who is fully present, one who is using her God-ordained gifts to enrich the lives of her family and friends. Becoming a mommy didn't make me different. I wasn't saying goodbye to one thing simply so I could embrace something new. I didn't need to come up with new ways to prove myself just because I had a new day job. No. Now I understand that the gifts I've always had have stayed with me. It's just that God gives me new ways to use them. In children, they call this "divergent thinking"--understanding what is and imagining the possibilities of what could be. Problem solving and creativity are the inherent result of divergent thinking.
I loved the "Scrap-Happy Girls;" I just wasn't one of them. So, although I imagined the possibilities of what could be, I was clueless when it came to understanding what actually was. I wish I had learned that lesson before I attempted three more books. I'll probably never be able to cut in a straight line!
Sometimes, I still have trouble embracing who I am. Successful divergent thinking is only possible when the two parts work together. When I find myself frustrated over not being able to complete a project, I often need to ask myself: Is this who God created me to be? If the answer is "no," then it's time to take a second look at my motives. Why am I doing this thing? Who am I trying to impress? Where should I re-direct my attention?
I may not ever be able to piece together a decent scrapbook. And that's OK. Instead of a metal file cabinet, I have a few folders filled with pictures on my computer labeled "1999", "2000", "2001", etc. It's a lovely thing.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Spirit Rising
For the SPIRIT God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline.
--2 Timothy 1:7 (emphasis added)
Spirit. The word evokes delight, fear, misunderstanding, and awe. For Christians, the Spirit is one part of the Holy Trinity. It's the part that gives us the wisdom and direction we need for daily living. Jesus gave us the gift of the Holy Spirit when he rose from the dead and ascended Heaven.
During my daughter's hour long dance class on Wednesdays, I normally bring something to read, and I'm in the middle of this amazing book that's helping me understand how the Spirit moves in the world. I have a different book with me every week, so it's not unusual for one of the other moms to ask me about what I'm reading. But when this particular mom asked me about the book of the week, I felt my stomach do a little flip.
"It's Spirit Rising by Jim Cymbala. I tried to act casual, but I knew she wasn't a Christian, so I wasn't sure what to say next.
"Oh", she said, "My dad believes in that stuff".
I hesitated. I didn't feel very bold, and yet the words "Do you?" came out of my mouth.
She paused for a moment before answering, then shook her head. "I don't know what I believe. I don't believe in anything. Or I guess I kind of believe in everything".
"God"?
"Yes, but I think he has a lot of different names".
I probed further. "Jesus?"
"No. I used to be Jewish. I like what Buddha teaches. I like it that there's no Hell."
"Yes", I agreed. "Who wouldn't like that? I wish it were true."
She looked amused.
We ended up talking for an entire hour. I mainly just listened. Here was a woman--broken, hurt, and seeking. She's probably a lot like me, but I have one thing she doesn't--the Spirit. And that has made all the difference.
As she told me her sad story, my heart began to beat faster, and I felt it breaking for her. I prayed, "Oh, God. Don't let me screw this up. Spirit, tell me what to do. Tell me what to say." I felt like I was holding onto this woman with my pinkie finger as she dangled from a cliff over the great abyss. I knew there was nothing I could say that could convince her that Jesus is real.
"I'm open to anything, though", she blurted.
"Would you ever go to a church?," I asked.
"Oh, I've been to church. Many times. I would go again, but not yet. I'm too messed up. I've got too much anger. I'm not ready".
I wanted to make her understand that only God could bind up those wounds and heal them forever, but I confessed that the only way for me to do that was to tell her about what God has done in my own life and what I've seen him do in the lives of the people I know.
"Don't worry. I'm working on me. Lots of people are working on me. Counselors, psychologists...." Her voice trailed off, but I was still thinking.
Tears were beginning to well up in my eyes, and I didn't want her to see me cry. But oh, how I wanted her to understand how much God loves her!
She interrupted my thoughts again. "I promise you this, though. When I am ready, I'll definitely come to you."
Did she really say she was going to come to me when she is ready? Not if, but when she's ready?
"Ok", I said. "As long as you promise, I'll wait for you."
We shook on it.
How wonderful it would have been if she had given her life over to Christ right there on the spot! We could have prayed together like two happy souls boldly slamming shut the gates of Hell! Yet, that is not what I heard the Spirit telling me to do. The Bible says the fruit of the Spirit is love, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control, so I'm confident that I experienced the Spirit at work today. I'm pretty sure the Spirit can't be rushed.
"I pinkie promise." She intertwined her pinkie with mine, and I held it there in the grips of another prayer. "Oh, Lord. Spare her. Give her time. Show her that you're real before it's too late. Don't let her fall off of this cliff."
Monday, February 27, 2012
Mamas, Don't Let Your Baby Girls Grow up to be Princesses
Think about the qualities you hope to instill in your children--strength, integrity, love, resourcefulness, and creativity. You want that for your boys...and your girls.
I've been blessed with two darling young daughters. One is only four and yet almost every single birthday party she's attended this year has been a princess party. And in just four years, "Princess" has been her go-to costume for the October 31st trick-or-treating festivities. Why is it that every little girl just wants to be a little princess? Yet, if someone called my twelve-year-old "a little princess" the phrase would bring with it nothing but negative connotations? Do we really want our daughters to grow up to be egotistical, narcissistic, self absorbed divas waiting in captivity for a knight in shining armor to rescue them? Have I sent my young sidekick the message that God made her for nothing more than her pretty face? Should I encourage her to spend hours preening and primping when an estimated 25,000 children around the world die every single day because of sickness, starvation, and a lack of clean water? Of course not.
We spend the first two years of our children's lives modeling behavior that indicates that the world exists solely for their benefit, then the next sixteen trying to convince them that "Just kidding, it doesn't." Our girls deserve more. We place a premium on beauty, reinforce greed, compliment the elaborate wardrobes and beautiful homes that belong to others, and twist the reality in which we live and for what? So we can all pretend that our precious girls are fairytale princesses?
What if being a princess meant kindness? What if it meant sharing with others? What if being a princess stood for love above all else? How could we teach our little princesses that inner beauty is the reigning quality of a true heir to the throne of grace?
Storybook princesses overcome tremendous hardship and face overwhelming danger before ultimately living happily ever after. And although we want the fairytale ending, we often deny ourselves the gift of the sacrifices that shape us in the everyday living.
I'm not anti-princess. If I'm being completely honest, statistics show that most American girls might has well be princesses for all the luxuries life in this country affords. A closet full of clothes, a pantry full of snacks and many with a private bedroom and bathroom as well. Why would they think they were anything but the progeny of the richest nation in the world? As I sit here and write, though, I am wondering how that word defines this littlest generation of girls. What an enormous responsibility we have to share what God has entrusted to us. I'm still trying to figure out how to do that. The next time Cari Jill dons a costume and twirls around the room, I hope I remember to encourage her confidence or her imaginative play instead of the way she looks in that dress.
Maybe one day when we hear the word, "princess" applied to someone we know, instead of conjuring up an image of a young girl in a frilly frock, we'll think instead of a sweet-spirited young woman with, above all else, a heart that puts others first.
I've been blessed with two darling young daughters. One is only four and yet almost every single birthday party she's attended this year has been a princess party. And in just four years, "Princess" has been her go-to costume for the October 31st trick-or-treating festivities. Why is it that every little girl just wants to be a little princess? Yet, if someone called my twelve-year-old "a little princess" the phrase would bring with it nothing but negative connotations? Do we really want our daughters to grow up to be egotistical, narcissistic, self absorbed divas waiting in captivity for a knight in shining armor to rescue them? Have I sent my young sidekick the message that God made her for nothing more than her pretty face? Should I encourage her to spend hours preening and primping when an estimated 25,000 children around the world die every single day because of sickness, starvation, and a lack of clean water? Of course not.
We spend the first two years of our children's lives modeling behavior that indicates that the world exists solely for their benefit, then the next sixteen trying to convince them that "Just kidding, it doesn't." Our girls deserve more. We place a premium on beauty, reinforce greed, compliment the elaborate wardrobes and beautiful homes that belong to others, and twist the reality in which we live and for what? So we can all pretend that our precious girls are fairytale princesses?
What if being a princess meant kindness? What if it meant sharing with others? What if being a princess stood for love above all else? How could we teach our little princesses that inner beauty is the reigning quality of a true heir to the throne of grace?
Storybook princesses overcome tremendous hardship and face overwhelming danger before ultimately living happily ever after. And although we want the fairytale ending, we often deny ourselves the gift of the sacrifices that shape us in the everyday living.
I'm not anti-princess. If I'm being completely honest, statistics show that most American girls might has well be princesses for all the luxuries life in this country affords. A closet full of clothes, a pantry full of snacks and many with a private bedroom and bathroom as well. Why would they think they were anything but the progeny of the richest nation in the world? As I sit here and write, though, I am wondering how that word defines this littlest generation of girls. What an enormous responsibility we have to share what God has entrusted to us. I'm still trying to figure out how to do that. The next time Cari Jill dons a costume and twirls around the room, I hope I remember to encourage her confidence or her imaginative play instead of the way she looks in that dress.
Maybe one day when we hear the word, "princess" applied to someone we know, instead of conjuring up an image of a young girl in a frilly frock, we'll think instead of a sweet-spirited young woman with, above all else, a heart that puts others first.
For the Love of Learning
Remember your first day of school? Laying out your clothes before you went to bed? Waking up early for a special breakfast, then boarding the school bus all decked out in a new backpack full of paper and newly sharpened pencils? Remember the anticipation and the promise that that day held? A new year meant a new beginning, a world of possibility, and nine glorious months of transformative brain power at work to make you a lean, mean intelligent machine. Whatever happened to looking forward to going school?
For my kids (myself included), what happened was "school." Instead of an institution that promotes creativity and fosters imagination, my children sit in rows and learn how to be the best darn test takers the world has ever known. They answer A, B, C, or D to a variety of questions designed to assess what has been drilled into their brains all year. A few weeks later, we receive a report that hopefully proclaims our children "meet expectations." How my heart swells when it declares that they've "exceeded" them! But where did my children go? They are but hollow shells of those starry eyed beings who got on the bus that first day of school. If only they had space to create, time to dream, and opportunity to discover this big, wide, amazing planet, I can only imagine what progress might be realized.
With nearly three dozen students in some classes and teachers facing mandates to teach a standardized curriculum, no wonder we've created a society of robots programmed to receive, repeat, and regurgitate an onslaught of ever-challenging information.
Discipline, I like.
Structure, I embrace.
Training, I adore.
The public school, though necessary and arguably beneficial, can only serve the masses. And yet deep down we all know that every human child is a wellspring of opportunity--a brilliant little soul who is and who is yet to be only once in the whole history of the world. Like a blank canvas, they embody beauty, the quintessential masterpiece of creation. Art lives in the wandering. Creativity reigns in the freedom.
And so I think I've decided to home school my kids next year. And it's not because I want to insulate them from the world. On the contrary, I want to show them the world! I want to open up their future by reclaiming their present. I want to help them discover their unique gifts and abilities. Oh, we'll read and we'll write and we'll do math problems out the wazoo. We'll explore challenges from every angle, develop creative solutions, and above all else keep learning. Every teacher I've ever met is all about the learning!
As for expectations? Well, in taking this first step, in saying the words, "home school" out loud, I'm doing something I, for one, NEVER expected....Teachers of the world, I commend you. Your job is big, but mine is bigger. You taught them to read. You taught them to write. Now, let's teach them to think.
For my kids (myself included), what happened was "school." Instead of an institution that promotes creativity and fosters imagination, my children sit in rows and learn how to be the best darn test takers the world has ever known. They answer A, B, C, or D to a variety of questions designed to assess what has been drilled into their brains all year. A few weeks later, we receive a report that hopefully proclaims our children "meet expectations." How my heart swells when it declares that they've "exceeded" them! But where did my children go? They are but hollow shells of those starry eyed beings who got on the bus that first day of school. If only they had space to create, time to dream, and opportunity to discover this big, wide, amazing planet, I can only imagine what progress might be realized.
With nearly three dozen students in some classes and teachers facing mandates to teach a standardized curriculum, no wonder we've created a society of robots programmed to receive, repeat, and regurgitate an onslaught of ever-challenging information.
Discipline, I like.
Structure, I embrace.
Training, I adore.
The public school, though necessary and arguably beneficial, can only serve the masses. And yet deep down we all know that every human child is a wellspring of opportunity--a brilliant little soul who is and who is yet to be only once in the whole history of the world. Like a blank canvas, they embody beauty, the quintessential masterpiece of creation. Art lives in the wandering. Creativity reigns in the freedom.
And so I think I've decided to home school my kids next year. And it's not because I want to insulate them from the world. On the contrary, I want to show them the world! I want to open up their future by reclaiming their present. I want to help them discover their unique gifts and abilities. Oh, we'll read and we'll write and we'll do math problems out the wazoo. We'll explore challenges from every angle, develop creative solutions, and above all else keep learning. Every teacher I've ever met is all about the learning!
As for expectations? Well, in taking this first step, in saying the words, "home school" out loud, I'm doing something I, for one, NEVER expected....Teachers of the world, I commend you. Your job is big, but mine is bigger. You taught them to read. You taught them to write. Now, let's teach them to think.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Bread of Life
A couple of weeks ago, Gavin and I celebrated 16 years of marriage. I was only 15 when we began dating, and I'm almost 38 now, so we've been together a pretty long time. We've had our share of ups and downs, and yet, the years have stretched out over a beautiful landscape made richer by the storms we've weathered and the opportunities that sometimes disguised themselves as obstacles. On our anniversary, we enjoy spending time reflecting on our time together.
"What was a highlight of this year?"
"What do you hope we can do differently next year?"
"How can I be a better husband/wife to you?"
There's a little bit of nostalgia mixed in with the promise of our future days together. Because we love each other so much, we have always worked very hard (even in our anger) to keep it together. Whenever we hastened to fix our problems on our own, solutions disintegrated, and the challenges overwhelmed us. But whenever we handed over what we had to God, he honored our gift and multiplied the blessings. Sometimes, we thought we were giving up when what we were really doing was giving what we had to the only One who actually had the capacity to do something with it.
One of the greatest miracles of the New Testament is Jesus's feeding of the 5,000. Found in Matthew 15, Mark 8, Luke 9, and John 6 , it chronicles what happens when one responsible little boy gives his meager lunch to Jesus. With just a couple of fish and a few handfuls of bread, Jesus satisfies the hunger of an enormous crowd of people. It's interesting to me that Jesus broke the bread, gave thanks, and then multiplied it. So often, we are the ones who are broken, and we've done it to ourselves. With so little to share, so little to give, God takes the broken pieces and multiplies them into something that's worthy of more than a story--a real life miracle. Most notably, he commands his disciples to: "Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted." Yes, even in our brokenness, nothing is wasted.
In hindsight, I am grateful for the times when I went all to pieces. Now, when I look forward, I expect a miracle. If I ever believe the lie that I have nothing to give, all I have to do is read the account outlined in all four gospels. God does way more with the broken pieces than I could ever do with a basket of hoarded morsels. Maybe nothing would ever "go to Hell in a handbasket" if we were all willing to take what we have, break it open, bare our soul, admit our deficiencies, and put it all in the basket that Jesus is holding.
Two thousand years ago, more than five thousand people got to participate in a miracle, and all because one little boy was brave enough to give those pieces to Jesus. The people went away satisfied, and not just because their bellies were full. Their hearts were, too.
"What was a highlight of this year?"
"What do you hope we can do differently next year?"
"How can I be a better husband/wife to you?"
There's a little bit of nostalgia mixed in with the promise of our future days together. Because we love each other so much, we have always worked very hard (even in our anger) to keep it together. Whenever we hastened to fix our problems on our own, solutions disintegrated, and the challenges overwhelmed us. But whenever we handed over what we had to God, he honored our gift and multiplied the blessings. Sometimes, we thought we were giving up when what we were really doing was giving what we had to the only One who actually had the capacity to do something with it.
One of the greatest miracles of the New Testament is Jesus's feeding of the 5,000. Found in Matthew 15, Mark 8, Luke 9, and John 6 , it chronicles what happens when one responsible little boy gives his meager lunch to Jesus. With just a couple of fish and a few handfuls of bread, Jesus satisfies the hunger of an enormous crowd of people. It's interesting to me that Jesus broke the bread, gave thanks, and then multiplied it. So often, we are the ones who are broken, and we've done it to ourselves. With so little to share, so little to give, God takes the broken pieces and multiplies them into something that's worthy of more than a story--a real life miracle. Most notably, he commands his disciples to: "Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted." Yes, even in our brokenness, nothing is wasted.
In hindsight, I am grateful for the times when I went all to pieces. Now, when I look forward, I expect a miracle. If I ever believe the lie that I have nothing to give, all I have to do is read the account outlined in all four gospels. God does way more with the broken pieces than I could ever do with a basket of hoarded morsels. Maybe nothing would ever "go to Hell in a handbasket" if we were all willing to take what we have, break it open, bare our soul, admit our deficiencies, and put it all in the basket that Jesus is holding.
Two thousand years ago, more than five thousand people got to participate in a miracle, and all because one little boy was brave enough to give those pieces to Jesus. The people went away satisfied, and not just because their bellies were full. Their hearts were, too.
Female by Design
Priscilla Shirer's challenging Resolution for Women is inspiring, to say the least. This week's resolution, "Purposefully Feminine", proved especially insightful. Every other time I've studied God's view of women, it has been in the context of the much beloved woman found in Proverbs 31: "A wife of noble character, who can find?" After reading verses 10-31 to myself, I always sarcastically answered "Exactly. Who CAN find?"
Priscilla Shirer conspicuously leaves out this citation altogether, and I don't think it's because she doesn't agree with it's implications. She's a resourceful author and references feminine virtues that point to Jesus rather than another woman. Maybe she's protecting us from the jealousy we inevitably feel whenever we're compared to that great woman.
Whenever we're compared to any other woman.
Erroneously, we believe that we can't measure up. God's word affirms that our unique gifts make us special, useful, and worthy. Whether feminine or masculine, our purpose is the same: to point others to Christ. How do we do that? I apologize in advance, but I'll have to use that culturally taboo word: SUBMISSION. All it really means is that I'm willing to put you before me. Your deal before my deal.
The Proverbs 31 Woman shows herself in eleven primary characteristics. She's
Priscilla Shirer conspicuously leaves out this citation altogether, and I don't think it's because she doesn't agree with it's implications. She's a resourceful author and references feminine virtues that point to Jesus rather than another woman. Maybe she's protecting us from the jealousy we inevitably feel whenever we're compared to that great woman.
Whenever we're compared to any other woman.
Erroneously, we believe that we can't measure up. God's word affirms that our unique gifts make us special, useful, and worthy. Whether feminine or masculine, our purpose is the same: to point others to Christ. How do we do that? I apologize in advance, but I'll have to use that culturally taboo word: SUBMISSION. All it really means is that I'm willing to put you before me. Your deal before my deal.
The Proverbs 31 Woman shows herself in eleven primary characteristics. She's
- Virtuous
- Trustworthy
- Energetic
- Physically Fit
- Economical
- Unselfish
- Prepared
- Honorable
- Prudent
- Loving
- God-Fearing
Good Writing: It's All in the Recipe
I've spent the better part of my married life learning how to cook. Those early months were not pretty. Though I enjoyed eating, I lacked the capacity to simmer, steam, and stew the raw ingredients. Dinner often consisted of Tuna Helper or fried ham steak. Eventually, we progressed to something more "gourmet." Gavin took chicken breast, seasoned it with whatever we had on hand, and then sauteed it in a mixture of liquid flavorings--worcestershire, soy sauce, or lemon juice. We tossed the result with buttered rice or noodles. Bon Appetit!
When I brought my firstborn daughter home, I found myself with large chunks of time on my hands. Since newborns do just three things--sleep, cry, and nurse-- I found myself rocking the baby and watching endless hours of programming on the Food Network. And thus, I learned to cook. I began to understand the value in marinating meat, being careful to use just the right pots and utensils. When marinating with something acidic like lemon, you couldn't leave it on the meat too long or it would actually "cook" it. You couldn't use a metal pan. To make spaghetti sauce taste like it had been simmering all day, add a little beef stock. Don't over-mix the bread dough or your pastry would be tough. I watched, and I remembered, and I experimented.
Little by little, our limited menu expanded. I tackled stuffed pork tenderloin and grilled salmon. I began to add my own twists to some of the dishes--a pinch of cinnamon here or a touch of tabasco there. I printed out our favorites, refining them until at last I had my own cookbook of sorts--family favorites I could make again and again. I declared each dish delicious because I had studied the technique, then perfected it myself.
Oh, I made mistakes in the process. Once I tried to heat the ceramic insert of my crock pot directly on the burner of my stove. After a series of puzzling pops, all six quarts of a very chunky vegetable soup exploded in my kitchen. Another time, I drizzled hot chocolate over inflated balloons in an effort to make these darling little chocolate nest bowls I had seen one beloved pastry chef demonstrate. The hot chocolate caused the balloons to burst, and I ended up scraping the cocoa confection from every surface and crevice in my entire kitchen. Two years later, I was still finding chocolate on isolated door hinges and light fixtures. And yet from both of those experiences, I learned some important lessons.
1. Having the right parts on hand make a big difference.
2. Process matters.
3. Patience prevents disaster.
4. Persistence pays off.
So writing is a lot like cooking. I have all these ideas just jiggling around in my head like the ingredients for a gourmet souffle. I want to get them all down as fast as I possibly can. That souffle is going to be really good when it's done, but I don't want the whole thing to collapse. The perfect combination of plot, characters, conflict, and climax can be pretty fragile. I don't want to get ahead of myself. I'm spending some time studying the masters and learning the craft, practicing with proven exercises, then beginning at the beginning and proceeding step by step. Good art is rarely accidental just as a good dish is rarely the result of unguided happenstance. In the creative recesses of my imagination, something delicious is percolating.
As Julia Child noted most sagaciously, "No one is born a great cook. One learns by doing". Hunched over my keyboard as I am right now, I can eat that up and taste the satisfaction of having done all I could to perfect the technique that makes for a great dish...or a great script.
When I brought my firstborn daughter home, I found myself with large chunks of time on my hands. Since newborns do just three things--sleep, cry, and nurse-- I found myself rocking the baby and watching endless hours of programming on the Food Network. And thus, I learned to cook. I began to understand the value in marinating meat, being careful to use just the right pots and utensils. When marinating with something acidic like lemon, you couldn't leave it on the meat too long or it would actually "cook" it. You couldn't use a metal pan. To make spaghetti sauce taste like it had been simmering all day, add a little beef stock. Don't over-mix the bread dough or your pastry would be tough. I watched, and I remembered, and I experimented.
Little by little, our limited menu expanded. I tackled stuffed pork tenderloin and grilled salmon. I began to add my own twists to some of the dishes--a pinch of cinnamon here or a touch of tabasco there. I printed out our favorites, refining them until at last I had my own cookbook of sorts--family favorites I could make again and again. I declared each dish delicious because I had studied the technique, then perfected it myself.
Oh, I made mistakes in the process. Once I tried to heat the ceramic insert of my crock pot directly on the burner of my stove. After a series of puzzling pops, all six quarts of a very chunky vegetable soup exploded in my kitchen. Another time, I drizzled hot chocolate over inflated balloons in an effort to make these darling little chocolate nest bowls I had seen one beloved pastry chef demonstrate. The hot chocolate caused the balloons to burst, and I ended up scraping the cocoa confection from every surface and crevice in my entire kitchen. Two years later, I was still finding chocolate on isolated door hinges and light fixtures. And yet from both of those experiences, I learned some important lessons.
1. Having the right parts on hand make a big difference.
2. Process matters.
3. Patience prevents disaster.
4. Persistence pays off.
So writing is a lot like cooking. I have all these ideas just jiggling around in my head like the ingredients for a gourmet souffle. I want to get them all down as fast as I possibly can. That souffle is going to be really good when it's done, but I don't want the whole thing to collapse. The perfect combination of plot, characters, conflict, and climax can be pretty fragile. I don't want to get ahead of myself. I'm spending some time studying the masters and learning the craft, practicing with proven exercises, then beginning at the beginning and proceeding step by step. Good art is rarely accidental just as a good dish is rarely the result of unguided happenstance. In the creative recesses of my imagination, something delicious is percolating.
As Julia Child noted most sagaciously, "No one is born a great cook. One learns by doing". Hunched over my keyboard as I am right now, I can eat that up and taste the satisfaction of having done all I could to perfect the technique that makes for a great dish...or a great script.
Friday, January 20, 2012
How Hard Can It Be?
"It's not that hard."
It's a mantra I say over and over again, mostly to convince myself that the majority of life's trials just aren't that difficult. Yes, I've had hard days. For any of you who read my post on the woes of homework, you know I don't have it all together.
"How do you do it?" I'm often asked. I don't know why people ask me that. I'm a stay-at-home mom with four kids. Just one is still at home with me during the day, and even then just two days a week. I don't home-school. I don't have a full-time job. I have a housekeeper who comes once a week. I'm a little obsessive-compulsive, and I'm never bored. I stay busy. All the time. But really. Compared to many moms I know, truly what I have going on here is not that hard. To those that work long hours, come home to a messy house, care for their children and husband and drop into bed empty and exhausted, I commend you. Yes, your life is hard. My hope for you, though, is that your life is also full of joy.
But here's the kicker. Don't be fooled by the lie that says that contentment is contingent on balance. Not true, my friends. The real secret to keeping things on the right track isn't balance; it's prioritizing. Specifically, it's about prioritizing gratitude. When you plan ahead, when you make a conscious, intentional decision to give thanks even BEFORE the consequences of your choices become manifest, you say to God, "Thank you for these kids. Thank you for the laundry. Thank you for the homework." Truthfully, I'm not necessarily saying thank you for it. I'm saying thank you that I'm in it. For now, this is the place God has me.
"Thank you because you're God (priority one), and you gave me (these kids, homework, house, etc.) for a purpose (gratitude)."
Balance says it's okay to eat ice cream and cookies. In moderation. Balance says it's okay to work long hours as long as your time at home is quality time. Balance says I deserve this dress. I've been good with my bank account all month. In moderation, people.
And all those things are okay, but balance is tricky. It doesn't take much to upset it. A little too much, and the waistline stretches. Reality is blurred. Money is tight. And you have to start all over again. What if, instead, you said, "I'm prioritizing my body. I'll treat myself on Saturday night?" How would your life be different if you said, "God, thank you for this family. I understand that the time I spend with them has an eternal impact. I'm drawing the line at 45 hours/week?" What if you got to that spiritual place where you could say, "God thank you for clothing me. I'm not going to spend money on myself until I've given what I have to others?"
The problem with "moderation" is that it's subjective, and the boundary lines are varied. For me, having ice cream once a month might define moderation, but you might enjoy the cool treat once a week, and my friend down the street might think once a day is okay. Where do we draw the line? By focusing on priorities and gratitude, we acknowledge God first and his role in taking care of us.
Does that mean I'm complacent? Absolutely not! But I am content, and here's why:
Matthew 6: 31-33. "So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. "
So I say it's not that hard. But I also want to be a person who "does hard things." There's a big difference between complacency and contentment. By analyzing the opposite, we can define both. Discontent says "My life lacks joy" while a person who is not complacent says, "There's surely more to life." God gives us what we need. That's why I'm content. He promises us what we desire. That's why I'm not complacent. Real joy is found when my desires fall in line with what God desires for me.
I remain content because God is in control of the minutiae and the mundane as well as the magnificent and miraculous. I get to participate in both . Jeremiah 29:11-14: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you and hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the Lord, "and will bring you back from captivity." While I might once have felt that I was being held captive by my situation, the reality is that my negative thoughts and attitude kept me from the freedom and fulfillment I desired.
So, while I'm joyful, I will never be happy with the way things are. Why? Because God has a plan for my life. The only way to get there, though, is to DO HARD THINGS. I have those words emblazoned on my keychain. God created me for a purpose, for something holy and beautiful, and I don't want to waste a single day being complacent about the way things are, not when what could be is beyond my wildest imagination. The freedom of fulfillment in a life of a contentedness is attainable.
Ephesians 5:16--Be careful, then, how you live--not as unwise, but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. How do you do this? It's not that hard. You can choose to make excuses, or you can choose to make a difference.
Contentment is accepting the blessing of today. Priscilla Shirer, author of the Bible Study, Resolution for Women, puts it this way: " It's a holy equilibrium. A genuine gratitude for what the day brings, all the while maintaining a controlled anticipation for what tomorrow may offer." And so I wait...patiently, expectantly, prayerfully.
Lord, I pray that you will lead me to discover the opportunities that today brings. And in the meantime, I will give you thanks for giving me this day, no matter what it brings.
Now, that's hard.
It's a mantra I say over and over again, mostly to convince myself that the majority of life's trials just aren't that difficult. Yes, I've had hard days. For any of you who read my post on the woes of homework, you know I don't have it all together.
"How do you do it?" I'm often asked. I don't know why people ask me that. I'm a stay-at-home mom with four kids. Just one is still at home with me during the day, and even then just two days a week. I don't home-school. I don't have a full-time job. I have a housekeeper who comes once a week. I'm a little obsessive-compulsive, and I'm never bored. I stay busy. All the time. But really. Compared to many moms I know, truly what I have going on here is not that hard. To those that work long hours, come home to a messy house, care for their children and husband and drop into bed empty and exhausted, I commend you. Yes, your life is hard. My hope for you, though, is that your life is also full of joy.
But here's the kicker. Don't be fooled by the lie that says that contentment is contingent on balance. Not true, my friends. The real secret to keeping things on the right track isn't balance; it's prioritizing. Specifically, it's about prioritizing gratitude. When you plan ahead, when you make a conscious, intentional decision to give thanks even BEFORE the consequences of your choices become manifest, you say to God, "Thank you for these kids. Thank you for the laundry. Thank you for the homework." Truthfully, I'm not necessarily saying thank you for it. I'm saying thank you that I'm in it. For now, this is the place God has me.
"Thank you because you're God (priority one), and you gave me (these kids, homework, house, etc.) for a purpose (gratitude)."
Balance says it's okay to eat ice cream and cookies. In moderation. Balance says it's okay to work long hours as long as your time at home is quality time. Balance says I deserve this dress. I've been good with my bank account all month. In moderation, people.
And all those things are okay, but balance is tricky. It doesn't take much to upset it. A little too much, and the waistline stretches. Reality is blurred. Money is tight. And you have to start all over again. What if, instead, you said, "I'm prioritizing my body. I'll treat myself on Saturday night?" How would your life be different if you said, "God, thank you for this family. I understand that the time I spend with them has an eternal impact. I'm drawing the line at 45 hours/week?" What if you got to that spiritual place where you could say, "God thank you for clothing me. I'm not going to spend money on myself until I've given what I have to others?"
The problem with "moderation" is that it's subjective, and the boundary lines are varied. For me, having ice cream once a month might define moderation, but you might enjoy the cool treat once a week, and my friend down the street might think once a day is okay. Where do we draw the line? By focusing on priorities and gratitude, we acknowledge God first and his role in taking care of us.
Does that mean I'm complacent? Absolutely not! But I am content, and here's why:
Matthew 6: 31-33. "So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. "
So I say it's not that hard. But I also want to be a person who "does hard things." There's a big difference between complacency and contentment. By analyzing the opposite, we can define both. Discontent says "My life lacks joy" while a person who is not complacent says, "There's surely more to life." God gives us what we need. That's why I'm content. He promises us what we desire. That's why I'm not complacent. Real joy is found when my desires fall in line with what God desires for me.
I remain content because God is in control of the minutiae and the mundane as well as the magnificent and miraculous. I get to participate in both . Jeremiah 29:11-14: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you and hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the Lord, "and will bring you back from captivity." While I might once have felt that I was being held captive by my situation, the reality is that my negative thoughts and attitude kept me from the freedom and fulfillment I desired.
So, while I'm joyful, I will never be happy with the way things are. Why? Because God has a plan for my life. The only way to get there, though, is to DO HARD THINGS. I have those words emblazoned on my keychain. God created me for a purpose, for something holy and beautiful, and I don't want to waste a single day being complacent about the way things are, not when what could be is beyond my wildest imagination. The freedom of fulfillment in a life of a contentedness is attainable.
Ephesians 5:16--Be careful, then, how you live--not as unwise, but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. How do you do this? It's not that hard. You can choose to make excuses, or you can choose to make a difference.
Contentment is accepting the blessing of today. Priscilla Shirer, author of the Bible Study, Resolution for Women, puts it this way: " It's a holy equilibrium. A genuine gratitude for what the day brings, all the while maintaining a controlled anticipation for what tomorrow may offer." And so I wait...patiently, expectantly, prayerfully.
Lord, I pray that you will lead me to discover the opportunities that today brings. And in the meantime, I will give you thanks for giving me this day, no matter what it brings.
Now, that's hard.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Harry Potter and..the Pursuit of God
Even Atheists long for God. No, they won't admit that's what they're searching for, but since God made everyone, I think there's something in all of us that seeks to draw us to him.
In an article I read in the January 8th issue of Parade Magazine, Daniel Radcliffe (a.k.a. Harry Potter) responds to a question about religion. "I have a problem with religion or anything that says, "We have all the answers," because there's no such thing as 'the answers.' We're complex. We change our minds on issues all the time. Religion leaves no room for human complexity."
Ahhh, young Harry, but it does. You are right. People are complex. And life is hard. As Christians, though, we have a direct line to the big man upstairs. Jesus loves me, and that's enough.
And so says Radcliffe, "I started to see the potential for acting as storytelling, as being part of something fundamental to human existence."
You are right again. We are all characters in the greatest story ever told, the one where God shows us again and again that he loves us and longs for a relationship with us. Over and over, we turn our backs on him. Yet, he continued to pursue us, ultimately sending Jesus here to live and die and save us from our sin so we could live forever. You, Daniel Radcliffe, have a place in that story, too.
"What I learned is that acting is to a large extent about trying to stave off self-doubt long enough to be natural and real onstage. I have quite a rich inner life, and I'm constantly looking for a way to express that. I haven't found it yet in acting. Self-expression is something that I love and yearn for. "
You haven't found it in acting because the expression of your soul can only be found in the one who created it: God.
I love the poetry of the words of Jeremiah 17:7. In these words, we find no room for self doubt.
"But blessed is the man who
trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted
by the water that sends out its roots by
the stream. It does not fear when heat
comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of
drought
and never fails to bear fruit."
Radcliffe ends by saying, "I still see something very romantic in the world that perhaps isn't there." He's sees God, but he doesn't recognize him.
In an article I read in the January 8th issue of Parade Magazine, Daniel Radcliffe (a.k.a. Harry Potter) responds to a question about religion. "I have a problem with religion or anything that says, "We have all the answers," because there's no such thing as 'the answers.' We're complex. We change our minds on issues all the time. Religion leaves no room for human complexity."
Ahhh, young Harry, but it does. You are right. People are complex. And life is hard. As Christians, though, we have a direct line to the big man upstairs. Jesus loves me, and that's enough.
And so says Radcliffe, "I started to see the potential for acting as storytelling, as being part of something fundamental to human existence."
You are right again. We are all characters in the greatest story ever told, the one where God shows us again and again that he loves us and longs for a relationship with us. Over and over, we turn our backs on him. Yet, he continued to pursue us, ultimately sending Jesus here to live and die and save us from our sin so we could live forever. You, Daniel Radcliffe, have a place in that story, too.
"What I learned is that acting is to a large extent about trying to stave off self-doubt long enough to be natural and real onstage. I have quite a rich inner life, and I'm constantly looking for a way to express that. I haven't found it yet in acting. Self-expression is something that I love and yearn for. "
You haven't found it in acting because the expression of your soul can only be found in the one who created it: God.
I love the poetry of the words of Jeremiah 17:7. In these words, we find no room for self doubt.
"But blessed is the man who
trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted
by the water that sends out its roots by
the stream. It does not fear when heat
comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of
drought
and never fails to bear fruit."
Radcliffe ends by saying, "I still see something very romantic in the world that perhaps isn't there." He's sees God, but he doesn't recognize him.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Are You There, Mom?
As my kids get older, I find myself pushing them farther and farther towards the edge of the nest. Eventually, I'll touch them with my finger, and off they'll go...not to tumble downward, flapping their wings helplessly for me to pick them up again, but instead to soar to amazing heights. I often ask myself, "For what other purpose do I feed and clothe them, teach them and train them?" Surely, it's not simply to keep them alive. No, it's to send them on their way! Of course, that's my hope.
Even at the ages they are now, they crave the independence. "Mommy, let me do it!" my four year old cries as she brushes her teeth and clips a bow into her waves of curly hair.
"I want to stay home by myself!", my 10-year remarks as I pack everyone in the car for the dreaded weekly trip to the grocery store.
"Don't walk me to the bus stop!", my middle schooler laments. Never mind that it's raining, and that I was going to hold the umbrella for her until she got on the bus.
I've come to realize that I may not have to push them out of the nest at all. They are the ones giving me the boot!
And yet as much as they want to hold me at arms-length, there is something in them that also wants to make sure I'm still there.
I'm reminded of this inner turmoil when we are at the park.
"Watch me, Mommy!", Cari Jill says as she runs to the tallest slide.
"Did you see that pass?", Aaron asks as he tumbles to the ground with his football.
"I'll be climbing that tree over there. Where are you going to be?", Gavin mumbles as he runs away with a pack of friends.
I'm not going anywhere.
A month ago, I chaperoned the Middle School holiday dance. Of course, I was spying, but I tried to be respectful of my 12-year old. I acted as cool and aloof as humanly possible, talking only to my friends and just barely peeking at Christiana over my own half-full glass of punch. In fact, I had no intention of speaking to her at all. Yet, every half hour or so, there she was, making her way over to where I was standing.
"Did you see that dress, Mom?"
"Are you having fun, Mom?"
Really? She wanted to know if I was having fun?
My children want to know that I'm paying attention, that I've got their back, that I'll protect them, cheer for them, and congratulate them. They may say they want to do it "all by themselves," as well as assert their independence in other not so subtle ways. But they'll always be back. Drawn to me like a magnet to metal, they're always close.
I, too, want to be assured that someone cares for me, is watching out for me, and loves me unconditionally.
Are you there, God? It's me...Chantel.
"Hey, God, I'm going to do this thing my way...but I hope you're there; I hope you're watching. I hope you'll save me if I fall down. And God, I really hope you'll bless me even if I do the wrong thing."
Like the Psalmist (like our children), we say, "O Lord, I call to you; come quickly to me. Hear my voice when I call to you" (Psalm 141:1).
I want to do it all by myself, and I also want the strength of God. I want both. I need both.
Psalm 139:7-10
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
Thank God.
Thank God for those verses as well as the promise of Psalm 73:23-24: Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory.
Thank God, that even though one day my children may leave my home for good, they won't be far from God. So now, when I clasp their tiny hands and look into their eyes, I hope they see God's reflection in mine. I hope that even though they push me away, I'll take advantage of all those little moments that I unexpectedly get back--moments when they come running into my arms--happy or hurt or excited or angry--I want them to see God in me and know that like him, yes, I'm still here. As he guides me with his counsel, so as their parent, I am instructed to do the same for them.
I'm still here.
Even at the ages they are now, they crave the independence. "Mommy, let me do it!" my four year old cries as she brushes her teeth and clips a bow into her waves of curly hair.
"I want to stay home by myself!", my 10-year remarks as I pack everyone in the car for the dreaded weekly trip to the grocery store.
"Don't walk me to the bus stop!", my middle schooler laments. Never mind that it's raining, and that I was going to hold the umbrella for her until she got on the bus.
I've come to realize that I may not have to push them out of the nest at all. They are the ones giving me the boot!
And yet as much as they want to hold me at arms-length, there is something in them that also wants to make sure I'm still there.
I'm reminded of this inner turmoil when we are at the park.
"Watch me, Mommy!", Cari Jill says as she runs to the tallest slide.
"Did you see that pass?", Aaron asks as he tumbles to the ground with his football.
"I'll be climbing that tree over there. Where are you going to be?", Gavin mumbles as he runs away with a pack of friends.
I'm not going anywhere.
A month ago, I chaperoned the Middle School holiday dance. Of course, I was spying, but I tried to be respectful of my 12-year old. I acted as cool and aloof as humanly possible, talking only to my friends and just barely peeking at Christiana over my own half-full glass of punch. In fact, I had no intention of speaking to her at all. Yet, every half hour or so, there she was, making her way over to where I was standing.
"Did you see that dress, Mom?"
"Are you having fun, Mom?"
Really? She wanted to know if I was having fun?
My children want to know that I'm paying attention, that I've got their back, that I'll protect them, cheer for them, and congratulate them. They may say they want to do it "all by themselves," as well as assert their independence in other not so subtle ways. But they'll always be back. Drawn to me like a magnet to metal, they're always close.
I, too, want to be assured that someone cares for me, is watching out for me, and loves me unconditionally.
Are you there, God? It's me...Chantel.
"Hey, God, I'm going to do this thing my way...but I hope you're there; I hope you're watching. I hope you'll save me if I fall down. And God, I really hope you'll bless me even if I do the wrong thing."
Like the Psalmist (like our children), we say, "O Lord, I call to you; come quickly to me. Hear my voice when I call to you" (Psalm 141:1).
I want to do it all by myself, and I also want the strength of God. I want both. I need both.
Psalm 139:7-10
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
Thank God.
Thank God for those verses as well as the promise of Psalm 73:23-24: Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory.
Thank God, that even though one day my children may leave my home for good, they won't be far from God. So now, when I clasp their tiny hands and look into their eyes, I hope they see God's reflection in mine. I hope that even though they push me away, I'll take advantage of all those little moments that I unexpectedly get back--moments when they come running into my arms--happy or hurt or excited or angry--I want them to see God in me and know that like him, yes, I'm still here. As he guides me with his counsel, so as their parent, I am instructed to do the same for them.
I'm still here.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Tradition Schmadition
It's December 26th, and when Christmas is over at our house, IT IS OVER. Although the tree still stands and the stockings still hang, I am anxious to resume the order that normally characterizes our home.
From Thanksgiving to December 25th, however, I am all about the traditions that signify Christmas for me. The "comfort and joy" of the famous carol are rooted in the tradition of the season.
I overheard two friends chatting the other day. One said, "It just doesn't seem like Christmas this year." The other asked the obvious: "Why not?" Her friend answered, "I don't know. I guess it's because we didn't do a lot of our usual stuff."
The "usual stuff" actually matters a lot. For one, it tells my children that we are intentional about celebrating Christmas. We think it's important. We love God, and Jesus' birthday is a pretty special day. By taking time to establish the traditions, we also reap the benefits of a full month of deliberate family togetherness. Even though December can be pretty crazy, it's a beautiful kind of crazy, devoid of the high-strung angst that normally characterizes days governed by school and work.
If you haven't already done this, here's six ways to establish traditions that stick.
1. Establish traditions that bind the family together. Beginning on December 1st, the Elf on the Shelf arrives at our house. His escapades are always fun, and the kids look forward to being the first to find him every morning. He is a tricky little elf! We also hang an Advent calendar that my sister-in-law made for us. Every child, from the youngest to the oldest, loves to plunge his/her hands in the deep pockets and feel for the treat of the day. It might be a small piece of candy, a game, or an activity that the family can share. The daily element of surprise adds a bit of fun and builds anticipation.
2. Establish traditions that work within the framework of your family's unique schedule. Since my husband is a pastor, we rarely get to spend the entire day together on Christmas Eve. Years ago, we decided to do something easy, but fun, for dinner on Christmas Eve. We make homemade pizzas. Right now, the kids aren't very creative with their toppings, but they look forward to tossing the dough, stretching it into unique shapes, and decorating it with pepperoni, cheese, and veggies. By the time they have finished and the pizzas are cooking, Gavin is usually back from tying up the loose ends at church.
3. Establish traditions that you can share with others. I love to purchase the largest undecorated gingerbread men I can find. I put them in the freezer and throughout the month of January we bring them out when friends stop by for dinner. Everyone loves to decorate and eat gingerbread, and seeing all the clever creations makes us all laugh. I'll warn you: It's messy, but worth it!
4. Establish traditions that will grow as your children grow. When I had my first child, I wanted to do something for her on Christmas that I would be able to do every year of her life. Some families choose to purchase an ornament every year. Others add to a charm bracelet or necklace. I like to get my kids matching Christmas pajamas. They're getting older now, and on a regular day they would be mortified in matching jammies, but on Christmas they endure looking like overgrown elf clones. And even though they might moan and groan, the smiles we capture we are priceless. The other present they open on Christmas Eve is the gift of a new book or game. As they grow, picture books have evolved into chapter books and fun family games.
5. Establish traditions that respect the reason for the season. We love to read Christmas story found in Luke 2. When our kids were little, Gavin or I would read the story out loud. Now that they're older and fully capable of reading out loud themselves, they take turns reading a few sentences at a time. This year, I finally thought to record their sweet voices arguing over whose turn it was, correcting each other, and finally finishing the story before tearing into the presents under the tree. Good times.
6. Establish traditions that are also rituals. After baths and showers and when the wrapping is put away and the evidence from the pizza party discarded, we pile in the car to gaze at the beautiful lights that decorate our neighborhood. I used to think Christmas was the tackiest time of the year, what with all those mismatched lights and white metal reindeer dotting peoples' yards, but now all that is festive simply brings a smile to my face. I imagine small children begging their dads to wrap the bushes and trees with the twinkling lights. I imagine the family togetherness being enjoyed in the cozy houses nestled between all those decorations. Our shared joy makes my heart swell just a little bit. Whether beautiful, gaudy, sophisticated, or tacky, I'm going to peer out the foggy car window and "ooh" and "aah" because each little display is actually saying, "Merry Christmas" back to me.
Above all else, don't forget to attend a Christmas Eve service. The traditions might make it feel like Christmas, but Jesus is Christmas. Celebrating the season with other believers is where I truly experience God's gift, Jesus; he is Emmanuel, "God with us." The traditions are meaningful, not just because my family is together, but because Jesus's birth make it possible to experience "God with us."
From Thanksgiving to December 25th, however, I am all about the traditions that signify Christmas for me. The "comfort and joy" of the famous carol are rooted in the tradition of the season.
I overheard two friends chatting the other day. One said, "It just doesn't seem like Christmas this year." The other asked the obvious: "Why not?" Her friend answered, "I don't know. I guess it's because we didn't do a lot of our usual stuff."
The "usual stuff" actually matters a lot. For one, it tells my children that we are intentional about celebrating Christmas. We think it's important. We love God, and Jesus' birthday is a pretty special day. By taking time to establish the traditions, we also reap the benefits of a full month of deliberate family togetherness. Even though December can be pretty crazy, it's a beautiful kind of crazy, devoid of the high-strung angst that normally characterizes days governed by school and work.
If you haven't already done this, here's six ways to establish traditions that stick.
1. Establish traditions that bind the family together. Beginning on December 1st, the Elf on the Shelf arrives at our house. His escapades are always fun, and the kids look forward to being the first to find him every morning. He is a tricky little elf! We also hang an Advent calendar that my sister-in-law made for us. Every child, from the youngest to the oldest, loves to plunge his/her hands in the deep pockets and feel for the treat of the day. It might be a small piece of candy, a game, or an activity that the family can share. The daily element of surprise adds a bit of fun and builds anticipation.
2. Establish traditions that work within the framework of your family's unique schedule. Since my husband is a pastor, we rarely get to spend the entire day together on Christmas Eve. Years ago, we decided to do something easy, but fun, for dinner on Christmas Eve. We make homemade pizzas. Right now, the kids aren't very creative with their toppings, but they look forward to tossing the dough, stretching it into unique shapes, and decorating it with pepperoni, cheese, and veggies. By the time they have finished and the pizzas are cooking, Gavin is usually back from tying up the loose ends at church.
3. Establish traditions that you can share with others. I love to purchase the largest undecorated gingerbread men I can find. I put them in the freezer and throughout the month of January we bring them out when friends stop by for dinner. Everyone loves to decorate and eat gingerbread, and seeing all the clever creations makes us all laugh. I'll warn you: It's messy, but worth it!
4. Establish traditions that will grow as your children grow. When I had my first child, I wanted to do something for her on Christmas that I would be able to do every year of her life. Some families choose to purchase an ornament every year. Others add to a charm bracelet or necklace. I like to get my kids matching Christmas pajamas. They're getting older now, and on a regular day they would be mortified in matching jammies, but on Christmas they endure looking like overgrown elf clones. And even though they might moan and groan, the smiles we capture we are priceless. The other present they open on Christmas Eve is the gift of a new book or game. As they grow, picture books have evolved into chapter books and fun family games.
5. Establish traditions that respect the reason for the season. We love to read Christmas story found in Luke 2. When our kids were little, Gavin or I would read the story out loud. Now that they're older and fully capable of reading out loud themselves, they take turns reading a few sentences at a time. This year, I finally thought to record their sweet voices arguing over whose turn it was, correcting each other, and finally finishing the story before tearing into the presents under the tree. Good times.
6. Establish traditions that are also rituals. After baths and showers and when the wrapping is put away and the evidence from the pizza party discarded, we pile in the car to gaze at the beautiful lights that decorate our neighborhood. I used to think Christmas was the tackiest time of the year, what with all those mismatched lights and white metal reindeer dotting peoples' yards, but now all that is festive simply brings a smile to my face. I imagine small children begging their dads to wrap the bushes and trees with the twinkling lights. I imagine the family togetherness being enjoyed in the cozy houses nestled between all those decorations. Our shared joy makes my heart swell just a little bit. Whether beautiful, gaudy, sophisticated, or tacky, I'm going to peer out the foggy car window and "ooh" and "aah" because each little display is actually saying, "Merry Christmas" back to me.
Above all else, don't forget to attend a Christmas Eve service. The traditions might make it feel like Christmas, but Jesus is Christmas. Celebrating the season with other believers is where I truly experience God's gift, Jesus; he is Emmanuel, "God with us." The traditions are meaningful, not just because my family is together, but because Jesus's birth make it possible to experience "God with us."
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