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.
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