Conviction

The end of the semester rush is here, and I feel like I am constantly running a few steps behind the pace! I have over 300 pages of carefully typed papers to grade in the next week, along with some 20 research articles to peruse as I grade my sophomore students' research analysis projects. It is enjoyable work but exhausting and time consuming. Today marked my final clinical day for my first year of teaching full time! I have to say I am happy to see the 3 a.m. wake-up time going by the wayside until October.

With the busy season comes a stillness to my writer's heart and mind as all energy focuses on the tasks of teaching and evaluating my beloved students. It is a breath of relief from the agony of self-reflection and healing, as the troubles of the day disappear into the abyss of yesterday with the coming of each short night of sleep. I have felt deep conviction since writing my last post. My dear mother shared a verse with me, in a different context, and the Lord has been quietly speaking deeply into my soul with the simple phrase of that one sentence from the King James. I share it here so that you know how He speaks to me, even through pain, busy seasons, and the few moments of quietness in the morning before the sun dawns again.

...the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. (James 1:20 KJV)

A new painting of mine from this Sunday's "day of painting" that soothed my soul

Stretching toward each other

It will be their 39th anniversary in a week. I remember nights from my childhood when they fought. My dad's temper flaring, my mom refusing to be a doormat. Somewhere along the way, my dad pinned up verses, a poem, an Ann Landers column, faded newsprint now, hanging like flypaper from the bookshelves right above his computer. Those thin papers have been there for years. You wouldn't think something so insignificant could change a man's heart. But slowly his tongue softened, his words melted, and the space between them shrank. Oh, he still flares up sharp when things aren't planned out just right. But one look from my mother, and he begins to concede, backpeddling, trying to take it back right while they are still talking it over.

My husband swears. A lot. I wish he didn't. And I pull away, push away even, glare with my sharp brown eyes, chastise him without words. I like to think I never put him down in front of the kids, as if they can't read eyes as well as words. But I'm fooling myself. We're stretched thin in the same places my parents were in these trying times of raising small ones, their voices interrupting, drowning us out sometimes, leaving little space for peaceful, lingering debates, pushing us into small spaces of conversation and turning up the heat.

We stretch our hands out toward each other just as my parents did. I put up verses on the window sills. He memorizes one about the power of the tongue.

Our tenth anniversary is a few weeks away. We are one quarter as married as my parents. One quarter as grown into one another. In forty, will we be mellowed into routines of concession and forgiveness as they are?

There is hope. I see it whenever I visit their home, in the flypaper thin Ann Landers column hanging from my dad's shelf. His stretching toward my mother. I feel Aaron stretching toward me. I need to stretch toward him, forget this pulling away. Forget the wounded animal hurt, forget nursing wounds. Love covers a multitude of sins. Weymouth said, Love throws a veil over a multitude of faults.

Love each other as if your life depended on it. Love makes up for practically anything. (I Peter 4:8 The Message)

Linked up with Lisa-Jo on the prompt, "Stretch"

Poopy Undies: Finding the Allegory in Everyday Mothering

We have kittens here at the yellow farmhouse...the official harbinger of summer, this first litter of the year. Mama cat is our independent, skittish one, and she is alarmingly protective of her two tiny charges. We've just recently started retrieving the kittens from the rafters of the garage for daily taming sessions in the arms of the children.

It only happens with young mama cats, and usually only with their first litter: if you take the kittens away too soon, Mama will quit nursing them. The growing bond is broken, and just the smell of people on those kittens can cause the mother to abandon them.

I watch Mama Cat pacing up and down the porch while the children play with the kittens in the sunset. I wonder if I'm like her. I remember 2005, when my 2nd baby was a fuss-budget who learned to crawl at 4 months, a lot sooner than she learned to listen. Shaken by many near-choking scares as my mobile infant explored the house, and worn out with chasing two toddlers around, I brought up the subject of returning to work as an R.N. Aaron was decidedly not in favor: not only did it make financial sense for one of us to stay home, he felt the children were better off in my care, however worn out and frustrated I was feeling.

That one conversation turned into months of verbal battles on the subject. I had my 3rd baby when number 2 was only 18 months old - 3 children 3 and under. Faced now with sort-of triplets, I really started to lose traction. Then, when my 3rd was only 4 months old, I found out I was pregnant again. This heralded a maelstrom of grown up temper tantrums the likes of which I had never seen and didn't know I could throw. For some reason, potty training brought out my absolute worst as a mother - I found it frustrating beyond frustrating, and I was also grossed out by the whole process. I attempted to potty train my 3rd while her sibling was in utero because I thought the only thing worse than potty training was having two in diapers! Boy, was I wrong! Forcing her to train early meant month after month of daily poopy underwear, which are the world's most impossible item to clean - especially without gagging when you have morning sickness.***

That was my wake-up call - poopy undies. I was at the absolute end of my physical and mental resources, and I had to do something to get my temper tantrums under control. The wife of my pastor - a wise and very gentle woman! - talked about her own struggles and pointed me in the direction of some key Scriptures as I battled my frustration. I memorized Proverbs 29:11: A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control. I'm sure my girls will have hilarious memories of waiting in trepidation for me to reprimand them while I muttered this verse under my breath over and over until my head quit steaming!

Eventually, I gave up. On all of it. Potty training. Being supermom/Merry Maid/Julia Child. I even acquiesced about going back to work. After all, I couldn't imagine having the energy to keep clean scrubs folded for myself, let alone gather my wits to perform well at a job.

A few brief months after I waved the white flag in the employment battle, a graduate school opportunity landed in my lap, clearly providential. Next, I was diagnosed with cancer, and my treatment demanded separation from my kids (and household duties) for weeks on end. I stretched my intellectual wings online each day as I began working on my doctoral degree. And breathed an "aaaah" of relief when I got a mini-vacation from mothering.

I've often wondered if God wanted me to give in before He blessed me with opportunities to continue my career and life aside from my children. Looking back, I think I would've pulled a "Mama Cat" move if I had chosen to go back to work when Rosy was an infant: not only relieved, but feeling guilty for the relief, of the task and intimacy of at-home mothering, I think I would have pulled away from my children emotionally, and perhaps even physically. I think it was good to tough it out, learn to deal and control my temper. If I hadn't done the work then, I'd probably still be doing it. In the midst of that frustrating period of mothering, I had little hope for fulfillment of my prayers for my career. Had I acted on my wishes instead of waiting for God's timing, I may not have gone back to graduate school, homeschooled my kids, or had such a delightful time with them once I overcame my temper issues.

Thus says the Lord, "In an acceptable and favorable time I have heard and answered you, and in a day of salvation." (Isaiah 49:8)

How about you? Do you work outside the home? Do you or your spouse do full time childcare? How do you keep your mind engaged when spending a lot of time with children who can barely speak? Do you have career dreams that are (or have been) put on hold for the sake of family?




***I didn't get Amy trained before Caleb was born. The two of them were in diapers until Caleb was 10 months old (and Amy had just turned 2). And no, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought to have two in diapers!

Mistakes

The sun sets unbelievably pink and lavender, sets on a day filled with mistakes, brings the darkness that has filled my heart all day into the world, night always to be weathered before it pulls up day. Two of my best friends hover on the edge of divorce, and I am there to pray and love and accept. But I flee that sorrow-filled room, back to the warm arms of the husband who still loves me, whom I still love. My son acts up all day and finally goads me to explosion in the evening, ironically the evening I write about how I want to parent. It grates. I flee his constant tears and whine and I am on the porch swing with the black cloud of self-reproach stealing from the sunsets glory.

I want to be so much farther on the trajectory of Christian life, so much further from that old sin that I've supposedly died to because Christ lives in me. It's not dead yet. I'm still trying to pack down the grave site of my sin, pack it in so it can't reach an arm up through the dirt to grab my ankle anymore. Sin's bony claw reaches through, now and then, and I am in the grip of an old way of living that I thought I buried years ago when I lost my voice after cancer surgery. But no, I can raise my voice, I can stamp my foot in frustration, I can wither the child lost in temper tantrum with a look, hard and fierce, from my brown eyes.

And so my heart breaks a little on that porch swing. I am so disappointed in self. This steals from Christ all over again...the pity party that follows my fall keeping my attention focused on self instead of the Cross. Ugh. I throw off the despair like an unwanted moth-eaten sweater, and try to shrug on Grace. 

The darkness is gone. The sun is up. The Son is out. But the Son isn't finished. One surprise still awaits them. "Suddenly, Jesus met them and said, "Greetings". The women came up to him, took hold of the feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Don't be afraid. Go and tell my followers to go on to Galilee and they will see me there'" . The God of surprises strikes again. It's as if he said, "I can't wait any longer. They came this far to see me; I'm going to drop in on them." God dies that for the faithful. Just when the womb gets too old for babies, Sarai gets pregnant. Just when the failure is too great for grace, David is pardoned. And just when the road is too dark for Mary and Mary, the angel glows and the Savior shows and the two women will never be the same. The lesson? Three words. Don't give up. Is the trail dark? Don't sit. Is the road long? Don't stop. Is the night black? Don't quit. God is watching. For all you know right at this moment he may be telling the angel to move the stone. The check may be in the mail. The apology may be in the making. The job contract may be on the desk. Don't quit. For if you do, you may miss the anwer to your prayers. God still sends angels. And God still moves stones. ~Max Lucado, "He Still Moves Stones"

One of those shipwrecked friends sends a prayer in letters to me, and I pray them with her. Lord, I'm broken....I boldly claim your promise that you will not break a broken reed. I'm broken. Please send me help. Help to heal my broken heart, help not to become bitter, help in finding a job wit benefits, help to caring for my son, help to find the right council for the divorce, ;;;to "forgive those who trespass against us....". Lord I need a legion of your angels to surround me, I desperately need your protection, your love, your grace, your mercy, your healing -physically and spiritually. Please Lord....hurry....Amen.

O come, Lord Jesus, and rescue us from these lives rotting around us. Rescue us from the power of sin, teach us to lean hard into your Grace. Live Grace. Before I die, might I live Grace?

What shall I do with you, my love

What shall I do with you?

For your loyalty to Me is like the morning clouds,;

Like the dew that goes away so early.;

What shall I do with you, my love?

You keep bringing Me sacrifices

To ease your mind, 

 But it's your heart that I want.

Hasn't it been a long road

With disappointments,

Chasing after lovers

That just throw you away?

And are you done fighting now?

All the love it takes to lighten you,

Shame was never meant to be your portion.

Though these sins are red as scarlet,

I will wash them white in My mercy.

~Kristene Mueller, Mercy~

Confession: I am a mom who yells.

The day had been a long one, and I tried to meet each new challenge head-on, not creeping through, anxious. The kids seemed to be thriving and I actually made dinner, from scratch, for the first time since April. Aaron was busy on another car repair (are they really endless?) and the sun was settling toward the horizon when I lost my grip.

Out, out, out! I bellowed. Then afraid as I saw how not one of them flinched. When my mother bellowed us, we flinched. My kids have become immune to my anger, and it shocks me, flays me open, and leaves me bleeding at heart. In a softer voice then, "Why not go swimming?"

Can we in our clothes, Mama?, two clamor. Can we go skinny dipping?, another voice asks. Yes, yes, yes, just get out, oUT, OUT!, I say. And they happily do. I'm thinking, my kids are two lazy to put on suits, one way or the other.

I sit in my swing and listen to the laughter. My sister-in-law comes over, and encourages me even with her bright clothes and a rushing niece who first comes to hug her auntie before begging to swim, too. We play with kittens, and everyone gets wet, even the Mamas, from hugs.

I think about not shouting, and not being anxious, and lift silent prayer for continued healing. "Why am I so bad at this?" I wonder for the millionth time since birthing my second in 2005. It is hard to see why God would ever call me to mother 4 kids born in 4 years (all single births, by the way. With a few miscarriages in between). But His words whisper, "I settle the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children." (Psalm 113:9).

No mother ever wants to fail her kids. I don't want my kids to be marked by this season of anxiety. But the truth is, I am not perfect. I pray God fills the holes I dig each in my children's souls. And that I can learn His quiet way. I don't know why He chose me for these four kids. I love them to pieces. But I am THAT mom that I never wanted to be. The one who yells. My temper has finally been trapped in my voice, but I want it gone, eradicated.

Who's disobeying?

I plod to the bedroom for what feels like the 100th time and I'm counting slowly, all the way to ten, taking the edge off my biting tongue. SLEEP, child. Again and again I go in, explain, discipline, explain, lie the child back down. It seems endless. He could go on like this for hours (although I cannot). 

It is hard to know, especially with the psychological scars my children bear since my cancer, heart, and now PTSD problems have ripped me away from them to sit in a solitary hospital bed. It's hard to know if it's a real need or a child's disobedience.

There's an easy way to check. As you pull that crying child close, and he melts into your arms, and he asks between sobs for you to cuddle him, try it. Just try laying down and cuddling. My child immediately sucks in the sobs and gives me a wet-cheeked smile. I lay there for 5 minutes, and he is asleep.

Was he being disobedient? After all, he didn't obey my instructions. Or perhaps I was being disobedient in being harsh, unloving, and unwilling to change my naptime plans to lay with my son who was irking me to the core. This is the thought that changes everything. It means a messier house and sometimes meals get on late, but when a need arises, I have to tend to it. That is what makes recovery so hard at home. I have to lay myself down for the sake of Christ (and this family). He gives no caveat in the verses that tell me to take up my cross, or lay myself down as He did. He doesn't say, "Well, this doesn't count because you have an anxiety problem and this is obviously making your problem worse. I'll give you a pass this time. God ahead and be selfish". No. Instead He tugs at my heartstrings, softens my heart, and teaches me more about grace through parenting with each passing year.

No matter what: Faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is LOVE. (I Corinthians 13:13)

Giving full vent

I never had a temper until I had children. At least, so I thought.

Katrina at 9 months

Besides occasionally getting frustrated in heavy traffic and bemoaning my singleness to a God who seemed callous to my fate, I rarely experienced anger. I thought of myself as a "peacemaker", and "even tempered" would have been part of my self-description.

Then - despite proclamations from multiple physicians regarding my eternal infertility - God gave me four children in four years. And before I was even half done bearing them, I found out I had a temper.


A bad one.

Yelling was part of my daily coping. Doors were slammed and laundry flung here and there, and sometimes I even dressed my kids roughly instead of tenderly. I remember pulling my fingers deep into fists so tight my chewed-short nails left imprints on the life-line of my palm. I often spoke through gritted teeth - my jaw so tightly clenched that I went to bed with an ache there in reminder.

Katrina & Rosalie in May, 2005.

I hated it. I loved my children, and realized - perhaps even more than most - that they were a gift to be treasured. But everything orderly about my life went out the door the day I brought my first child home. It took a few months to get things under control, and about the time I learned how to integrate the extra laundry and tasks into my day, I found myself pregnant again and tired beyond belief, vomiting every hour and searching endlessly for something nutritious that I wouldn't throw back up.

It was while potty-training my third daughter that I realized I really needed some help. I'd been praying about it for years, and I wasn't gaining any ground against this temper of mine. Another child was on the way...and this 3rd one would only be 15 months when the new baby arrived. I was already far beyond my human ability to cope with all the diapers, disobedience, and disarray. I didn't want my children to remember me as an angry mother spitting out commands, retreating in tears, and begrudging every chore she ever did for them. I wanted them to remember love. I wanted it to drip from my body like the blood of Christ, freely given from a heart that longed to be united with those little souls, my children.

A not-so-sweet mothering moment - all dressed up & nothing but tears!

And so I sought an older woman of the faith (Titus 2). I went to her because I heard someone say once that she used to have a temper. You'd never know it to see her now...one of the most soft-spoken women at my old church. If anything, she was one of the kindest and gentlest people I knew - someone I definitely longed to be more like. She smiled a sad little smile when I told her my plight, gave me a hug, and prayed over me. Her eyes spoke words she didn't say aloud, I know this pain. I know what it is to long to change...and to fail. I know what it is to wound the ones you love most.

Thul girls, Christmas, 2007; you may notice #3's mischievous expression!

She gave me a few Proverbs that helped her, and suggested I put up a few notes around my home to remind myself when I was tempted to yell at my children. It helped...a little. Then something really strange happened. I had been praying daily that God would take my temper away for about 1 month when I was diagnosed with cancer...in my throat. You know, where yelling comes from. Right in front of my voicebox. I had surgery to remove the cancer. And I lost my voice. Totally. I couldn't yell...I couldn't even speak! All my words were whispered, for weeks. I had to teach my children a special "family whistle" so that I could summon them in crowds or get their attention in noisy public places.

One of the signs on my kitchen windowsill reminds me of this, to this day. Verses written out, along with the words, HE gave your voice back - use it wisely!

The purpose of the Proverbs is to teach - not to argue or debate; and to provoke thought. Proverbs is a compendium of wisdom, the sum of the moral wisdom of man, a group of wise and weighty sayings that reflect the truth of the world. Many people take Proverbs as a series of commands (1 + 1 = 2). Yes, all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness (II Timothy 3:16). But there are books written specifically to different people at different times, there are commands and there is wisdom, there are judgements and there is story. The Proverbs are classically viewed as "wisdom" - guides for our moral and ethical behavior as Christians. Julian Rivers, a professor at Cambridge and Göttingen universities, has this to say about how we use and view all kinds of Scripture:

We do not read the Bible flatly as a book of rules for right living; rather we take full account of its literary and linguistic forms. We do not read it as merely an ancient source of pious thoughts; rather it is the true story of God and his people, which tells us how things really are and commands us to abandon our self-centredness and live for him. We do not think we must do exactly as ‘they' did; rather we seek to understand what was right about the judgements the texts make in their historic cultural contexts. We do not proof-text, taking a single verse or passage to have concluded the matter; rather we place it within a coherent and overarching view of God's entire revelation. We do not think that the Bible is simply a starting point, to be left behind as the Christian tradition unfolds; rather it points forward – and back – to Christ, who is the centre of our lives. And we do not read the Bible simply to know what is good and pleasing to God; rather we read it to be caught up into it and then to live it out.

I am thankful that God spoke through Proverbs and personal trial to my heart. The triumph of my story is that I did get caught up in it...and my temper is largely a problem of my past. I wish I could point other mothers in the midst of their own struggle toward a "magic bullet" of Scripture that knocked the teeth out of my temper. Unfortunately, it wasn't just something I read, something I prayed, or something I changed that brought the beast of my temper under control. It was the Spirit of God living in me and changing me. For each of us, that process looks a little different. I can simply pass on hope that this, too shall pass. Get on your knees, deep in your soul. Beg God for change. Stay deep in Scripture, so that it runs through your mind like an infinite stream, conscious and unconscious, eroding the architecture of you into ruins and exposing the beauty of the marble out of which He is building a new creation.

With His strength, you will be able to laugh in the face of the worst of times, and have peace when nothing in life seems right. (Proverbs 31:25)

A few of the Proverbs that helped me most in my hardest times:
A fool gives full vent to her anger, while a wise woman keeps herself under control. (Proverbs 29:11)

She who is often reproved, yet stiffens her neck, will suddenly be broken beyond healing. (Proverbs 29:1)

In the fear of the Lord one has strong confidence, and her children will have a refuge. (Proverbs 14:26)

Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but she who has a hasty temper exalts folly. A tranquil (healing) heart gives life to the flesh, but envy (jealousy) makes the bones rot. (Proverbs 14:29-30)

This post linked to Ann Voskamp's thankfulness campaign:

Broken china is still china

"In the darkness of despair and the prison of pain, we often say things that we later regret, but God understands all about it and lovingly turns a deaf ear to our words but a tender eye to our wounds." ~ Pause for Power, Warren W. Wiersbe

My mother brought me a china plate for my collection of mismatched china (we eat off beauty every day) and I promptly broke it.  The very next day.  My first reaction, unfortunately, is still to throw a tantrum.  I remember her warning me, as a teenager, that I if I chose that agitated state of heart in the quiet of my room and privacy of my brain, it would settle in and become a habit that was nearly impossible to break.  And, I regret to say, I went on heedlessly...nay, obstinately...and let it settle in.  Now I struggle with those flailings about of the soul that are so tenacious and capture me at my weakest moments, spiritually and emotionally, and derail the train of my servitude and joy and prayer life and duty to husband and children.  And so it was with this china plate, and with the job offer withdrawn, and the comprehensive exam failed.

I don't understand a God who rescinds gifts as quickly as He doles them out.  I believe in an extravagant God, and I've had glimpses of proof that He is that type of God.  Lately, though, my spirit response to His brief shows of glory and extravagance is the impression instead of a miserly God to whom justice is far more important than blessing, joy, or relationship.

I am thankful that He turns a deaf ear to my rantings.  However, I don't want to be someone who rants any longer!  I went through the day yesterday, first with tears, then with anger, and finally with resignation...the let-down as the job offer was withdrawn, the frustrating phone calls to the Board of Nursing and the professor in charge of hiring at the university, and finally the quiet of the day as I realized there was nothing more to be done.  Why would God hang a carrot in front of my nose, have me celebrating with my father over the possibility of teaching together, and then so painfully jerk it away, leaving me staring, once again, down a black hole of debt and poor job prospects?

At the end of the day, I went outdoors to take some photos of the amazing storm clouds boiling up in Michelangelo proportions just past our house, the light of the sun glinting in the middle of the thunderhead, so high off the ground that it caught the light long after the sun had dipped below the horizon.  Under the blanket of this awesome sky, I was humbled.  The tantrums grew weak in the visible presence of the power of God.  Who am I to question today's events and worry about how we will provide for our family?  The very God who formed this storm and swept it past our roof before it let loose is the God who sees my future and has blessings and pain planned out for all my days, to shape me and change me until I am indeed - like it or not - renewed by the regenerating spirit He planted in my soul at age 5.

In the weird yellow light of the gathering storm, the china plate I thrust into my garden caught a glimmer and I noticed.  Noticed that broken china is still beautiful. That plate is still a beloved gift my mother gave me out of love.  I could have thrown it in the trash, never to be seen again.  In a moment of genius, I stuck the two halves in the soil of my favorite rock garden, and there they sit, like the half-moon of a serene smile, catching light and glinting beauty even though they were split and broken and cried over.  So, too, the job offer: a harbinger of future joy, perhaps?  Just because it was taken away, and I don't have the job - does that reduce those two days of happiness to nothing?  Are they negated by the consequent suffering?  As a nurse for dying children, I know the answer, deep, deep within: of course not!  Does the pain at the end destroy the joy of the thousands of days of being that preceded it?  Do you throw the whole bag of memories into your mental trash file, because the pain is too great?  Some do, I know.  But the wise don't.  The wise know that broken china is still china.  The wise know that a gift is a gift, whether permanent or temporary.

I don't know about tomorrow;
It may bring me poverty.
But the one who feeds the sparrow,
Is the one who stands by me.
And the path that is my portion
May be through the flame or flood;
But His presence goes before me
And I'm covered with His blood.
~ I Know Who Holds Tomorrow, sung here by Alison Krauss ~

The hard way to go

Our nemesis can take so many benign shapes: the ambivalent, even sensual, beauty of the glossy red trike; the prospect of a day at the lake with my husband and children, proffering relaxation with one hand while holding all my unfinished work just out of my reach.

I had two weeks off from school. Two weeks full of catching up on all the things that slid through health crises and school deadlines, writing assignments, and loving and living as if this might be the last summer on this green earth, with these beautiful beings to hug and hold. The laundry was in piles - and I do mean that, plural! - the dishes were stacked up every morning, the floor needed mopping and I was beginning to feel as though I had forgotten to do my spring cleaning - back in the spring, months ago! Somehow I dug out the energy to scrub the cabinets and appliances, get the daily chores caught up, clean bathrooms with my newfound homemade Scrubbing Bubbles solution. Don't get me wrong - there is still a lot of organization to be done! But by the start of fall semester on August 28 (AUGUST, people! Need I say more?), I was beginning to feel as though perhaps I did defeat my nemesis (housework).


All this went spinning through my head the other morning as I stood in the bathroom cleaning out that darn old dry socket of mine. Trikes, frustration, lakes, drowning in duties...I was staring at a faded piece of green construction paper, tattered at the edges. It has been taped to my bathroom wall since 2005, and it's titled "Mama's Rules". I had just made a little chart of sorts for 2-year-old Katrina and baby Rosalie. I was determined to reward good behavior as a means of decreasing the number of times each day that I felt like pulling my hair out. Each child, as any parent knows, presents unique difficulties and joys. It is that familiar dance: positive/negative; curse/blessing; struggle/triumph. Echoed a million times over in the daily walk of this life. Katrina: I slowly descended into the daily-ness of motherhood tending to her small needs in her infancy; I marvel still at her caring, sweet spirit. Rosalie: I was challenged by the impenetrability of her stubborn streak; and awed by her creative, spontaneous playfulness. Amelia: her will to be respected cannot be brooked; her passionate, intense loyalty and work ethic put me to shame. Caleb: his demand for attention rivals all the other voices of the household; his tender desire for touch and tenderness brings out the softness of my experienced motherhood.

Those "Mama's Rules" were wrought of a time that constituted my own personal watershed. It was the moment when I realized that to be blessed is not unmitigated joy. That no matter what prayers are answered, earth is not heaven. Life is not perfect. I was newly married, I had two beautiful daughters and a newly constructed home I could hardly believe was mine, situated in the country on acreage. A hard-working husband who worked overtime to keep me at home with the children. Yet those freedoms and joys became the bars that surrounded my personal prison. I longed for intellectual stimulation, the ability to alleviate some of our financial burdens, the opportunity to escape the daily, albeit minute, demands of childcare; spend a morning sleeping in, or get my shower before 11 a.m.; shed my pajamas for some scrubs. Trade the trivial chores of motherhood (feeding, clothing, teaching) for the seemingly more measurable chores of a nursing career (the feeding, clothing, teaching of the ill and their families). Be done with my work when a shift ended. Here was the iron truth of Scripture, in living flesh and blood: for I was being saved through childbearing (I Timothy 2) daily, hourly, in each minute and second as I allowed my selfishness to succumb to a newly awakening selflessness of motherhood. Using the bathroom with the door open...showering every other day...shouldering puke and touching poop...teaching the alphabet...kissing scrapes...soothing the ruffled feathers after a sisterly battle...finding new ways to teach something for the 100th time. They all constitute sacrifice of self for other: mother for child.

If you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. (II Peter 1:8)

BE KIND to children, husband, dogs & friends...
Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, hath forgiven you. (Ephesians 4:32)

NO FUSSING OR POUTING when kids fuss & pout!
A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control. (Proverbs 29:11)

CLEAN BODY & MIND self-control & patience!
Make every effort to add to your faith goodness; to goodness, knowledge; to knowledge, self-control; to self-control, perseverance; to perseverance, godliness; to godliness, brotherly kindness; to brotherly kindness, love. (II Peter 1:6)

NO COMPLAINING when there are chores to do...
She gets up while it is still dark; she provides food for her family, and portions for her servant girls. (Proverbs 31:15)

SCHOOLTIME once per weekday.
The rod of correction imparts wisdom, but a child left unto himself disgraces his mother. (Proverbs 25:15)

So I set out my boundaries with a piece of borrowed construction paper and a Sharpie. Setting fenceposts in my mind, and, consequently, my life, with a few words of God and reminders from the shackles that threatened my brain. Bullet points that I hoped would bleed into habits and, from them, effectiveness where idleness and snarling selfishness used to lurk. The showpiece of redemption: for I am set apart for good works through Christ's holy Work on the cross that day thousands of years ago. (Ephesians 2)

Behold! He is making all things new...whatever you're going through, whatever you've been through, trust that the God who loves you is in control and is redeeming your life in and through your circumstances. "It matters to me that this is true, not merely interesting, not merely comforting. The chaos of this life, the flood waters, have closed over my head. Yet I choose against despair. I believe that death will one day die, that the love of God will prevail. In the meantime, even if the rest of my path lies in shadow, I will follow the Lamb in trust and in hope. It may be that faith is no more and no less a choice between the words 'it may be so' and 'I will live as if it is so'." (Jared C. Wilson quotes Thomas Schmidt in his book, Your Jesus is Too Safe)

I heard whispers of God at a broken-down honky tonk concert on the crowded fairgrounds, surrounded by the din of humanity and the cacophany of a million confused mixed metaphors as a blues guitar sang in mournful treble and melodic bass pulsed in time to the beat of some heathen drums:

There was a long time
no matter how I tried
the years they just rolled by
like a broken down dance

Make me an angel
that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster
of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing
that I can hold on to
to believe in this livin'
is just a hard way to go
~ Make Me an Angel, Bonnie Raitt

Touching, reconnecting

Remember too as she grows
Be a woman
She's a reflection of yourself
A reflection of the joy, kindness,
And dignity
A reflection of a woman set free
To pass down her teachings
From no other than thee.
~Judith Drew~

I didn't have a temper before I had children. Seriously. But then, about the time my second child was born, and I was suddenly plunged deep into the frustration that is having more needs thrust upon one than one can meet, temper flared. With God's grace, and authentic, tested advice from several dear friends, I have mostly conquered my insatiable urge to shout and run away when the stress reaches a certain level. With Caleb working on his molar eruption, and various other nighttime distractions, I entered a mother's version of the Bermuda triangle last week: a fussy baby, 1 hour of sleep, and two nighttime accidents from the girls. I spent a lot of time praying, and yet raised my voice on several occasions throughout the day once last week.

We weathered it pretty well, probably because I did experience a high degree of emancipation from my struggle throughout the day. (those prayers really do work!) Most of my frustration was vented on Caleb and Amelia, who get themselves into the most inconceivable messes! Yet it was Katrina who showed the strain by the end of the day. Suppertime came and she couldn't eat dinner because her stomach hurt; she was nearly in tears when asked to straighten up toys in the living room. All this is quite uncharacteristic for my easy-going, obedient and happy spirited firstborn. So I sent her off to my room, and joined her there.

She thought she was going to be punished for disobedience. I have been grateful, time and again, for Tedd Tripp's wonderful how-to parenting book, Shepherding a Child's Heart. Instead of piling on more harsh words, I sat on the bed, took her in my arms, and reconnected with touch. After some small talk and cuddling, we got to the heart of the issue, which was, of course, my angry words earlier that afternoon. As she sobbed, my heart wept with her. How deep - and sudden - the wounds we create in our dearest loved ones! How quickly sin ravages! I begged forgiveness, of course. More than that, I can show her, in real life, why we need Jesus. To avoid ubiquitous universalist speech, why Mama needs Jesus. Katrina understands deeply what Grace is, because grace is what she bestows on me when she forgives me the shortcomings that we both can name. Getting on our knees to humbly beg forgiveness of our children when we sin against them is such a necessary, and valuable, exercise. If we never do so, how to teach our children true compassion, love, forgiveness, and humility? I am forever grateful that my own parents used this approach in dealing with their own failures. Hearing my father beg forgiveness made his faith deeply genuine and accessible to me as a child - and even more so as an adult.

I pray my weaknesses will be supernaturally transformed to highlight God's strength. I pray they raise my dear daughter's eyes to the Cross, where transforming Grace is ever ready.

...give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins, because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace. (Zechariah's song to his son, John the Baptist, in Luke 1:77-79)

A Jonah day

"The trouble is, I've got things the matter with my conscience," sobbed Anne. "Oh, this has been such a Jonah day, Marilla. I'm so ashamed of myself. I lost my temper and whipped Anthony Pye."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Marilla with decision. "It's what you should have done long ago."

Marilla passed her hard work-worn hand over the girl's glossy, tumbled hair with a wonderful tenderness. When Anne's sobs grew quieter she said, very gently for her, "You take things too much to heart, Anne. We all make mistakes . . . but people forget them. And Jonah days come to everybody. As for Anthony Pye, why need you care if he does dislike you? He is the only one."

"I can't help it. I want everybody to love me and it hurts me so when anybody doesn't. And Anthony never will now. Oh, I just made an idiot of myself today, Marilla. I'll tell you the whole story."

Marilla listened to the whole story, and if she smiled at certain parts of it Anne never knew. When the tale was ended she said briskly, "Well, never mind. This day's done and there's a new one coming tomorrow, with no mistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself. Just come downstairs and have your supper. You'll see if a good cup of tea and those plum puffs I made today won't hearten you up."

"Plum puffs won't minister to a mind diseased," said Anne disconsolately; but Marilla thought it a good sign that she had recovered sufficiently to adapt a quotation.
Anne of Avonlea, Chapter 12, L.M. Montgomery

It all began with a two hour battle with Caleb over nap. A brief reprieve came mid-morning in the form of a trip to the farm in rain coats and mud boots, camera in hand.

The smell of freshly loaded silage, warm milk, and spring seed greeted us as we emerged from the car. We spent a lovely hour visiting the calves and petting barn cats and feeding the goldfish in the farm wife's amazing pond. We picked some rose buds off her tree, which was just beginning to flower. I marveled afresh at the co-mingling of ugly and utilitarian with beautiful and rare. The freedom of routine that has allowed these hearty people to flourish under back-breaking work and endless responsibility, planted as they are on this windy hill a mile from our home.

We paused on the way home to get out on the "troll bridge" - an unexpected treat. We marveled together at a small deer carcass graveyard (fascinating stuff to children, jawbones and ribcages!). We listened to the distant hum of an approaching train on the rusty tracks...until the sensible mother in me hauled the entranced wee ones off the rickety rail high above and back to the safety of the blacktop on the other side.

Home again. Kids with the flu. T-ball practice to prepare for. Lunch and dinner unplanned. A stressful doctor's appointment in the afternoon. T-ball practice, right at dinner time. Dinner was late, Aaron called in to work - good for the finances, a strain on the wife's workload! An e-mail announces a crisis at school stemming from the spring semester, which has just ended. An error in textbook writing discovered and in need of correcting. And so it went, on and on.

I wanted to throw my hands in the air, throw my head back and holler - perhaps even swear a bit!

I thought about not writing this. I prayed about it, actually. I don't write these words to be a discouragement. I write them because they are real. I want to nail a name to something that doesn't get hung up in public in the Christian community. I want you to know that living with cancer doesn't immediately transport one into the realm of the saints. It is a process of daily working out my faith, working out the difficult little details with God. For instance: why, God, would you pile on trouble after trouble today? On this day when cancer is rearing it's ugly head and I have to come to grips with the fact that my future is that uncertain, why allow all these other tests to enter in to the picture? In that sense, perhaps it was more a Job day than a Jonah day: I'm sure Job had these same feelings, multiplied a thousand times, when God allowed his livestock, children, wife and health to be swept away in one awful day!

At t-ball practice, Katy was pensive. I marveled afresh how my attitude seeps into the soil of these little souls. I prayed hard about what to say to my husband, so that I wouldn't drag him down to the depths along with me. I wrestled with God about how to be authentic, and open, and yet spare those around me the ripping and shredding that was going on in my spirit today. How to ask for support...to express my need to be lifted up, without dragging down.

And so it went for me today. There are days in everyone's life when the clouds gather and the thunder starts to roll. Today was unexpectedly awful, and I am praying that tomorrow will be unexpectedly beautiful. I have storms to weather at school, in my work as a freelance author, as I serve others in church and family, and in my health. Thank God I have His wings as my umbrella!

Under His wings I am safely abiding,
Though the night deepens and tempests are wild,
Still I can trust Him; I know He will keep me,
He has redeemed me, and I am His child.

Under His wings, what a refuge in sorrow!
How the heart yearningly turns to His rest!
Often when earth has no balm for my healing,
There I find comfort, and there I am blessed.

~ Under His Wings, William Cushing, 1896

Lost in the details

Christmas pageant practice: kids sang (mother breathed, "Hallelujah!" under her breath).

Walmart on a Saturday just prior to Christmas: kids walked single file (mom silently rejoiced, "We survived!").

Hanging Christmas lights using dinky plastic hooks: kids played in snow, husband frustrated (wife wondering, "Why did I suggest this?").

We came in covered with snow, bedraggled and tired from the fresh air and a day too full. The toddler began screaming because her socks were on crooked. I lost my temper, and spat out a warning to stop fussing through gritted teeth, the whites of my eyes showing. She banged her little body down on the couch, intimidated and angered. I retreated to my room, the howls of three children echoing behind me.

The black arms of the trees against the winter sky whisper reproach. I approach the Throne tentatively. I hear the toddler stop crying, and come wandering through the house, quietly saying, "I done fussin', Mama". My heart melts. I open the door.

After I beg forgiveness, we lay on the bed, cuddled up, looking at the trees. We talk about the nativity we just put up, about Jesus, dying on the cross to forgive us as Amelia just forgave me. She giggles, then says, "I have buggers, Mama". I try to continue the lesson, buggers notwithstanding...to no avail. Every little lesson I sally forth is met with, "I have buggers, Mama". And I think, this is me! This is what I approach my Father with. He offers forgiveness, and I am more concerned about my buggers! I am the toddler tentatively walking through the halls of heaven, saying, "I done fussin', Papa."

I better grow up soon!

Fighting the harness

I have celebrated a lot of my victories as I write here. Today a defeat is heavy on my mind.

I prayed for years to be put behind a plow for God. I prayed as I wept by the bedsides of children I did not bear that He would give me children of my own so that I could walk this incredible journey I watched parents walking. It is something I literally begged God for. And He said, "Yes, my child", and gave me four children in four years! God's blessing is bountiful when He pours it out on us. In the midst of walking the path of young motherhood...truthfully, just past the threshold...I began to wonder if I had been "called" to this after all. What if it was all a mistake?? What if, instead of allowing a blessing, God had allowed one massive test to enter my life? I pictured the scene in heaven, God telling Satan, "No, don't give that woman children. She is a perfectly good nurse and that is what I have called her to do."

[Enter the pitiful wails and flailing about of my faulty human spirit and hormonal young womanhood.]

God tips His ear my way, and says, "Hmmm. Well, if she really desires it, and yes, it WOULD be a good test for her. Alright, Satan, have at it! I promised to be with her, and I will. She will cry out to me, and I will draw nigh to her. Let's give her the test she asks for."

Do you have a "blessing" in your life that feels more like a trial most of the time? Do you wonder if you misread your "call"? Do you resist the harness of the plowhorse, feeling as though perhaps you were bred for sprinting, not 12-hour days cutting the ground into furrows? Do you wonder if the grass is sweeter at the race track, or the pasture where a loving family keeps you for occasional riding use? Would you rather work in the mountains, perhaps, or see what it is like to work down in sunny Mexico? This has certainly been my battle of late. Here I am, plowing the furrows that are my children. At least eighteen years of work lies before me. And it is not just the mantle of motherhood that I have bucked and worn askew, and occasionally tossed on the ground and stomped upon! It is the particular type of mantle God has called me to now wear! Stay at home?? Keep my children in home school?? Sew and can and weed a garden and make a home and do laundry?? Is this really what I was "called" to do, God?? What about my shriveling intellect, the very brain and wit and desire for knowledge you planted as a seed in me in my mother's womb? What about my nursing knowledge and ability to help families navigate some of the most difficult health care decisions of their lives? Doesn't that have merit? What am I to do with it? Cast it aside for an archaic, Biblical archetype that is almost impossible to envision in the current bounds of our society and culture?

[Enter somber doctor with lab report, medical record and pathology. In short, enter cancer.]

Young woman, if it is you reading this, lay down your struggles. I beg you to lay them down sooner than I did. Don't push God's limits with your questions and your struggles and desires for self. Lay your self down willingly at His feet! Pray about it every day, as I did not. Ask your husband to help you, as I did not. Ask an older woman for counsel, as I did not. Pray some more. Why struggle to the bitter end, digging your nails into the last shreds of your dignity and selfhood as they are gently and inexorably pulled away from you? Don't you see it is YOU who are shredding it? God asks you to hand Him the garment of your old self - and promises to hand back, in return, a glorious new garment. "...put off the old self with its practices, and put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its creator. Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another, forgiving each other; And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony." (Colossians 3:5-14 exc. ESV)

Do not sell your soul for the paltry pittance your culture will offer you! My self, that intellectual bauble I too easily praise, is not worthy of a second glance when my Savior and His tasks lie before me! Instead of narrowing my depth of focus to self, wondering if I'd misinterpreted God's call and made a mistake to ask for these children, why not look up at the landscape before me and trust that this view, this vista...this is what God has planned for me. If it is before me, it is my call. My self - yes, created by Him, yes, valuable in His merciful, Fatherly eyes. But worthy of worship? Worthy of sacrifice? Do not let feminism turn your body and your mind and your contribution to society into something that it is not! You were created to praise God, not self. You were created to serve God, not self. Do not be a fool, as I have so often been in these past five years! A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. (Proverbs 14:1)

Today I am praying for lasting change. I don't want cancer to be the proverbial blip on my screen. I want it to be changing me forever. I want to trade my slow connection with God, the one that I have accessed only in times of greatest need, for high-speed, the type that is constantly exchanging information. In the world, cancer turns people inward as they focus on improving their healthy lifestyle to maximize their days on this earth. That is not my goal. I want to maximize my soul's harvest in heaven. That is my focus. I repent that I only heard this lesson through God's megaphone of cancer. I repent that I neglected the soft whispers of His loving, Father-voice in my soul while I held my delicious babies close. I repent that I was deaf to the voice of my compassionate husband, who desires the best for his family and wishes to make me a queen in my own home. I repent that I struggled so against the harness of my plow. Now that it is lifted off my shoulders, I see the deep furrows and scars in my soul where I have struggled. Where God desired serene beauty there is now a battle-worn heart. When He put peace and understanding in my reach, in plain sight, I turned away and cried bitter tears I never had to cry. I chose suffering instead of peace; flailing instead of resting; this life instead of the next. Please don't do it! Learn from my mistake.

The God who is ever uttering himself in the changeful profusion of nature; who takes infinite years to form a soul that shall understand him and be blessed; who never needs to be, and never is, in haste; who welcomes the simplest thought of truth or beauty as the return for seed he has sown upon the old fallows of eternity, who rejoices in the response of a faltering moment to the age-old cry of his wisdom in the streets; the God of music, of painting, of building, the Lord of Hosts, the God of mountains and oceans; whose laws go forth from one unseen point of wisdom, and thither return without an atom of loss; the God of history working in time unto christianity; this God is the God of little children, and he alone can be perfectly, abandonedly simple and devoted. The deepest, purest love of a woman has its well-spring in him. Our longing desires can no more exhaust the fullness of the treasures of the Godhead than our imagination can touch their measure. Of him not a thought, not a joy, not a hope of one of his creatures can pass unseen.

Life is no series of chances with a few providences sprinkled between to keep up a justly failing belief, but one providence of God; and the man shall not live long before life itself shall remind him, it may be in agony of soul, of that which he has forgotten. When he prays for comfort, the answer may come in dismay and terror and the turning aside of the Father's countenance; for love itself will, for love's sake, turn the countenance away from that which is not lovely; and he will have to read, written upon the dark wall of his imprisoned countenance, the words, awful and glorious, Our God is a consuming fire.

~ George MacDonald, The Child in the Midst