An Unexpected Day!

Tonight, the Llama Momma is resting comfortably in the Llama Hospital.

She woke up this morning with stomach pain that quickly intensified. Grandpa came over to take care of the noisy boys and the baby. About 45 minutes later, the ER room was able to do an initial diagnosis that her gallbladder was the problem and then get her some pain relief. It took a couple of more hours and an ultrasound to confirm that she had gallstones. Upon reflection, Llama Momma realized that she has had several previous incidents though much less severe.

The arthroscopic surgery should happen tomorrow though, due to the Bears game, we haven't talked to the surgeon yet. After a hearty dinner of clear liquids (Would you like chicken broth or vegetable broth?) she was able to relax by reading a book . . . in a quite room . . . without interruptions from any five year olds. (She really hated that, by the way.) We were both reminded how very blessed we are to have good health insurance, a great hospital nearby along with family and friends willing to help out when we are in need.

Thank you for your prayers.

[Editor's note: This post was not written by the Llama Momma and should not reflect on her ability to spell, string together cogent sentences or otherwise communicate with the written word. And besides, who knew that gallstones had nothing to do with the French?]

9:33 a.m.

That’s what time it was as I plopped a load of clean clothes on my bed, unfolded, and declared this day a failure. Beating myself up for leaving the laundry, I moved on to dry my hair before the baby woke up from his nap. After all, I reasoned, if I don’t dry my hair now, it will look funny all day. My dishwasher is half-unloaded for a similar reason—the baby needed to go down for his nap, and I needed to quick grab my shower before he woke up again. It’s all perfectly reasonable, but all of these half-finished tasks scream out at me: Failure! Failure!

So, at 9:33 I admitted defeat. I am a failure. Absolutely hopeless. And the problem extends beyond household chores. I’ve also been an inconsistent parent, telling the noisy boys they could watch just one show and then they needed to turn the TV off, only to give in to their plea of “Please, Mom, just one more?” I’ve been a lousy Christian, thinking terrible thoughts about someone during my morning devotions. (Ironically, while reading the story of the ungrateful servant who had been forgiven a huge debt, only to turn around and have someone arrested for a much smaller, unpaid debt.) I’ve been lazy—just one more cup of coffee and the front page of the newspaper. After all, when’s the last time I allowed myself that luxury? I’ve yelled at my children. (Bopping a balloon around the kitchen while Mom is cooking eggs is generally a bad idea, but not an excuse to lose my temper.)

The list of failures continues. And yet…yet…it’s only 9:33 in the morning. Surely all is not lost. After all, the list of what I have accomplished is also long: devotions, breakfast for the kids and myself, a load of laundry (albeit unfolded), Valentine’s for the noisy boys’ friends ordered, bathroom cleaned, hotel booked for an upcoming Mom’s conference, an email to a discouraged friend, prayers for another friend undergoing surgery today, diapers changed, bottles made, the baby’s down for a nap, and I’m showered and dressed.

Why do I expect perfection from myself? I’ll keep plugging away today, no doubt finishing some tasks and leaving others. I’ll do my best to love my kids and create a safe and happy home for them. I’ll take them to the library and make chili for supper. I’ll cut up apples and pears for snacks, change more diapers, and play a few rounds of Whac-a-Mole. And, no doubt, I’ll make a few more mistakes along the way.

Can I be okay with “good enough” today? Can I accept my own limitations and rely on God for guidance and strength? Can I surrender my goal of “supermom” and exchange it for my true identity: a woman in need of grace?

Costco

Do you ever just stop and see yourself from a distance and think, “Is this REALLY my life?” This happened to me last night at Costco. After a lovely afternoon playing with our friends, I was in a decidedly non-cooking mood, and our grocery list was huge. So I made an executive decision and off we went to Costco for supper and shopping. The noisy boys were thrilled—pizza, hot dogs, and soda—and as Twin B commented, “With all of these snacks it’s just like a buffet!” And all for less than ten bucks, which is a good thing since we spent two-hundred-and-something on grapefruit and pork chops. And a few other things.

We made our way through the store, piling our carts high with diapers and formula and coffee (the baby pushes us over and we’re officially a 2-cart family now). So there we are, my husband, me, the noisy boys, the baby and our two carts full of stuff, and I hear a woman say, “Whoa!” as she walks by us. Now, it’s not unusual for people to comment on the twins, or casually say, “Boy, you’ve got your hands full” as they walk by me. But, “Whoa!” sounds kind of shocked or surprised, and when she said it, I laughed. I realized we must look like a “Whoa!” kind of family with our three boys and two carts full of food. And I laughed because I never imagined my life like this. Marriage? Three children? Dinner at a grocery store for a buck-fifty including the drink? Yet here I am. And shopping with my dear husband, who is the love of my life, and all of these kids, who are OURS, is a hoot. Day-to-day I don’t feel like a “Whoa!” family. We’re just us. And it feels right.

“Reconciliation Blues: A Black Evangelical’s Inside View of White Christianity”

I ordered this book before Christmas, and it finally arrived a week ago. I was in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor when the UPS guy rang my doorbell, and I took it as a sign that I should stop doing housework and lie on the couch for awhile. The housework was mostly done anyway, and with the noisy boys at Grandma’s and the baby asleep, the opportunity was just too good to pass up. I put it down long enough to toss in a frozen pizza, play a round of Whac-a-Mole, and get the kids tucked in. And then I picked it up again.

Every evangelical Christian should read this book.

Ed Gilbreath offers a fresh voice to the discussion of racial reconciliation. Raised in Rockford and bused to the “other side” of town to attend school, he is a self-described social experiment. He grew up going to white schools, a white church, and, eventually, a white college. It’s there that he began to see himself as a bridge builder. And he is. As editor of “Today’s Christian” and a member of a predominately white Evangelical Free church, (incidentally, the same church I attend) he is uniquely situated to discuss the issue of race within the evangelical community.

Gibreath weaves his own story and the stories of other contemporary Christians into the solid framework of history. The chapter about Tom Skinner was my hands-down favorite, and his book, “Black and Free” now graces my “to-read” list, along with the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar. I was struck by the boldness of this man, Tom Skinner. His sense of calling was absolute. And it got me thinking just how powerfully God can use one man (or woman) to bring radical change.

It’s easy to bash on the evangelical church, something Gilbreath doesn’t do. He approaches the subject as both an insider and an “other.” He recounts a story of being in a small group and voicing a different political opinion than everyone else. The critical reaction of the group made him want to run. Who of us hasn’t been there? I know I have. And if I’m honest, I’ll admit that I’ve been on both ends of this—the “other” and the critical voice of “I would never…”

In his review, Philip Yancey describes Ed as “a gentle prophet.” Yes. He brings us hard truths, but never harshly. The tone of the book is redemptive. It’s eye opening and challenging. Read it. You won’t be disappointed.

maybe there is a God

I’ve been a Christian for seventeen years now. Well, longer if you count the five-hundred-and-eighty-five-plus times I prayed the “sinner’s prayer” as a child, for fear of going to hell if I didn’t. But the definitive moment for me, that moment when everything and nothing changed, was in a Crisis Pregnancy Center seventeen years ago. My faith in God became my own, and my journey as a follower of Christ began.

And what a journey it’s been. This morning I was reading in Matthew, and the end of chapter 14 finds the disciples on a boat, terrified and trapped in a storm. Jesus walks on the water toward them, and at Peter’s request, calls the disciple to come out on the water with him. Peter walks toward Jesus, then gets scared and sinks. Jesus pulls him up and climbs into the boat. Instantly the storm stops. The disciples’ response? They worship him and exclaim, “You really are the Son of God!”

These are the disciples! They lived with Jesus. They observed and participated in his miracles. Just that day they had seen Jesus feed over 5000 people with five loaves of bread and a few fish. And yet doubt lurked in their hearts. When placed in a boat and tossed into the middle of a storm, their faith waned.

This morning, I find the disciples response to Jesus strangely reassuring. My own heart is fickle and riddled with doubt. If there is one thing that has characterized my own spiritual journey it’s doubt and a lack of faith. And yet I’ve seen God undeniably at work, even in my own life. And too often my response has been, “Maybe there is a God!”

Flannery O’Conner once said, “It’s much harder to believe than not to believe.” This has been true in my own life.

Jesus knew his disciples and their faith struggles, just as he sees the struggle within my own heart. Recently I’ve had a shift in thinking that has resulted in greater faith. And while I’m grateful, I’m also aware that tomorrow could find me in a boat tossed by waves and afraid for my life. “Lord, I do believe, but help me with my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24)

Why?

Why do people never stop by when my house is clean? Even reasonably tidy? But leave those dishes in the sink and the laundry in a pile and inevitably the doorbell rings. I woke up this morning with some kind of stomach bug, and went back to bed. My dear husband took all of the kids...somewhere...and at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I just ventured downstairs. (Home of "The Mess.") That's when the doorbell rang. The neighbor girl is selling girl scout cookies, which I wouldn't want to miss, of course. I just wish she would have stopped by on Thursday.

Dante's Inferno: the tenth circle?

I used to wonder why they sold beer at Chuck E. Cheese. After all, it's a children's pizza parlor. And then I had kids.

The noisy boys celebrated their 5th birthday today with their preschool friends at -- you guessed it -- Chuck E. Cheese. The kids all had a blast, and we didn't actually lose anybody (not long-term anyway), but man my head hurts. (And not because I drank the beer, in case any of you are wondering.)

The best part? It's over. Everyone is alive, including me. And now I'm wondering...do you think the library does birthday parties?