It was a little thing. Spaghetti pie, actually. With bread and salad and ice cream bars for dessert.
She’s a friend from the neighborhood, so I brought the food over hot, right at dinnertime. She brought her beautiful baby girl, their third child, home just a few hours before.
“Thank you so much,” she said as I laid the food out on the counter and tucked the ice cream bars into her freezer. “This is amazing. Have people done this for you before?”
“They have,” I responded.
“Wow. Nobody has ever brought me a meal before.”
Let that sink in. Nobody has ever brought me a meal before.
When I told Llama Papa, he said, “Well, our church does something right.”
“Or, we, The Church, are doing something wrong,” I responded.
(I know. Ask him how much he appreciates my optimism…)
Are we so busy in our churches reaching out to one another that we miss opportunities to serve others in our community? Our own neighbors? Don’t get me wrong, the serving of one another in Christian community is a beautiful thing. Beautiful.
Let it spill over, friends. And not because it’s one more thing you should do. If it’s just another obligation, then don’t bother. But as you build community with your neighbors and the people in your life, as you become friends and care for people, really care for them, let it spill over. Let the beauty of Christian community spill over and touch the people around you.
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
more stories from the pottery studio
“This would make a nice gift for someone,” our instructor encourages. “I’m amazed that this is your first time at the wheel.”
“Thanks,” Twin B. responds. “But I think I’ll keep it for myself.”
All the way home, he beams. “I’m really good at this pottery stuff, Mom.”
“You really are, B. You’re very creative,” I affirm.
“Even better than you,” he continues.
This is true.
Every time I sit down at the wheel, I have a plan. I want to make a mug or a vase, a bowl, and every time, I end up with something else. Something unidentifiable.
Twin B. sits next to me with his wet lump of clay, and lets the wheel turn around and around while he looks at it.
“What are you going to make?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet.”
And then as his hands shape the lump into something, he tells me, “I’m making a mug.”
And he does.
The day after our last class, he presented me with a wrapped package. “For you,” he says, “it’s a be-late birthday present.” He jumps up and down as I take it from him. “Open it!” he beams.
“Oh, B. I love it,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, “that’s why I wanted to give it to you. Thanks for taking me to pottery class, Mom.”
And as I drink my coffee this morning, I’m reminded of my own imperfections. As a Mom, a friend, a follower of Christ. And yet God manages to smooth it out and make something good come of it all every time.
“Thanks,” Twin B. responds. “But I think I’ll keep it for myself.”
All the way home, he beams. “I’m really good at this pottery stuff, Mom.”
“You really are, B. You’re very creative,” I affirm.
“Even better than you,” he continues.
This is true.
Every time I sit down at the wheel, I have a plan. I want to make a mug or a vase, a bowl, and every time, I end up with something else. Something unidentifiable.
Twin B. sits next to me with his wet lump of clay, and lets the wheel turn around and around while he looks at it.
“What are you going to make?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet.”
And then as his hands shape the lump into something, he tells me, “I’m making a mug.”
And he does.
The day after our last class, he presented me with a wrapped package. “For you,” he says, “it’s a be-late birthday present.” He jumps up and down as I take it from him. “Open it!” he beams.
“Oh, B. I love it,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, “that’s why I wanted to give it to you. Thanks for taking me to pottery class, Mom.”
And as I drink my coffee this morning, I’m reminded of my own imperfections. As a Mom, a friend, a follower of Christ. And yet God manages to smooth it out and make something good come of it all every time.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
for the guys reading my blog...
This is a public service announcement.
Mother’s Day is coming up. It’s less than two weeks away, and you should really start thinking about it now. Don’t panic, you still have plenty of time to create a nice day for your wife and/or Mom.
If you have young children at home, the first thing I want you to do is think about your wife. What does she like to do in her free time? Does she garden? Scrapbook? Read? Run? Go out to eat with her friends? These things will give you important clues that will help you select a nice gift.
Do not buy her a new vacuum or cleaning items of any kind unless she asks you specifically for them. Seriously. If she hasn’t asked for it, don’t buy her a new dustbuster to keep the minivan clean.
Enough said.
Does your wife like to read? How about a $5 Starbucks gift card, a new book, and a coupon for an evening off? On that evening, take care of dinner clean-up and send your wife off to Starbucks to read for as long as she’d like. Put the kids to bed and do any of the usual nighttime chores she does.
Does your wife enjoy dinner out with friends? Give her a gift card to her favorite restaurant and an evening off. Again, follow the clean-up instructions in the paragraph above. This is important. If she comes home to a messy house and frozen pizza crusts in the sink, it won’t feel like a night off.
Does she enjoy shopping? Give her a gift card to her favorite store and a Saturday off to shop and meet friends for lunch. (Some malls and shopping centers even have gift cards that are good at any store or restaurant in the whole shopping center!)
Buy her favorite flowers. If you don’t know what her favorites are, ask. It’s probably not roses. (The same rule applies to your Mom.)
Help the children cook her favorite breakfast and clean the kitchen afterwards.
Last year, my husband gave me a beautiful portrait of himself with our three boys. Somehow, he managed to get them all dressed nicely and off to get their picture done without me noticing. I love this picture of all my "boys."
Help the children make her a gift. Family Fun has some fantastic Mother’s Day craft ideas for all ages. One year for Father’s Day, I helped the noisy boys make personalized note pads. They drew their own pictures and we took them to Kinkos and had them made into notepads. It was simple and inexpensive for two four-year olds to make, and my husband loved them. Have the kids shop for a special pen for Mom, and you’ve got a fun, thoughtful gift. (You could make extras of these and give them to your own Mom if you need gift ideas for her too!)
Of course, jewelry is always nice. You know your budget constraints. If you can’t afford nice jewelry, pick something else. Just my opinion.
Whatever gift you decide on, write your wife a nice card and tell her how much you appreciate all she does as a Mom. Help your children do the same. (One of my favorite Mother’s Day cards is from Twin B. His preschool teacher promted him with “I appreciate my Mommy because she…” and he said, “helps me wipe my bottom.” I will keep this card forever.)
Now let me talk to you, Moms. Give your husband a break and tell him exactly what you want for Mother’s Day. If you’re hoping he’ll guess, let me tell you if you haven’t figured this out yet: he won’t. I don’t know your husband, but he probably wants to please you. Explicitly tell him how to do this. You’ll both be happier in the long run!
Oh, and in case I don’t say it later, Happy Mother’s Day!
Mother’s Day is coming up. It’s less than two weeks away, and you should really start thinking about it now. Don’t panic, you still have plenty of time to create a nice day for your wife and/or Mom.
If you have young children at home, the first thing I want you to do is think about your wife. What does she like to do in her free time? Does she garden? Scrapbook? Read? Run? Go out to eat with her friends? These things will give you important clues that will help you select a nice gift.
Do not buy her a new vacuum or cleaning items of any kind unless she asks you specifically for them. Seriously. If she hasn’t asked for it, don’t buy her a new dustbuster to keep the minivan clean.
Enough said.
Does your wife like to read? How about a $5 Starbucks gift card, a new book, and a coupon for an evening off? On that evening, take care of dinner clean-up and send your wife off to Starbucks to read for as long as she’d like. Put the kids to bed and do any of the usual nighttime chores she does.
Does your wife enjoy dinner out with friends? Give her a gift card to her favorite restaurant and an evening off. Again, follow the clean-up instructions in the paragraph above. This is important. If she comes home to a messy house and frozen pizza crusts in the sink, it won’t feel like a night off.
Does she enjoy shopping? Give her a gift card to her favorite store and a Saturday off to shop and meet friends for lunch. (Some malls and shopping centers even have gift cards that are good at any store or restaurant in the whole shopping center!)
Buy her favorite flowers. If you don’t know what her favorites are, ask. It’s probably not roses. (The same rule applies to your Mom.)
Help the children cook her favorite breakfast and clean the kitchen afterwards.
Last year, my husband gave me a beautiful portrait of himself with our three boys. Somehow, he managed to get them all dressed nicely and off to get their picture done without me noticing. I love this picture of all my "boys."
Help the children make her a gift. Family Fun has some fantastic Mother’s Day craft ideas for all ages. One year for Father’s Day, I helped the noisy boys make personalized note pads. They drew their own pictures and we took them to Kinkos and had them made into notepads. It was simple and inexpensive for two four-year olds to make, and my husband loved them. Have the kids shop for a special pen for Mom, and you’ve got a fun, thoughtful gift. (You could make extras of these and give them to your own Mom if you need gift ideas for her too!)
Of course, jewelry is always nice. You know your budget constraints. If you can’t afford nice jewelry, pick something else. Just my opinion.
Whatever gift you decide on, write your wife a nice card and tell her how much you appreciate all she does as a Mom. Help your children do the same. (One of my favorite Mother’s Day cards is from Twin B. His preschool teacher promted him with “I appreciate my Mommy because she…” and he said, “helps me wipe my bottom.” I will keep this card forever.)
Now let me talk to you, Moms. Give your husband a break and tell him exactly what you want for Mother’s Day. If you’re hoping he’ll guess, let me tell you if you haven’t figured this out yet: he won’t. I don’t know your husband, but he probably wants to please you. Explicitly tell him how to do this. You’ll both be happier in the long run!
Oh, and in case I don’t say it later, Happy Mother’s Day!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
the corner of the room
The pile feels endless––an old pair of shorts, a bag of hotel shampoo, the August issue of Family Circle, faded jeans. A few treasures, but mostly junk, languish in this dusty corner of my bedroom. My Mother’s wedding dress lay buried at the bottom of it all.
I unzip the cover and feel the soft, white velvet. She had a Christmas wedding. I can still hear my Mother’s angry voice, “Nothing good ever came from that marriage.”
I want to answer, “Well, me. Maybe.” But I don’t. Like so many other things, this is not about me.
What to do with the dusty dress now? I can’t bring myself to toss it away, into the Salvation Army bag. And so it hangs, crowded into the corner of the guest room closet.
I think of my little neighbor friend, only eight, who endures this grief. Last year, she sat at my kitchen table and cried. “This divorce is even going to screw up Christmas,” she told me, incredulous. “I have to be with my Dad two days before Christmas, and then my Mom on the actual Christmas. But we’ll never be all together. Can you believe it?”
And so we made cookies together. And when she left, by some miracle, she was smiling again. Last week, her best friend moved away from our street, and when the van pulled away, I reached over to hug her. She had no tears then. “Well, at least we can write!” she chirped. “Oh,” she said, “by the way. Christmas is all messed up again this year.”
“Then lets make our cookies again,” I offered.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Me too, dear one. Me too.
I unzip the cover and feel the soft, white velvet. She had a Christmas wedding. I can still hear my Mother’s angry voice, “Nothing good ever came from that marriage.”
I want to answer, “Well, me. Maybe.” But I don’t. Like so many other things, this is not about me.
What to do with the dusty dress now? I can’t bring myself to toss it away, into the Salvation Army bag. And so it hangs, crowded into the corner of the guest room closet.
I think of my little neighbor friend, only eight, who endures this grief. Last year, she sat at my kitchen table and cried. “This divorce is even going to screw up Christmas,” she told me, incredulous. “I have to be with my Dad two days before Christmas, and then my Mom on the actual Christmas. But we’ll never be all together. Can you believe it?”
And so we made cookies together. And when she left, by some miracle, she was smiling again. Last week, her best friend moved away from our street, and when the van pulled away, I reached over to hug her. She had no tears then. “Well, at least we can write!” she chirped. “Oh,” she said, “by the way. Christmas is all messed up again this year.”
“Then lets make our cookies again,” I offered.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Me too, dear one. Me too.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
on cleaning up
It’s all coming back to me, this having a toddler thing. I feel like I’m on a treadmill all day long, moving, but never going anywhere.
And I’ve decided that cleaning up with a toddler in the house is like trying to vacuum in the middle of a hurricane.
I put baby b. in his high chair, and he eats breakfast while I unload the dishwasher. When he’s done, I clean up the high chair mess while he toddles off to the family room and dumps a box of tinker toys. Before I’m finished with the kitchen, he wanders back in with his broom to “help” me sweep. And on and on it goes, all day long.
Yesterday I gave up for a few hours and actually tripped on my way across the living room.
At least he has a healthy sense of curiosity.
Any illusion that I am able to keep all of these balls in the air AND keep a tidy house are officially shattered. Twin A. had a playdate a few weeks ago, and when the little boy’s Mom came to pick him up, I invited her in. I didn’t apologize for the mess; after all, four Kindergarten boys and a toddler had been happily playing for two hours.
And they were all alive.
She told me later, “I love your home. It’s lived in, like our house.” And the next week when Twin A. played at her house, she invited me in for the first time. We pushed the pile of mail on the counter to the side and had a cup of tea.
Maybe this toddler thing isn’t so bad after all.
And I’ve decided that cleaning up with a toddler in the house is like trying to vacuum in the middle of a hurricane.
I put baby b. in his high chair, and he eats breakfast while I unload the dishwasher. When he’s done, I clean up the high chair mess while he toddles off to the family room and dumps a box of tinker toys. Before I’m finished with the kitchen, he wanders back in with his broom to “help” me sweep. And on and on it goes, all day long.
Yesterday I gave up for a few hours and actually tripped on my way across the living room.
At least he has a healthy sense of curiosity.
Any illusion that I am able to keep all of these balls in the air AND keep a tidy house are officially shattered. Twin A. had a playdate a few weeks ago, and when the little boy’s Mom came to pick him up, I invited her in. I didn’t apologize for the mess; after all, four Kindergarten boys and a toddler had been happily playing for two hours.
And they were all alive.
She told me later, “I love your home. It’s lived in, like our house.” And the next week when Twin A. played at her house, she invited me in for the first time. We pushed the pile of mail on the counter to the side and had a cup of tea.
Maybe this toddler thing isn’t so bad after all.
Monday, October 22, 2007
words for a friend
When I stepped into the world of blogging, I had no idea what I would find. Honestly, I was just looking for a place to write and exchange ideas with other people who were looking for a place to write and exchange ideas.
And so I met Charity, and was immediately struck by the depth of her insight. I have been encouraged and challenged by her thoughts. I have grown to love her as a sister in Christ.
I wept as I read of her current struggle with cancer, surprised by the depth of my own emotion for this woman I have never met. After all, wasn’t I just saying that blogging cannot take the place of true community? And yet my first instinct had me checking mapquest to find out just how far away she actually lives. Maybe not too far to bring a casserole, which is what I tend to do when there are no words.
And then L.L. Barkat invited us to share our thoughts about Charity, and it got me thinking again about community. If there is a place for casseroles and hugs, is there not also a place for words?
Even when there are no words.
Friends – please pray for Charity.
And so I met Charity, and was immediately struck by the depth of her insight. I have been encouraged and challenged by her thoughts. I have grown to love her as a sister in Christ.
I wept as I read of her current struggle with cancer, surprised by the depth of my own emotion for this woman I have never met. After all, wasn’t I just saying that blogging cannot take the place of true community? And yet my first instinct had me checking mapquest to find out just how far away she actually lives. Maybe not too far to bring a casserole, which is what I tend to do when there are no words.
And then L.L. Barkat invited us to share our thoughts about Charity, and it got me thinking again about community. If there is a place for casseroles and hugs, is there not also a place for words?
Even when there are no words.
Friends – please pray for Charity.
Monday, October 15, 2007
home
The airport is empty at 1:30 in the morning. It’s strange, walking through O’hare in the middle of the night. I will my body forward; honestly, I just want to lie down. The short nap on the plane left me in a fog that exists somewhere between asleep and awake.
It takes a village to pick me up. Flight delays mucked up the original plan, so my brother-in-law will spend the night at our house. By the time I reach the van, I am so happy to see my husband I almost cry.
I try to chat on the way home, but I just want to close my eyes. To be honest, I am completely out of words. My three girlfriends and I managed to squeeze several weeks worth of conversation into a few days. On Saturday we got up at seven, started talking immediately, and continued to talk all day long while we hiked and ate and drank tea. Until 2 a.m.
At some point we decided we were a traveling mystery to those around us. “People keep asking me where I’m from,” my British friend remarked. “When I say ‘California’ they just look at me like I have two heads.”
“Yeah,” my Aussie friend nodded.
Later my other friend whispered, “I am the only Asian person in this restaurant.”
“Really?” I asked, looking around. “Is that weird?”
“Not really. Except people keep staring at me.” The rest of us hadn’t noticed. My Aussie and British friends were too busy trying to find a proper cup of tea. But she was right. People were staring.
We laughed until our sides hurt. We dove into the deep places of our souls with abandon, knowing our hearts would be completely safe in this company. We challenged and encouraged one another. We almost cried every time we remembered our Aussie friend’s upcoming move back to Australia. But this wasn’t the time for those tears.
I am grateful beyond words for these friends. Which is a good thing, since I have no words left. Really.
It takes a village to pick me up. Flight delays mucked up the original plan, so my brother-in-law will spend the night at our house. By the time I reach the van, I am so happy to see my husband I almost cry.
I try to chat on the way home, but I just want to close my eyes. To be honest, I am completely out of words. My three girlfriends and I managed to squeeze several weeks worth of conversation into a few days. On Saturday we got up at seven, started talking immediately, and continued to talk all day long while we hiked and ate and drank tea. Until 2 a.m.
At some point we decided we were a traveling mystery to those around us. “People keep asking me where I’m from,” my British friend remarked. “When I say ‘California’ they just look at me like I have two heads.”
“Yeah,” my Aussie friend nodded.
Later my other friend whispered, “I am the only Asian person in this restaurant.”
“Really?” I asked, looking around. “Is that weird?”
“Not really. Except people keep staring at me.” The rest of us hadn’t noticed. My Aussie and British friends were too busy trying to find a proper cup of tea. But she was right. People were staring.
We laughed until our sides hurt. We dove into the deep places of our souls with abandon, knowing our hearts would be completely safe in this company. We challenged and encouraged one another. We almost cried every time we remembered our Aussie friend’s upcoming move back to Australia. But this wasn’t the time for those tears.
I am grateful beyond words for these friends. Which is a good thing, since I have no words left. Really.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
encouragement
My Grandpa is an encourager. Even as a kid, I remember feeling safe and protected in his home. He and Grandma were always on my side, even when I was screwing things up. The other day he sent me a short email, “Great blog post today! Keep looking for similar opportunities to write.”
It made my day. Over the course of my life, these short bursts of encouragement have had a huge impact on me. When the voices in my head tell me I’m no good, the soft, kind words from the encouragers in my life whisper the truth.
Do you build people up with your words, or tear them down? Do you actively look for opportunities to encourage your children? And not just a blanket, “Great job, kid,” but a specific word of truth spoken into the heart of your child?
“I was proud of you today out on the soccer field. You worked really hard and did a great job following your coach’s directions.”
“You have a fantastic sense of humor. I enjoy spending time with you.”
Our words have the power to build our kids up or tear them down. I'm not an advocate of the constant "great job eating those cheerios" pseudo-praise that's so popular today, but truthful, specific words of kindness will build into them a true sense of worth, rooted in the love of Christ shown through us. Speak the truth to your child today, and watch his or her face as you say it. The effect is immediate.
“Thoughtless words cut like a sword. But the tongue of wise people brings healing.” (Proverbs 12:18)
It made my day. Over the course of my life, these short bursts of encouragement have had a huge impact on me. When the voices in my head tell me I’m no good, the soft, kind words from the encouragers in my life whisper the truth.
Do you build people up with your words, or tear them down? Do you actively look for opportunities to encourage your children? And not just a blanket, “Great job, kid,” but a specific word of truth spoken into the heart of your child?
“I was proud of you today out on the soccer field. You worked really hard and did a great job following your coach’s directions.”
“You have a fantastic sense of humor. I enjoy spending time with you.”
Our words have the power to build our kids up or tear them down. I'm not an advocate of the constant "great job eating those cheerios" pseudo-praise that's so popular today, but truthful, specific words of kindness will build into them a true sense of worth, rooted in the love of Christ shown through us. Speak the truth to your child today, and watch his or her face as you say it. The effect is immediate.
“Thoughtless words cut like a sword. But the tongue of wise people brings healing.” (Proverbs 12:18)
Saturday, August 11, 2007
home
We just got back from a week in Michigan camping at Cran Hill Ranch, enjoying a reunion with my husband’s extended family. Honestly, I dreaded this trip for six months before it came, trying to think through all of the particulars of traveling and camping with baby b. Overall, things went much better than I expected. The first travel day was brutal—the baby screamed for two-and-a-half hours in the car, filled five diapers with diarrhea throughout our first night in a hotel in South Haven, and left my husband and me completely fried and thinking, “Why are we doing this to ourselves?” (Later I figured out that he must have cut a new tooth, which was the cause of his misery.)
But things got better from there. The campground was beautiful. Our rented camper worked out perfectly. The baby had no problem going down for naps during the day at our quiet campsite, and he went down early each night while we enjoyed the campfire. We woke up each morning to his smiling face peeking over the edge of his pack-and-play and his happy babble, which I wish there were real words for so I could share it with you. Is there anything sweeter than the babble of a one-year old? My husband would hit the button on the coffee maker and pull him into our bed for a cuddle. “Ooooh!” Baby b. would squeal and point, excited at his first view of the lake.
The noisy boys had a blast running around with their “extended” cousins. A craft room, a frog pond, canoeing, tubing, fishing, swimming, hanging out at the beach—each day was jam-packed with fun. It was a joy to watch them bond with family we see infrequently. My favorite moment? The turtle races. The kids worked hard catching turtles for several days, and then they each picked one to name and race. What fun! I don’t think I have ever seen Twin B. so excited. He jumped up and down cheering on his turtle, Lightning, and laughed and laughed at the sight of so many turtles scampering through the grass. (As soon as the races ended, the kids let the turtles go back into the lake. No turtles were hurt in this moment of family fun, though I’m pretty sure a few need therapy.)
We half-expected rain all week, but it only really came our first night camping. And boy did it come. But I’ll save that story for another day. For now, I’ve got about twelve loads of laundry to do, and the pile of everything is still sitting in our entryway where we dropped it last night. My husband summed it up on day three when we collapsed into bed. “I’ve never been so exhausted, but it’s so worth it to watch the noisy boys build these memories.” I suppose that’s why any family goes on vacation ever, isn’t it? The memories.
We’ve made plenty. And now I’m ready to stay home for a good long time!
But things got better from there. The campground was beautiful. Our rented camper worked out perfectly. The baby had no problem going down for naps during the day at our quiet campsite, and he went down early each night while we enjoyed the campfire. We woke up each morning to his smiling face peeking over the edge of his pack-and-play and his happy babble, which I wish there were real words for so I could share it with you. Is there anything sweeter than the babble of a one-year old? My husband would hit the button on the coffee maker and pull him into our bed for a cuddle. “Ooooh!” Baby b. would squeal and point, excited at his first view of the lake.
The noisy boys had a blast running around with their “extended” cousins. A craft room, a frog pond, canoeing, tubing, fishing, swimming, hanging out at the beach—each day was jam-packed with fun. It was a joy to watch them bond with family we see infrequently. My favorite moment? The turtle races. The kids worked hard catching turtles for several days, and then they each picked one to name and race. What fun! I don’t think I have ever seen Twin B. so excited. He jumped up and down cheering on his turtle, Lightning, and laughed and laughed at the sight of so many turtles scampering through the grass. (As soon as the races ended, the kids let the turtles go back into the lake. No turtles were hurt in this moment of family fun, though I’m pretty sure a few need therapy.)
We half-expected rain all week, but it only really came our first night camping. And boy did it come. But I’ll save that story for another day. For now, I’ve got about twelve loads of laundry to do, and the pile of everything is still sitting in our entryway where we dropped it last night. My husband summed it up on day three when we collapsed into bed. “I’ve never been so exhausted, but it’s so worth it to watch the noisy boys build these memories.” I suppose that’s why any family goes on vacation ever, isn’t it? The memories.
We’ve made plenty. And now I’m ready to stay home for a good long time!
Friday, July 6, 2007
forgiveness
I stare at the last pot in the sink. I just can’t do it. I’m done. Beyond exhausted.
“Honey?” I ask, “would you please wash this last pot for me and get my coffee ready for the morning? I’m exhausted.”
“Sure, no problem. Good night!” He responds cheerfully from his perch in front of the television.
I double-check the crockpot—already getting hot. I’m making slow cooked bbq pork and bringing a meal to two families from church tomorrow. All I have to do in the morning is shred the pork, add the bbq sauce, and make a simple fruit salad. I’m getting a haircut at 9:30, so I plan to deliver the food early. It’s a busy day with my husband getting ready for a backpacking trip, but dropping off a simple meal should be no problem.
I sleep soundly, but when I wake up I notice right away: the house doesn’t smell like anything is cooking. I jump out of bed and race to the crockpot.
It’s unplugged.
I open the lid, incredulous. Warm, rotting meat with a lovely bbq rub stares back at me. “Honey?” I call out. My husband comes in and gasps. “I am so, so sorry.” He says.
And I know that he is sincere. He unplugged the crockpot to grind the coffee beans and forgot to plug it back in. It was an honest-to-goodness mistake that anyone could make. Even me, Miss Organized and Efficient.
I sit down at the kitchen table with my coffee and cry for about three minutes. And then I grab my notebook of summer meals and flip through it, looking for something that I have all of the ingredients for. Anything. Ah! Here it is! Low-fat Fettuccine Alfredo. And I’ve even got leftover chicken to throw in. I’ll turn the buns I bought for the bbq into garlic toast, and voila. Dinner.
With that decision done, I get to work. And then I make the most important decision of the day: the decision to forgive my husband. Not to just say “it’s okay,” but to forgive him. To let him off the hook. I ask him to grate the parmesan cheese for me, and I tell him I forgive him. The burden of anger lifts from my shoulders, and we work together to get back on-track with the day.
This morning he left at 5 a.m. for a week of backpacking in Yosemite. As I reflect on the events of yesterday morning, I am so glad I didn’t waste the day in anger and hostility and resentment.
Does grace live at your house? I am so grateful that it lives at mine.
“Honey?” I ask, “would you please wash this last pot for me and get my coffee ready for the morning? I’m exhausted.”
“Sure, no problem. Good night!” He responds cheerfully from his perch in front of the television.
I double-check the crockpot—already getting hot. I’m making slow cooked bbq pork and bringing a meal to two families from church tomorrow. All I have to do in the morning is shred the pork, add the bbq sauce, and make a simple fruit salad. I’m getting a haircut at 9:30, so I plan to deliver the food early. It’s a busy day with my husband getting ready for a backpacking trip, but dropping off a simple meal should be no problem.
I sleep soundly, but when I wake up I notice right away: the house doesn’t smell like anything is cooking. I jump out of bed and race to the crockpot.
It’s unplugged.
I open the lid, incredulous. Warm, rotting meat with a lovely bbq rub stares back at me. “Honey?” I call out. My husband comes in and gasps. “I am so, so sorry.” He says.
And I know that he is sincere. He unplugged the crockpot to grind the coffee beans and forgot to plug it back in. It was an honest-to-goodness mistake that anyone could make. Even me, Miss Organized and Efficient.
I sit down at the kitchen table with my coffee and cry for about three minutes. And then I grab my notebook of summer meals and flip through it, looking for something that I have all of the ingredients for. Anything. Ah! Here it is! Low-fat Fettuccine Alfredo. And I’ve even got leftover chicken to throw in. I’ll turn the buns I bought for the bbq into garlic toast, and voila. Dinner.
With that decision done, I get to work. And then I make the most important decision of the day: the decision to forgive my husband. Not to just say “it’s okay,” but to forgive him. To let him off the hook. I ask him to grate the parmesan cheese for me, and I tell him I forgive him. The burden of anger lifts from my shoulders, and we work together to get back on-track with the day.
This morning he left at 5 a.m. for a week of backpacking in Yosemite. As I reflect on the events of yesterday morning, I am so glad I didn’t waste the day in anger and hostility and resentment.
Does grace live at your house? I am so grateful that it lives at mine.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
one thing
Sweaty and tired, I slap the teak oil onto the chairs. It’s getting dark, and I don’t care anymore. I just want to be done. One thing. I just want to finish one thing today. Well, one thing besides the housework and the dishes and the laundry and the constant cooking.
“Those will look nice when you’re done,” my neighbor encourages from over the fence.
“Thanks. I’ve been trying to get this project done literally all day.” I respond with a tone of irritation.
“Oh, I remember those days,” she says.
“Is it too much to just start and finish a project in the same day?” I wonder aloud as she smiles.
We are on different sides of parenting, she and I. Our swing set went up the summer theirs came down. Three kids, the last one a senior this year, she has walked roads I haven’t even considered yet.
We chat politely, even as I envy her manicured lawn free of plastic toys.
“I saw you and the kids walking to the pool the other day. Boy does that bring back memories! Those were good days,” she continues, with envy in her eyes.
And as the sun sets, I finally finish the one thing I’ve been trying to do all day. I know she is right. These are good days. Long. Hard. Messy. But so good.
“Those will look nice when you’re done,” my neighbor encourages from over the fence.
“Thanks. I’ve been trying to get this project done literally all day.” I respond with a tone of irritation.
“Oh, I remember those days,” she says.
“Is it too much to just start and finish a project in the same day?” I wonder aloud as she smiles.
We are on different sides of parenting, she and I. Our swing set went up the summer theirs came down. Three kids, the last one a senior this year, she has walked roads I haven’t even considered yet.
We chat politely, even as I envy her manicured lawn free of plastic toys.
“I saw you and the kids walking to the pool the other day. Boy does that bring back memories! Those were good days,” she continues, with envy in her eyes.
And as the sun sets, I finally finish the one thing I’ve been trying to do all day. I know she is right. These are good days. Long. Hard. Messy. But so good.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
observant
Juggling the baby, a spatula, and fielding random questions about snakes represents just another day in the life here at the Llama household. This morning I was cubing up stale bread for croutons, turning the same stale bread into french toast for breakfast, cutting up bananas for baby b.’s breakfast, and answering a random assortment of questions when Twin B. chimed in with, “When will my French toast be ready?” Not in that polite, I’m-just-wondering tone, but with an edge of demanding, a where’s-my-breakfast kind of tone.
“Be patient,” I answered. “Mama’s doing a lot of things at the same time. You need to wait patiently for your breakfast.” I resisted the urge to add, “Hey. Some Mom’s don’t even make breakfast. Heck, you could already be at daycare eating a baggie of cheerios, so buck up buddy.” But I didn’t.
Twin A., who tends to be careful and observant, said, “Yeah, Mom’s doing three things at the same time. She’s making our breakfast, making something for supper, and keeping her eye on the baby.”
I’m impressed. The kid nailed it. And he gave me an important reminder: when you don’t think they’re paying attention to the details, they are. They’re learning from us whether we think we’re teaching them or not. And, I believe, the biggest lessons are not in the big things, but the little things. How we treat the plumber who shows up thirty minutes early; finishing the promised and much anticipated game of UNO and letting the answering machine take care of the ringing phone; and responding with kindness and respect to a child’s question—even when we’re doing three things at the same time.
“Be patient,” I answered. “Mama’s doing a lot of things at the same time. You need to wait patiently for your breakfast.” I resisted the urge to add, “Hey. Some Mom’s don’t even make breakfast. Heck, you could already be at daycare eating a baggie of cheerios, so buck up buddy.” But I didn’t.
Twin A., who tends to be careful and observant, said, “Yeah, Mom’s doing three things at the same time. She’s making our breakfast, making something for supper, and keeping her eye on the baby.”
I’m impressed. The kid nailed it. And he gave me an important reminder: when you don’t think they’re paying attention to the details, they are. They’re learning from us whether we think we’re teaching them or not. And, I believe, the biggest lessons are not in the big things, but the little things. How we treat the plumber who shows up thirty minutes early; finishing the promised and much anticipated game of UNO and letting the answering machine take care of the ringing phone; and responding with kindness and respect to a child’s question—even when we’re doing three things at the same time.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Mom's night out
Last night I went out with a group of dear friends from our twin’s playgroup. I was struck by how this group of women has evolved, and how much it means to me at this stage in my life.
When the noisy boys were babies and we were new to Illinois, my husband took on his current job that involves a heavy travel schedule. This was hard. Unbelievably hard. I remember standing in the shower one morning, sobbing, and praying for just one friend who would really understand what I was going through. Just one.
That day, for no real reason, I packed up my two babies and went to a craft store I had never been to before. While there, I ran into another woman pushing a double stroller with twin boys the exact age as mine. We started comparing stories, and realized our lives overlapped in an uncanny way. At this point we were still smiling politely, and yet both of us were desperate too—for a friend who really got it. We exchanged phone numbers that day and began getting together the next week. We became fast friends, and gave each other courage and strength and understanding to get through the long days of mothering little ones. The four boys are best friends. (And in another uncanny coincidence, we each had a third son within months of each other!)
My friend, Ang, started a playgroup through our twin’s club a few months later. I still remember that first meeting with all of the babies crawling and toddling around and yelling. The Moms didn’t talk much during those early meetings, but just to be in the presence of other adults brought sanity. As the kids got older, we were giddy as we sat around the table, drinking coffee. “Look at us! Drinking coffee!” We would exclaim. We had arrived.
And last night, we all swapped stories of our babies, who are going to school now and crossing the Daisy bridge and reading real books, and I thanked God again for this gift of friends who understand.
When the noisy boys were babies and we were new to Illinois, my husband took on his current job that involves a heavy travel schedule. This was hard. Unbelievably hard. I remember standing in the shower one morning, sobbing, and praying for just one friend who would really understand what I was going through. Just one.
That day, for no real reason, I packed up my two babies and went to a craft store I had never been to before. While there, I ran into another woman pushing a double stroller with twin boys the exact age as mine. We started comparing stories, and realized our lives overlapped in an uncanny way. At this point we were still smiling politely, and yet both of us were desperate too—for a friend who really got it. We exchanged phone numbers that day and began getting together the next week. We became fast friends, and gave each other courage and strength and understanding to get through the long days of mothering little ones. The four boys are best friends. (And in another uncanny coincidence, we each had a third son within months of each other!)
My friend, Ang, started a playgroup through our twin’s club a few months later. I still remember that first meeting with all of the babies crawling and toddling around and yelling. The Moms didn’t talk much during those early meetings, but just to be in the presence of other adults brought sanity. As the kids got older, we were giddy as we sat around the table, drinking coffee. “Look at us! Drinking coffee!” We would exclaim. We had arrived.
And last night, we all swapped stories of our babies, who are going to school now and crossing the Daisy bridge and reading real books, and I thanked God again for this gift of friends who understand.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
white privilege
A couple of weeks ago I had the privilege of hearing my friend, Ed Gilbreath, speak on the subject of his latest book, Reconciliation Blues. If you ever have an opportunity to hear Ed speak, go. You won’t be disappointed.
One of the things that struck me were Ed’s remarks about “representing” black people. If he’s the only minority person in the room and a racial issue comes up that nobody else notices, he feels a burden of responsibility to speak up. I can only imagine how exhausting this role must feel at times. A part of me wants to tell my friend, “Just be you and don’t carry around this burden to be Everybody; to always represent the minority point of view is just too hard—just be Ed.”
I cannot relate to this burden because I’m not required to carry it. I’m white. If I’m at the park and my kids misbehave, nobody looks at me and says, “Look at that white woman who can’t control her kids,” and walks away thinking, “those white people. Can’t they get it together?”
White privilege, —the ability to go about the day, the week, even the year without once considering matters of race—is something many of us white folks remain blissfully unaware of. That’s part of the problem. We don't even realize that some of the privileges we enjoy are related to the fact that we're white. We judge and criticize without ever once stopping to consider that maybe our opportunities in life were different from the start. And when we stay blissfully unaware of racial issues, things just slip by. Like the dreadful VBS curriculum, Rickshaw Rally, and this skit, by Youth Specialties (who issued a public apology for the material and immediately pulled it).
We don’t think we’re racist. Really, we’re not. And yet this stuff keeps happening. (And when I say, “we,” I’m speaking collectively for all white people. It’s time we started taking responsibility for OUR own.)
So what’s the solution? In the church, what is the antidote to white privilege? I realize this is a big topic, and I fear I've grossly oversimplified the issue, but I'm interested in what others think on this topic.
One of the things that struck me were Ed’s remarks about “representing” black people. If he’s the only minority person in the room and a racial issue comes up that nobody else notices, he feels a burden of responsibility to speak up. I can only imagine how exhausting this role must feel at times. A part of me wants to tell my friend, “Just be you and don’t carry around this burden to be Everybody; to always represent the minority point of view is just too hard—just be Ed.”
I cannot relate to this burden because I’m not required to carry it. I’m white. If I’m at the park and my kids misbehave, nobody looks at me and says, “Look at that white woman who can’t control her kids,” and walks away thinking, “those white people. Can’t they get it together?”
White privilege, —the ability to go about the day, the week, even the year without once considering matters of race—is something many of us white folks remain blissfully unaware of. That’s part of the problem. We don't even realize that some of the privileges we enjoy are related to the fact that we're white. We judge and criticize without ever once stopping to consider that maybe our opportunities in life were different from the start. And when we stay blissfully unaware of racial issues, things just slip by. Like the dreadful VBS curriculum, Rickshaw Rally, and this skit, by Youth Specialties (who issued a public apology for the material and immediately pulled it).
We don’t think we’re racist. Really, we’re not. And yet this stuff keeps happening. (And when I say, “we,” I’m speaking collectively for all white people. It’s time we started taking responsibility for OUR own.)
So what’s the solution? In the church, what is the antidote to white privilege? I realize this is a big topic, and I fear I've grossly oversimplified the issue, but I'm interested in what others think on this topic.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
humbling
I have a confession to make. It's really hard for me to ask for help. Now, I know I'm in good company when I say this, but it's true. A week after my gall bladder surgery, I was at the grocery store and the clerk asked, "Can I help you to the car?" No, of course not. I just had abdominal surgery and feel like I'm going to fall over, but I'm good! As I lugged the too-heavy groceries to my mini-van, I could have kicked myself. Why is my first response to "Can I help you?" always "No"?
My husband is on the road for the fourth week in a row, and I'm tired. I expect today to be jam-packed and intense. So, when my sister-in-law called yesterday and offered to stay with baby b. for a few hours while the noisy boys are in preschool, I said yes. (Notice I still didn't ask for help, but at least I accepted it when it was offered!)
It's humbling, though, to be in a position of needing help. And today, I need help. Pray for me, if I come to your mind, as the Holy Spirit leads.
My husband is on the road for the fourth week in a row, and I'm tired. I expect today to be jam-packed and intense. So, when my sister-in-law called yesterday and offered to stay with baby b. for a few hours while the noisy boys are in preschool, I said yes. (Notice I still didn't ask for help, but at least I accepted it when it was offered!)
It's humbling, though, to be in a position of needing help. And today, I need help. Pray for me, if I come to your mind, as the Holy Spirit leads.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Walk-for-Life
As many of you know, the ministry of crisis pregnancy centers is close to my heart. When I was a teenager, I became pregnant. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I went to a CPC for support, and they counseled me through one of the most difficult seasons of my life. I chose to have my child, a son, and place him in an adoptive family. My counselor at the center was incredible. She asked me hard questions, she listened, and over and over again, she pointed me to Jesus.
This year, I’m participating in the Walk for Life to raise money for Living Alternatives, a crisis pregnancy center near where I live. Every day the CPC reaches out to women and children with the love of Christ, offering practical help and hope in the midst of crisis. If you’d like to sponsor me and support Living Alternatives, click here.
This seems like a shameless solicitation, which I suppose it is. Even as I write that word, “shameless,” I’m reminded of the power that shame has held over me. Up until a couple of years ago, this was a big secret from all but a few. And then I chose to publish a part of my story in Focus on the Family, and, well, with a readership of 1,700,000, it pretty much blew my cover, which was a good thing. I got tired of hiding; tired of pretending my second pregnancy was my first, and my third pregnancy was my second. I got tired of hiding his picture every time I invited someone over. The weight of the secret intensified my shame.
And when I think of my birthson, who will be seventeen this year, shame is not the word I want associated with his life. He is a gift from God, a blessing to many, and living proof of God’s redeeming grace.
This year, I’m participating in the Walk for Life to raise money for Living Alternatives, a crisis pregnancy center near where I live. Every day the CPC reaches out to women and children with the love of Christ, offering practical help and hope in the midst of crisis. If you’d like to sponsor me and support Living Alternatives, click here.
This seems like a shameless solicitation, which I suppose it is. Even as I write that word, “shameless,” I’m reminded of the power that shame has held over me. Up until a couple of years ago, this was a big secret from all but a few. And then I chose to publish a part of my story in Focus on the Family, and, well, with a readership of 1,700,000, it pretty much blew my cover, which was a good thing. I got tired of hiding; tired of pretending my second pregnancy was my first, and my third pregnancy was my second. I got tired of hiding his picture every time I invited someone over. The weight of the secret intensified my shame.
And when I think of my birthson, who will be seventeen this year, shame is not the word I want associated with his life. He is a gift from God, a blessing to many, and living proof of God’s redeeming grace.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
family fun
In the evening, at some point during the hour-and-a-half between dinner and bedtime, the noisy boys like to have “family fun.” This consists of anything “fun” done all together as a family (or as much of our family that’s home). Sometimes we go for a walk or play a game; sometimes we listen to music and dance together; sometimes we color pictures or play I-spy. So much of life is busy and work-focused. Phrases like, “I’ll help you with that as soon as I’m done loading the dishwasher;” and “get your shoes on, boys, we need to do a few errands” are commonly heard at our house. Family fun is a concerted effort on my part to make sure that for some part of each day we’re simply enjoying each other’s company.
I’m a big proponent of fun in general. Last night, we had fun having a restaurant supper. We didn’t go out; instead we turned our kitchen into a restaurant. First, the noisy boys colored menus listing all of the food choices. Lots of options last night: mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, artichoke pasta, sesame-ginger turkey tenderloin, mexican rice, chicken enchilada (only one), and roasted cauliflower. Never mind that Mom was cleaning out the fridge and calling it supper, the noisy boys were thrilled to act as “waiters” and take our orders. Twin A. insisted on turning the lights off and lighting a candle for atmosphere, and both boys enjoyed coloring a picture while they waited for their food (since that’s what you do in a restaurant). The only thing missing was the busboy to clear away the dishes. Well, that and the bill.
Do you make fun a priority in your family? Do you laugh together often? I’m nowhere near perfect in this area, but I do love to have fun—and I’m glad it’s rubbing off on the kids.
I’m a big proponent of fun in general. Last night, we had fun having a restaurant supper. We didn’t go out; instead we turned our kitchen into a restaurant. First, the noisy boys colored menus listing all of the food choices. Lots of options last night: mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, artichoke pasta, sesame-ginger turkey tenderloin, mexican rice, chicken enchilada (only one), and roasted cauliflower. Never mind that Mom was cleaning out the fridge and calling it supper, the noisy boys were thrilled to act as “waiters” and take our orders. Twin A. insisted on turning the lights off and lighting a candle for atmosphere, and both boys enjoyed coloring a picture while they waited for their food (since that’s what you do in a restaurant). The only thing missing was the busboy to clear away the dishes. Well, that and the bill.
Do you make fun a priority in your family? Do you laugh together often? I’m nowhere near perfect in this area, but I do love to have fun—and I’m glad it’s rubbing off on the kids.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
snow day fun
The twins have been very into tinker toys lately. Last week, they made a little person, complete with spiky green hair. "Look!" Twin B exclaimed, "It's Mrs. (name withheld)!" (Who also happens to be blogger, For Now .) Maybe you've got to know For Now to appreciate this. She's very stylish in hair and dress, and sports this cute spiky hairdo that nobody else I know could actually pull off. (Maybe you remember her "candlelight post "?)
Fast forward to today, an honest to goodness snow day. Since finishing their chores, the twins have been working on tinker toy creations and building a gigantic couch-cushion fort in our living room. Twin A just walked into the kitchen, all decked out with a tinker toy mask he made, complete with spiky green hair. "Look, I'm a clown!" Twin A shouted. Twin B excitedly added, "No, no...you look like (For Now )! Except she doesn't have a mustache!"
No she doesn't. And, for the record, she also had very nicely groomed eyebrows. And a great sense of humor!
Fast forward to today, an honest to goodness snow day. Since finishing their chores, the twins have been working on tinker toy creations and building a gigantic couch-cushion fort in our living room. Twin A just walked into the kitchen, all decked out with a tinker toy mask he made, complete with spiky green hair. "Look, I'm a clown!" Twin A shouted. Twin B excitedly added, "No, no...you look like (For Now )! Except she doesn't have a mustache!"
No she doesn't. And, for the record, she also had very nicely groomed eyebrows. And a great sense of humor!
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Authenticity
We’ve all experienced it at one time or another: that uncomfortable moment in Bible Study when someone dares to tell the whole truth. “My uncle molested me as a kid,” or “I had my driver’s license taken away for drinking and driving,” or “I had an abortion when I was fifteen.” Personally, these revelations scare the heck out of me. What am I supposed to say? I start sweating and feel slightly nauseous. Are other people going to start telling their secrets too? And—the real reason for my discomfort—will people expect me to share MY secrets? It’s socially inappropriate, this sharing, but in the context of Christian community, IS it inappropriate? And in the small group setting, isn’t it strangely preferable to praying for someone’s Cousin Susie’s nose job?
I was reading in Mark 5 today, and the first twenty verses detail the account of a man who was demon possessed. I find the story interesting on many different levels—I mean, the guy was DEMON POSESSED. He was thrashing around uncontrollably. His life was a disaster. Jesus sent the demons living in this guy into a herd of 2,000 pigs, who proceed to drown themselves in a nearby river. Can you even imagine? Anyway, here’s the part that really interests me. In verse 18, it says, “When Jesus got back into the boat, the man who had been demon possessed begged to go, too. But Jesus said, ‘No, go home to your friends, and tell them what wonderful things the Lord has done for you and how merciful he has been’” (Mark 5:18-19).
How much easier would it have been for this guy to climb into the boat with his savior and begin a whole new life? How much more difficult to go home, to the people who knew him, and start over? I mean, think about it. This guy has some serious baggage. But Jesus tells him to go home and tell his friends about God’s mercy.
The question that’s nagging at me is this: can we truly share the wonderful things God has done for us without sharing the details of how desperate we were when Christ found us? Am I so concerned about being appropriate that I miss opportunities to share God’s love? And am I really concerned with being appropriate, or am I just trying to protect myself and whatever “image” I may have constructed for myself?
What does it mean to be authentic in the context of Christian community? And, more importantly, what does God require of us?
I was reading in Mark 5 today, and the first twenty verses detail the account of a man who was demon possessed. I find the story interesting on many different levels—I mean, the guy was DEMON POSESSED. He was thrashing around uncontrollably. His life was a disaster. Jesus sent the demons living in this guy into a herd of 2,000 pigs, who proceed to drown themselves in a nearby river. Can you even imagine? Anyway, here’s the part that really interests me. In verse 18, it says, “When Jesus got back into the boat, the man who had been demon possessed begged to go, too. But Jesus said, ‘No, go home to your friends, and tell them what wonderful things the Lord has done for you and how merciful he has been’” (Mark 5:18-19).
How much easier would it have been for this guy to climb into the boat with his savior and begin a whole new life? How much more difficult to go home, to the people who knew him, and start over? I mean, think about it. This guy has some serious baggage. But Jesus tells him to go home and tell his friends about God’s mercy.
The question that’s nagging at me is this: can we truly share the wonderful things God has done for us without sharing the details of how desperate we were when Christ found us? Am I so concerned about being appropriate that I miss opportunities to share God’s love? And am I really concerned with being appropriate, or am I just trying to protect myself and whatever “image” I may have constructed for myself?
What does it mean to be authentic in the context of Christian community? And, more importantly, what does God require of us?
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