Embracing It All

I define the words "hopeless romantic."  It doesn't matter how much real life I experience, there is a part of me that clings to the beautiful side.  The side that thinks fresh flowers should be on my counter every day, even though I have a black thumb.  The side that expects the throw pillows to stay artfully arranged on the couch, even though they share a home with people who use them as weapons and fort building material.  The side that believes my hair should look beautifully unkempt when I wake up, even though I've lived through the daily jolt of seeing only unkempt and not beautiful locks looking back at me every morning for forty years.  It's just who I am.  The one who longs for beauty and romance every day.

It's probably why I wrote it.  The one book I've ever completed.  A hopeless romantic kind of story, with not a ton of theological insight, but an abundance of sweet sentiment.

But, I'm also a little embarrassed by that part of myself.  I've never wanted people to know my favorite movie is not some deep war documentary, but instead it's...anything adapted from Jane Austen.  I've also never advertised my favorite author is not Dietrich Bonhoeffer (God bless his profound heart), but instead it's...Jan Karon.

But, it's the truth.  I'm a hopeless romantic, and I can't help it.  There are parts of me that are simply satisfied with a sweet story where the boy gets the girl, whose hair looks beautifully unkempt in the morning. 

And I'm learning that I don't have to be ashamed of any part of how God made me.  The assertive and bold parts?  The ones that got me labeled "bossy" when I was growing up?  They've been His way of developing leadership skills in me that have been needed in every season I've faced in adulthood.  The introverted quiet parts?  The ones that made me label myself "awkward" as I was maturing?  They've been His gifts to place me in a position to listen to what He was doing inside of me, rather than only being able to see the work He's doing through me.

There's not a part of me that He didn't design.  Not a part of me He can't use.

So, I've decided to go with Him.  Just go with Him.  Even if it means confessing something I fear might make me be labeled as silly or sentimental.  Even the hopeless romantic parts.  Because if He put it in me, then it has to be somewhere in Him.  And I think the God I love with my whole soul is hopelessly romantic about me.  It's in Him, so it's in me.  And if He put it in me, it's meant to be shared.

Porch Ponderings

I have a bad feeling the following confession makes me a lazy dog owner:  My favorite way to play fetch with our doggie is in the dark.  Not because it's more fun for her, but because she can't find her fetch toy in the dark.

And oh the joy of sitting on the porch in peace while she searches high and low.

Terrible, I know.  But, she really could avoid the trauma of the fifteen minute search if she would just get smart.  As it is, every time she sees me stand to throw the toy, she takes off running in any direction that strikes her fancy at the moment.  Not once has she ever waited to watch me throw the toy to see which direction it took flight.  Not once has she ever paused to listen for where the soft thud comes from as it lands.

Nope, she's already gone, usually sniffing in the complete opposite direction from where she needed to run.

And there I've sat many a night, drinking my coffee, often giggling to myself at her persistence in the search.  She usually finds it after a long time, but sometimes I eventually have to help her, walking over to where it sits. 

It's always been funny to me.  Until last night.

Because last night, it occurred to me to wonder if God sometimes finds himself sitting on His porch, wondering when I will take the time to ask Him what His plans are before I rush out to accomplish my own.

How many times has He wished I would pause and see which direction He is heading? 

How many times has He needed me to stop and listen to His voice instead of plunging ahead into darkness?

How many times has He had to come redirect my path to avoid the dangers I couldn't see or lead me to the blessings He had waiting for me?

I don't think I'll stop playing fetch in the dark with my sweet dog.  But, I'm thinking from now on I'll use those quiet moments on the porch to ask God what He's up to. 

And then I'll spend the rest of the time just listening.

Bedtime Ritual

I watched a badly made TV movie this week.  My husband was out of town, and I was looking to pass the evening hours after the kids were in bed.  I knew two minutes into the film that is was going to have a predictable story-line and poor acting.  I watched it anyway, strangely intrigued at how badly a movie could be made and still make it to the television.

With an introduction like that, I won't share the name of the film.  All that needs to be known is the predictable plot part. 

The movie was about a woman who relives a day in her life over and over again until she gets it right.  Overdone in Hollywood, for sure.  Yet, I was somehow genuinely happy for her when she finally learned all the lessons she was supposed to learn, the credits rolled, and I was sleepy enough to go to bed.

As I crawled between the covers, I had one loose thought rolling around in my head.

"What would I do differently tomorrow if I was reliving today?"

I closed my eyes and thought back over the details of my day.  A couple of encounters rose to the surface. 

A conversation I wished I had worked harder to infuse with gentleness.

A moment I could have siezed to spend time with my daughter.

A phone call of encouragement I meant to make and didn't.

What if tomorrow I could get a re-do?  How would I change it? 

I don't advocate living in regret.  It makes a terrible life-partner.  But, there's something to be said for evaluation.  For repentance.  For change.  For making different choices next time. 

And I did choose something different next time.  The very next day, I recognized a conversation similar to the one I had wished I could change.  And it arrested me.  I didn't want to be lying in my bed wishing I had done this one differently, too.

So, I stopped.  Slowed down.  Thought about the words.  Took my time to make it what I wanted it to be.

When I  went to bed that evening, I asked myself the same question, "What would I do differently tomorrow if I was reliving today?" And that conversation didn't make the list.

Something else did. 

"The faithful love of the Lord never ends!  His mercies never cease.  Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning." 
                                                                                          - Lamentations 3:22-23

Why You Shouldn't Give Up, Mama

With four children entrusted to my care, I spend a lot of my time teaching.  How to tie shoes.  How to ride a bike.  How to drive a car.  How to match your clothes.  How to start the dishwasher. 

The list goes on and on, right into the more important things.

How to forgive.  How to use your words to bless.  How to pray.  How to stop gossip.  How to strengthen yourself in the Lord.

I've been teaching these precious ones for fifteen years now, so I'm comfortable in my role as teacher.  I'm not always so comfortable in my role as student.

And that's where I found myself this week, as my son became the teacher.

It was Sunday evening and we were about to have thirty people making s'mores in our backyard for an end of the season softball party.  I was running behind in my preparations and feeling the crunch.  Somewhere in the midst of opening dozens of chocolate wrappers, my second son asked what was for dinner.  My response was less than gracious.

"It's Sunday night.  I don't cook on Sunday nights.  Just eat whatever you find in the fridge."

There was a long pause as he rummaged around in the fridge, then the freezer.  Pulling out a box of frozen taquitos, he asked how long he would need to warm them up.

I mumbled something in reply about that not being the easiest thing he could have chosen.

"What?" he asked me, leaning forward to try to catch my eyes.

"Nothing," I said, turning away from him, "Just follow the directions and do it quick so we can clean up the kitchen."

Definitely not an award-winning mommy moment.  And then, when the overpowing smell of taquitos filled the kitchen a few minutes later, it got worse.

"Great," I muttered loud enough for him to hear, "Just what I needed--that weird smell greeting our guests when they arrive."

My thirteen year old leaned forward once more, caught my gaze, and calmy said, "Mom, if you wanted to grump about that, you should have done it three minutes ago when I asked you what I should eat."

I looked at those sincere eyes, eyes that didn't hold one trace of disrespect, and burst out laughing.

He was so insanely and completely right.

And I was so in the wrong.

I apologized.  He accepted, smiled, and moved on to eat his taquitos, clean up after himself, and then ask how he could help me get ready for the party.

I realized later as I mulled it over that my teaching is working. 

I've invested hours and hours of my time teaching my children how to address conflict while still honoring the other person.

I've had countless coversations with them about how to recognize emotional manipulation and how to refrain from bowing to its yoke.

I've poured into them the skills and words it's going to take for them to navigate the waters of taking responsibility for what is yours, but not picking up false responsibility for what others do or say that you can not change.

And they're learning.  They're learning well.  They're learning so well that my son handled my irritation and impatience with a grace that can only come from someone who has come to value and fight for right relationships in his home.

And I've never been prouder as a mother, even if I won't be buying taquitos anymore.