Tomorrow we will be heading out for a cross-country road trip - first vacation we’ve taken since I was pregnant with boy number three more than three years ago. It took this long to get up the guts to cross the state border. I’m still not sure if it’s bravery or insanity.
Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.
It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.
I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.
The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?
“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.
I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.
I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.
And they survived.
Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).
I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.
“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”
Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.
“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.
There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).
But we’re making memories.
I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?
Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”
He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
all marked up
We have need for establishing a marker-free zone at our house. I’m seriously considering banishing the tools of color for good - mainly because the color is ending up everywhere but on paper.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
boy oh boy!
As of February 1, I am officially the mother of four boys. Gulp. That even looks tough on paper.
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Friday, July 1, 2005
where chaos reigns...
A couple weeks ago some friends of ours stopped by unannounced. Ordinarily this would be a welcome surprise. This time it wasn’t. I honestly was GLAD that Hubby and Oldest Boy were suffering from the flu so I had an excuse to tell them they might not want to come in. (I didn’t even let them past the front door).
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
long live the potluck
I love potlucks. I love the sight of dish after dish of various macaroni casseroles (We grew up saying “hotdishes.”) I love the smells that all combine to form one scent that doesn’t quite go together and yet somehow it just does.
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
getting along
I have been struggling recently with trying to help my boys be friends. Well, I’m really trying to MAKE them be friends.
Not an easy thing to do when one of them communicates with his fists.
I know that siblings fight, (I have five brothers and a sister) but that shouldn’t prevent them from practicing the Golden Rule on occasion. When I tell my boys about it, they get these blank stares. It doesn’t seem to sink in when I ask one, "Do you like when people hit you?" He will say no, and two minutes later, bam! out come the punches.
It’s such a battle - and I’m not even talking about between them. It’s a battle for me. I’m going crazy listening to them argue about who’s sitting next to Dad at lunch, who had what spot on the couch, who’s going to pray first at bedtime and who gets the last bagel.
"Why can’t you two just get along?" I growl. Well, okay it’s more like the hysterical rant of a cave woman who’s ready for spring to come, no matter how muddy it will be, no matter how muddy the boys will be and no matter how many loads of mud-caked clothes she has to wash. At least she has a washing machine. But that’s off the subject.
Now, really...why can’t my boys just get along? They will bicker about anything, argue about nothing, hit each other constantly and then, worst of all, TATTLE about it!
The only thing that seems to settle them down is snack time or shipping them outside. I’m not sure if they need extra energy-producing sugar or extra energy-depleting exercise like riding bikes through mucky clay.
I know that on some level they love each other because the oldest was gone for about two hours the other day and his younger brother missed him, and even said so!
So, I can’t really win. They fight when they’re around each other and yet they don’t like to be apart either.
Funny how adults have the same issues. We need each other for fellowship, friendship and conversation. (I particularly need adult conversation.) But, we still sometimes disagree and have conflicts.
It shouldn’t be this way, but isn’t any easier for me to get along with others than it is for my boys. Except that I don’t punch and call names. But, I do tattle and well, okay I do call names, at least in my head...
I know I’m supposed to accept others, flaws and all, because Christ has accepted me, flaws and all. (Romans 15:7) The Message paraphrase says to "reach out" to each other and likens unity to "getting along." I like that connection - getting along.
Something that is as hard for two brothers as it is for the brotherhood of believers.
How can you “get along” with those you don’t see eye to eye with or those you just can’t understand? How do I teach my boys that, when I have difficulty doing it myself?
It begins with an attitude adjustment. I need to recognize how other people put up with my faults and how I'm not always easy to get along with either. I need to see my imperfections so God can help me correct them. I need him to teach me acceptance, tolerance, understanding, all those things that are critical to “getting along.” I need to understand that the Golden Rule applies to me as well, in actions as well as attitudes.
I can’t expect something from others that I have trouble doing myself. I can’t expect my boys to get along with each other if I don’t show them how. I need to treat others how I’d like to be treated, and think about others how I’d like them to think of me. I need to live the Golden Rule.
Then, I need to convince the boys that the doing unto others part doesn’t involve fists.
Not an easy thing to do when one of them communicates with his fists.
I know that siblings fight, (I have five brothers and a sister) but that shouldn’t prevent them from practicing the Golden Rule on occasion. When I tell my boys about it, they get these blank stares. It doesn’t seem to sink in when I ask one, "Do you like when people hit you?" He will say no, and two minutes later, bam! out come the punches.
It’s such a battle - and I’m not even talking about between them. It’s a battle for me. I’m going crazy listening to them argue about who’s sitting next to Dad at lunch, who had what spot on the couch, who’s going to pray first at bedtime and who gets the last bagel.
"Why can’t you two just get along?" I growl. Well, okay it’s more like the hysterical rant of a cave woman who’s ready for spring to come, no matter how muddy it will be, no matter how muddy the boys will be and no matter how many loads of mud-caked clothes she has to wash. At least she has a washing machine. But that’s off the subject.
Now, really...why can’t my boys just get along? They will bicker about anything, argue about nothing, hit each other constantly and then, worst of all, TATTLE about it!
The only thing that seems to settle them down is snack time or shipping them outside. I’m not sure if they need extra energy-producing sugar or extra energy-depleting exercise like riding bikes through mucky clay.
I know that on some level they love each other because the oldest was gone for about two hours the other day and his younger brother missed him, and even said so!
So, I can’t really win. They fight when they’re around each other and yet they don’t like to be apart either.
Funny how adults have the same issues. We need each other for fellowship, friendship and conversation. (I particularly need adult conversation.) But, we still sometimes disagree and have conflicts.
It shouldn’t be this way, but isn’t any easier for me to get along with others than it is for my boys. Except that I don’t punch and call names. But, I do tattle and well, okay I do call names, at least in my head...
I know I’m supposed to accept others, flaws and all, because Christ has accepted me, flaws and all. (Romans 15:7) The Message paraphrase says to "reach out" to each other and likens unity to "getting along." I like that connection - getting along.
Something that is as hard for two brothers as it is for the brotherhood of believers.
How can you “get along” with those you don’t see eye to eye with or those you just can’t understand? How do I teach my boys that, when I have difficulty doing it myself?
It begins with an attitude adjustment. I need to recognize how other people put up with my faults and how I'm not always easy to get along with either. I need to see my imperfections so God can help me correct them. I need him to teach me acceptance, tolerance, understanding, all those things that are critical to “getting along.” I need to understand that the Golden Rule applies to me as well, in actions as well as attitudes.
I can’t expect something from others that I have trouble doing myself. I can’t expect my boys to get along with each other if I don’t show them how. I need to treat others how I’d like to be treated, and think about others how I’d like them to think of me. I need to live the Golden Rule.
Then, I need to convince the boys that the doing unto others part doesn’t involve fists.
Friday, October 22, 2004
eating greens
I have to confess something - I am feeling particularly ornery today. Actually it's been longer than just today. It's been, well, let's just say awhile.
I'd like to blame it on the weather - too many gray, gloomy days in a row, but I don't think that's a very good excuse.
I'd really like to blame it on the kids - too many fights, too much whining, and definitely too many battles to get them eating their supper. Our youngest is especially difficult - he is just plain picky. I used to pride myself in being a "good" mom whose kids ate vegetables. Then this one came along and figured out his colors at 15 months. He will not put anything green in his mouth. No peas, no beans, no celery, no broccoli, absolutely nothing green. If I serve him mixed vegetables, he will quite methodically pick out all the carrots and push the rest away. Grrrrrr!
But, even a toddler isn't the cause of my orneriness.
To be honest, I'm not really sure where it's coming from…I've got a lot on my plate right now (nothing green) and I'm struggling with where exactly God wants me right now. Part of it is knowing where he wants me and not wanting to be there.
And another part is taking a step of faith and stubbing my toe.
I often find myself frustrated because something doesn't go the way I expected or the way I would like. I know it's childish to expect that much out of life, but I'm big enough to admit I'm a child, a little bitty picky toddler at that.
I want sweet corn in one area of my life and God says, "No, I'm going to serve you brussel sprouts."
My choice becomes to either push it away stubbornly or to swallow my pride and swallow something I'd rather not. Perhaps I do need to eat more greens. My spiritual health may depend on it.
I think that I've made the dinner plans, fixed the mealtime, set the table and even prepared the first few courses. Then God comes along and says, "Wait a minute, who's coming to dinner? Is the meal about the guest or the host?"
Touché.
Heap some more brussel sprouts on my plate God.
I get so caught up in what I'm trying to serve that I don't even think about WHO I'm serving. Perhaps I'm making bread and they need meat. Perhaps I'm offering soup and they want salad. Or even worse, perhaps I'm expecting more out of my guests than I should, not considering their tastes, their schedules or their diets.
Yep, those little green veggies look worse by the minute.
Why is it that you can know something is good for you and yet not bring yourself to eat it? How can I know a little spiritual discipline is exactly what I need, and yet not want to do it?
I want growth on my terms. I want to believe without having faith. I want to trust not knowing the outcome. I want to know the plan. I want to make the plan. Then, I want the glory.
I really am an ornery child.
And yet, God loves me. Even when I spit out his brussel sprouts, he's there with another spoonful. Can't you just see him say, "Here! Try it again!" When I finally realize I'm hungry enough to eat even brussel sprouts, he's right there, excited that I might swallow one mouthful.
I can't begin to comprehend his patience with me. He knows I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. What an awesome God to give me what I need instead of what I want.
My toddler would eat potato chips and his new discovery, chocolate chip cookies, all day if I let him. But, because I love him and want him to be physically healthy (and because I'm stubborn), I won't let him. I will feed him good stuff, like peas and beans. Green stuff.
Just like God gives me.
I'd like to blame it on the weather - too many gray, gloomy days in a row, but I don't think that's a very good excuse.
I'd really like to blame it on the kids - too many fights, too much whining, and definitely too many battles to get them eating their supper. Our youngest is especially difficult - he is just plain picky. I used to pride myself in being a "good" mom whose kids ate vegetables. Then this one came along and figured out his colors at 15 months. He will not put anything green in his mouth. No peas, no beans, no celery, no broccoli, absolutely nothing green. If I serve him mixed vegetables, he will quite methodically pick out all the carrots and push the rest away. Grrrrrr!
But, even a toddler isn't the cause of my orneriness.
To be honest, I'm not really sure where it's coming from…I've got a lot on my plate right now (nothing green) and I'm struggling with where exactly God wants me right now. Part of it is knowing where he wants me and not wanting to be there.
And another part is taking a step of faith and stubbing my toe.
I often find myself frustrated because something doesn't go the way I expected or the way I would like. I know it's childish to expect that much out of life, but I'm big enough to admit I'm a child, a little bitty picky toddler at that.
I want sweet corn in one area of my life and God says, "No, I'm going to serve you brussel sprouts."
My choice becomes to either push it away stubbornly or to swallow my pride and swallow something I'd rather not. Perhaps I do need to eat more greens. My spiritual health may depend on it.
I think that I've made the dinner plans, fixed the mealtime, set the table and even prepared the first few courses. Then God comes along and says, "Wait a minute, who's coming to dinner? Is the meal about the guest or the host?"
Touché.
Heap some more brussel sprouts on my plate God.
I get so caught up in what I'm trying to serve that I don't even think about WHO I'm serving. Perhaps I'm making bread and they need meat. Perhaps I'm offering soup and they want salad. Or even worse, perhaps I'm expecting more out of my guests than I should, not considering their tastes, their schedules or their diets.
Yep, those little green veggies look worse by the minute.
Why is it that you can know something is good for you and yet not bring yourself to eat it? How can I know a little spiritual discipline is exactly what I need, and yet not want to do it?
I want growth on my terms. I want to believe without having faith. I want to trust not knowing the outcome. I want to know the plan. I want to make the plan. Then, I want the glory.
I really am an ornery child.
And yet, God loves me. Even when I spit out his brussel sprouts, he's there with another spoonful. Can't you just see him say, "Here! Try it again!" When I finally realize I'm hungry enough to eat even brussel sprouts, he's right there, excited that I might swallow one mouthful.
I can't begin to comprehend his patience with me. He knows I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. What an awesome God to give me what I need instead of what I want.
My toddler would eat potato chips and his new discovery, chocolate chip cookies, all day if I let him. But, because I love him and want him to be physically healthy (and because I'm stubborn), I won't let him. I will feed him good stuff, like peas and beans. Green stuff.
Just like God gives me.
Friday, September 24, 2004
three's a handful
Before we had our third boy, my brother-in-law tried to convince me that the third was no more work than two. I wonder what planet he was living on when their third was born. Either that, or the difference between boys and girls (he has three girls) is so immense, that one cannot even make comparisons.
I’m still waiting for the day of no more work than with two kids. I don’t think it’s ever coming.
Talking to other people who have been there, they assure me that the third makes ALL the difference in the world. (I knew I wasn’t crazy!)
Gone are the days when I pack the kids up for a “quick trip” to the grocery store. I won’t set foot inside Wal-Mart unless I’ve either got some brave help or I’m solo. Ditto for the bank (although I have discovered that the drive-through is a good compromise and the tellers give Dum-Dum suckers to me as a reward for sitting patiently while three boys holler in the back seat. They’re so thoughtful.)
It’s not that my boys misbehave, in fact they’re downright polite at Wal-Mart when they ask for candy bars, new tractors and another fish because Harvey (the beta they so kindly gave me for Mother’s Day) might be lonely. They usually say please, please, please and PLEASE!
They’re also very helpful, piling seven boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the cart. Boy Number One reads all the labels to make sure we’re not getting too many grams of sugar. (Did you know that pop has 41 grams while a juice box only has 12?) He will ask me, much to the amusement of other shoppers, “Is this cereal on sale, Mom? Do you have a coupon?”
They’re not loud or obnoxious, but they are a handful.
I’m just not strong enough anymore to push a cart with a baby in the front seat, a three-year-old sitting in the cart squishing bread and a six-year-old who thinks he can stand in front and hang on.
The little car carts at Cub are an option, except that whoever designed them with workable horns couldn’t have been a mother. By the time I’ve trudged through produce, dairy and made it to the peanut butter, I’ve heard all the “beep, beeps” I ever need. Even better is when one horn is operating and the other isn’t, which is more typical.
The people at Cub have yet another option for shopping with children–those immense carts with the two seats in front. Have you ever tried to push one with 60 pounds of boy and another 60 pounds of groceries? It’s impossible to maneuver, especially around all the seniors who stare wide-eyed at this monstrosity on wheels heading directly for them with an out-of-control mom behind the wheel who, trust me, would have more luck with a Zamboni. It’s a bit like trying to drive a Suburban through an obstacle course designed for a VW Beetle. And trying to do so with two boys arguing about whose elbow belongs where.
Someone told me two children are two children, but a third is a houseful. I grew up with seven kids, so I’m not sure I can complain about three filling a house, except that my parents’ home has six bedrooms and ours has two. Ours is full.
But, I’m not complaining. Instead, I’m thankful that I’m learning time management (by not making it anywhere on time), people skills (by learning that children do not respond any more quickly to an increase in vocal decibels unless it’s accompanied by a piercing wail), and patience (what else can you learn from sweeping the kitchen floor three times a day, a baby who throws food in your face and consistently stepping on Matchbox cars and Legos?)
What else is a Mom to do when her days are a combination of tears, hugs and meltdowns (hers, not the kids) but appreciate the humor and know she’ll finally get peace and quiet at 10 p.m.
It could be worse. I could have four boys and more material for this blog.
I’m still waiting for the day of no more work than with two kids. I don’t think it’s ever coming.
Talking to other people who have been there, they assure me that the third makes ALL the difference in the world. (I knew I wasn’t crazy!)
Gone are the days when I pack the kids up for a “quick trip” to the grocery store. I won’t set foot inside Wal-Mart unless I’ve either got some brave help or I’m solo. Ditto for the bank (although I have discovered that the drive-through is a good compromise and the tellers give Dum-Dum suckers to me as a reward for sitting patiently while three boys holler in the back seat. They’re so thoughtful.)
It’s not that my boys misbehave, in fact they’re downright polite at Wal-Mart when they ask for candy bars, new tractors and another fish because Harvey (the beta they so kindly gave me for Mother’s Day) might be lonely. They usually say please, please, please and PLEASE!
They’re also very helpful, piling seven boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the cart. Boy Number One reads all the labels to make sure we’re not getting too many grams of sugar. (Did you know that pop has 41 grams while a juice box only has 12?) He will ask me, much to the amusement of other shoppers, “Is this cereal on sale, Mom? Do you have a coupon?”
They’re not loud or obnoxious, but they are a handful.
I’m just not strong enough anymore to push a cart with a baby in the front seat, a three-year-old sitting in the cart squishing bread and a six-year-old who thinks he can stand in front and hang on.
The little car carts at Cub are an option, except that whoever designed them with workable horns couldn’t have been a mother. By the time I’ve trudged through produce, dairy and made it to the peanut butter, I’ve heard all the “beep, beeps” I ever need. Even better is when one horn is operating and the other isn’t, which is more typical.
The people at Cub have yet another option for shopping with children–those immense carts with the two seats in front. Have you ever tried to push one with 60 pounds of boy and another 60 pounds of groceries? It’s impossible to maneuver, especially around all the seniors who stare wide-eyed at this monstrosity on wheels heading directly for them with an out-of-control mom behind the wheel who, trust me, would have more luck with a Zamboni. It’s a bit like trying to drive a Suburban through an obstacle course designed for a VW Beetle. And trying to do so with two boys arguing about whose elbow belongs where.
Someone told me two children are two children, but a third is a houseful. I grew up with seven kids, so I’m not sure I can complain about three filling a house, except that my parents’ home has six bedrooms and ours has two. Ours is full.
But, I’m not complaining. Instead, I’m thankful that I’m learning time management (by not making it anywhere on time), people skills (by learning that children do not respond any more quickly to an increase in vocal decibels unless it’s accompanied by a piercing wail), and patience (what else can you learn from sweeping the kitchen floor three times a day, a baby who throws food in your face and consistently stepping on Matchbox cars and Legos?)
What else is a Mom to do when her days are a combination of tears, hugs and meltdowns (hers, not the kids) but appreciate the humor and know she’ll finally get peace and quiet at 10 p.m.
It could be worse. I could have four boys and more material for this blog.
Sunday, September 5, 2004
constant communion
“People sometimes say that the only reason for prayer is that we need to be changed. Certainly we do, but this is not the only reason to pray. Jesus was not being made more holy by prayer. He was communing with His Father. He was asking for things. He thanked God. He was also laying down His own will.”
–Elisabeth Eliot
I don't need to be reminded how important prayer and talking to God is. I already know that. (Something will inevitably slap me across the face to let me know I can't do everything or anything on my own).
It might be a lack of patience with the kids. It might be a lack of trust with finances. It might be an impossible person. It might even be the lack of hours and minutes in the day.
Regardless, there is always something to pray about or to pray for. That has never been the issue.
What I do need on a regular basis is the motivation and determination to stick to it. I can't tell you how many times I tell myself, "I couldn't have done this without the Lord's help." And yet when another irritation, frustration, pressure or stress comes up, I somehow fail to remember to go to God FIRST before the issue becomes too big to handle.
I'm not sure why it's such a difficult concept for my little brain to grasp. My God is big enough to handle anything.
I'm reminded of a song that we used to sing in VBS growing up. The lyrics went: "My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do."
He has proved Himself time and time again, yet giving up control of a situation is still so difficult to do.
It's not tough to pray to Him and ask for His help. It's not tough to thank Him for what He's done. What is tough, is giving up my will to Him. And it's hard to not get so busy that I don't have time or energy to simply be in communion with Him.
There’s always a million dishes to wash, thousands of clothes to fold and don’t get me started on the number of toys in our house. Life has a tendency to just be busy and take up our time for more “important” things, if we let it. Instead of household chores, my priority should be communion with my Father.
This might take the form of prayer or may even be a simple conversation. "Good morning, God. I'm so glad you'll be with me today. I know I'm going to need your help around mid-afternoon when I've been listening to who wants to play with what colored four-wheeler since 8 a.m. I pray I'll make it that long without snapping. Thank you for lending me your patience and your perspective."
See? It's so easy. All that is required is the effort on my part. I have never felt that it was a one-way conversation. I can almost always feel His presence, even if I don't receive a particular answer to a particular problem right away.
Writer Henri Nouwen performed an experiment of sorts by attempting to be in constant dialogue or communion with God. His results are fascinating. How inspiring to know that you can, if you work at it, have a spiritual union with God that doesn't have to take place just when you pray, but rather all your waking hours!
If you look closely at the life of Jesus, it’s what he did on a daily and hourly basis. He knew His Father not just because He was Jesus, but also because he was always communing with Him.
Jesus’ example is a call for us to be in constant prayer or constant dialogue or a constant abiding in God’s presence.
I know I'm not worthy of the honor, but I'm so encouraged that He would even consider it. I can't help but feel special that God that He would even offer Himself to us on such a personal level.
I pray I can offer myself up to Him a little more consistently.
–Elisabeth Eliot
I don't need to be reminded how important prayer and talking to God is. I already know that. (Something will inevitably slap me across the face to let me know I can't do everything or anything on my own).
It might be a lack of patience with the kids. It might be a lack of trust with finances. It might be an impossible person. It might even be the lack of hours and minutes in the day.
Regardless, there is always something to pray about or to pray for. That has never been the issue.
What I do need on a regular basis is the motivation and determination to stick to it. I can't tell you how many times I tell myself, "I couldn't have done this without the Lord's help." And yet when another irritation, frustration, pressure or stress comes up, I somehow fail to remember to go to God FIRST before the issue becomes too big to handle.
I'm not sure why it's such a difficult concept for my little brain to grasp. My God is big enough to handle anything.
I'm reminded of a song that we used to sing in VBS growing up. The lyrics went: "My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do."
He has proved Himself time and time again, yet giving up control of a situation is still so difficult to do.
It's not tough to pray to Him and ask for His help. It's not tough to thank Him for what He's done. What is tough, is giving up my will to Him. And it's hard to not get so busy that I don't have time or energy to simply be in communion with Him.
There’s always a million dishes to wash, thousands of clothes to fold and don’t get me started on the number of toys in our house. Life has a tendency to just be busy and take up our time for more “important” things, if we let it. Instead of household chores, my priority should be communion with my Father.
This might take the form of prayer or may even be a simple conversation. "Good morning, God. I'm so glad you'll be with me today. I know I'm going to need your help around mid-afternoon when I've been listening to who wants to play with what colored four-wheeler since 8 a.m. I pray I'll make it that long without snapping. Thank you for lending me your patience and your perspective."
See? It's so easy. All that is required is the effort on my part. I have never felt that it was a one-way conversation. I can almost always feel His presence, even if I don't receive a particular answer to a particular problem right away.
Writer Henri Nouwen performed an experiment of sorts by attempting to be in constant dialogue or communion with God. His results are fascinating. How inspiring to know that you can, if you work at it, have a spiritual union with God that doesn't have to take place just when you pray, but rather all your waking hours!
If you look closely at the life of Jesus, it’s what he did on a daily and hourly basis. He knew His Father not just because He was Jesus, but also because he was always communing with Him.
Jesus’ example is a call for us to be in constant prayer or constant dialogue or a constant abiding in God’s presence.
I know I'm not worthy of the honor, but I'm so encouraged that He would even consider it. I can't help but feel special that God that He would even offer Himself to us on such a personal level.
I pray I can offer myself up to Him a little more consistently.
Tuesday, June 1, 2004
how's your walk?
A few years ago, when I met my cousin's fiancé for the first time, I have to admit he caught me completely off-guard. I didn't but get introduced to him, when he bluntly asked, "How's your walk with the Lord?"
Just like that. No warning of "Blunt question ahead."
I still remember my shock and surprise at his bold question. And, I have to admit it made me a little uncomfortable. It was perhaps a combination of the subject and the fact that this was the greeting out of the mouth of a man I'd never met.
I honestly can't even remember what I replied. I probably mumbled something like, "Oh! Good, good," and fumbled for a way to change the subject.
Now that I'm older and more mature (ahem, okay, just older), I got to thinking about that question. It dawned on me how responsible we are for our own spiritual growth (and to a lesser extent encouraging the spiritual growth of our fellow believers).
Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians that "God wants us to grow up, to know the whole truth and tell it in love–like Christ in everything" (The Message, Eph. 4:15)
We are to continually be striving for the fruit of the Spirit in every aspect of our lives, public and private. In his book, "Victory over the Darkness," Neil Anderson writes, "We should be able to say every year, 'I am more loving, peaceful, joyful, patient, kind and gentle than I was last year.' If we can't honestly say that, then we are not growing."
If we truly want what God wants for us, we will actively seek to grow our faith, to increase our love for each other, to promote peace and unity, to be patient, kind and gentle and to walk closer to Him.
Part of His will for us includes walking with Him, and ironically it is only by doing that, that we can come to know what His will is for our lives. (I hesitate to make a list of do's, but I believe it's essential for a person to be in God's Word daily in order to both walk with Him and discern His will - that's the main way He will speak to us. He will of course use the Holy Spirit and mentors he has placed in our lives to lead us and to help us grow, but I think He uses His written Word more often.)
In addition to our own spiritual maturity, we are also responsible to encourage and exhort the members of the body of Christ to grow in their spiritual walks.
We can be either an inspiration or a deterrent to someone's walk with God. A simple word or comment can make all the difference in the world. I'm reminded of Philippians 2:4, where Paul encourages us to look out for the interests of others. In verses one and two, he tells us, "If you've received anything from Christ, if His love has given you any comfort, if you care at all, then make me happy by agreeing with each other, by loving each other and by being deeply concerned about each other." (my paraphrase)
Those who love you most will be most concerned with where you are spiritually. I don't say this lightly.
If I truly have your best in mind, I will want you to spend eternity with the Lord and I will want you to be walking with Him right now. I will want you to have as close a relationship with Him as possible.
I will ask you, "How's your walk with the Lord?"
I hope you have a clearer answer than I did.
Just like that. No warning of "Blunt question ahead."
I still remember my shock and surprise at his bold question. And, I have to admit it made me a little uncomfortable. It was perhaps a combination of the subject and the fact that this was the greeting out of the mouth of a man I'd never met.
I honestly can't even remember what I replied. I probably mumbled something like, "Oh! Good, good," and fumbled for a way to change the subject.
Now that I'm older and more mature (ahem, okay, just older), I got to thinking about that question. It dawned on me how responsible we are for our own spiritual growth (and to a lesser extent encouraging the spiritual growth of our fellow believers).
Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians that "God wants us to grow up, to know the whole truth and tell it in love–like Christ in everything" (The Message, Eph. 4:15)
We are to continually be striving for the fruit of the Spirit in every aspect of our lives, public and private. In his book, "Victory over the Darkness," Neil Anderson writes, "We should be able to say every year, 'I am more loving, peaceful, joyful, patient, kind and gentle than I was last year.' If we can't honestly say that, then we are not growing."
If we truly want what God wants for us, we will actively seek to grow our faith, to increase our love for each other, to promote peace and unity, to be patient, kind and gentle and to walk closer to Him.
Part of His will for us includes walking with Him, and ironically it is only by doing that, that we can come to know what His will is for our lives. (I hesitate to make a list of do's, but I believe it's essential for a person to be in God's Word daily in order to both walk with Him and discern His will - that's the main way He will speak to us. He will of course use the Holy Spirit and mentors he has placed in our lives to lead us and to help us grow, but I think He uses His written Word more often.)
In addition to our own spiritual maturity, we are also responsible to encourage and exhort the members of the body of Christ to grow in their spiritual walks.
We can be either an inspiration or a deterrent to someone's walk with God. A simple word or comment can make all the difference in the world. I'm reminded of Philippians 2:4, where Paul encourages us to look out for the interests of others. In verses one and two, he tells us, "If you've received anything from Christ, if His love has given you any comfort, if you care at all, then make me happy by agreeing with each other, by loving each other and by being deeply concerned about each other." (my paraphrase)
Those who love you most will be most concerned with where you are spiritually. I don't say this lightly.
If I truly have your best in mind, I will want you to spend eternity with the Lord and I will want you to be walking with Him right now. I will want you to have as close a relationship with Him as possible.
I will ask you, "How's your walk with the Lord?"
I hope you have a clearer answer than I did.
Monday, March 1, 2004
a child's love
Often, I find myself wanting to be a child again. Or rather to be like a child again.
I wonder what it would be like to have such absolute trust and innocent faith. Or to truly love with no strings attached. As adults, we tend to get cynical, wanting proof before we’ll believe, perfection before we’ll trust and reciprocity before we’ll love.
No wonder Jesus loved the little children.
Our middle son is at the age where he can vocalize his feelings, good and bad. Sometimes, he comes up to me and tells me, quite matter-of-factly, “Mom, you’re the best mom I ever met!” Then, I melt. Isn’t it precious that he actually believes that? He hasn’t been tainted by my shortcomings yet, and is still so innocent and so confident in what I can do.
Wouldn’t it be great to have that much faith in our own Father? Wouldn’t He love to hear from us - “Lord, you’re the best friend, the best father, the best comforter, the best everything I ever met!”
I wish I was as confident in my Father as my son is in me. In my heart I know He can do anything, but my head finds that difficult to believe sometimes. It really makes no sense considering the Lord has never yelled at me, spanked me or made me sit in a time out. (He disciplines me, but that’s a topic for another issue). He has never failed me and yet so often I fail to acknowledge that.
It begs the question – why is it so hard for an adult to have complete faith in God and true love for God? And why is it so easy for a child?
My son often tells me, “I love you so much and very much!” and then gives me a big squeeze.
Do I love him because of what he does for me? Of course not. He would never receive my love because I’d be so angry with all his bickering and the thanks I don’t get for kissing boo-boos. Instead, I love him because he’s mine. It’s all about the relationship. I’m his mother, so he loves me. He’s my son, so I love him.
Once we recognize that we have that same familial relationship with God, we should be able to say, “Lord I love you so much and very much!” and not base our love on what He’s done for us, but on who He is.
God would never love us based on our actions. We would never deserve His love; we’re simply not good enough. He loves us because we are His. We should love Him because He is our Father.
It should be as simple as that.
But, it's not. I wonder sometimes if we don't let our brains get in the way - limited capacity though they have. Or maybe it's our hurts and emotions that hinder us. Makes me wonder who's more "intelligent" after all.
I wonder what it would be like to have such absolute trust and innocent faith. Or to truly love with no strings attached. As adults, we tend to get cynical, wanting proof before we’ll believe, perfection before we’ll trust and reciprocity before we’ll love.
No wonder Jesus loved the little children.
Our middle son is at the age where he can vocalize his feelings, good and bad. Sometimes, he comes up to me and tells me, quite matter-of-factly, “Mom, you’re the best mom I ever met!” Then, I melt. Isn’t it precious that he actually believes that? He hasn’t been tainted by my shortcomings yet, and is still so innocent and so confident in what I can do.
Wouldn’t it be great to have that much faith in our own Father? Wouldn’t He love to hear from us - “Lord, you’re the best friend, the best father, the best comforter, the best everything I ever met!”
I wish I was as confident in my Father as my son is in me. In my heart I know He can do anything, but my head finds that difficult to believe sometimes. It really makes no sense considering the Lord has never yelled at me, spanked me or made me sit in a time out. (He disciplines me, but that’s a topic for another issue). He has never failed me and yet so often I fail to acknowledge that.
It begs the question – why is it so hard for an adult to have complete faith in God and true love for God? And why is it so easy for a child?
My son often tells me, “I love you so much and very much!” and then gives me a big squeeze.
Do I love him because of what he does for me? Of course not. He would never receive my love because I’d be so angry with all his bickering and the thanks I don’t get for kissing boo-boos. Instead, I love him because he’s mine. It’s all about the relationship. I’m his mother, so he loves me. He’s my son, so I love him.
Once we recognize that we have that same familial relationship with God, we should be able to say, “Lord I love you so much and very much!” and not base our love on what He’s done for us, but on who He is.
God would never love us based on our actions. We would never deserve His love; we’re simply not good enough. He loves us because we are His. We should love Him because He is our Father.
It should be as simple as that.
But, it's not. I wonder sometimes if we don't let our brains get in the way - limited capacity though they have. Or maybe it's our hurts and emotions that hinder us. Makes me wonder who's more "intelligent" after all.
Tuesday, July 1, 2003
constant communion
“People sometimes say that the only reason for prayer is that we need to be changed. Certainly we do, but this is not the only reason to pray. Jesus was not being made more holy by prayer. He was communing with His Father. He was asking for things. He thanked God. He was also laying down His own will.”
–Elisabeth Eliot
I don't need to be reminded how important prayer and talking to God is. I already know that. (Something will inevitably slap me across the face to let me know I can't do everything or anything on my own).
It might be a lack of patience with the kids. It might be a lack of trust with finances. It might be an impossible person. It might even be the lack of hours and minutes in the day.
Regardless, there is always something to pray about or to pray for. That has never been the issue.
What I do need on a regular basis is the motivation and determination to stick to it. I can't tell you how many times I tell myself, "I couldn't have done this without the Lord's help." And yet when another irritation, frustration, pressure or stress comes up, I somehow fail to remember to go to God FIRST before the issue becomes too big to handle.
I'm not sure why it's such a difficult concept for my little brain to grasp. My God is big enough to handle anything.
I'm reminded of a song that we used to sing in VBS growing up. The lyrics went: "My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do."
He has proved Himself time and time again, yet giving up control of a situation is still so difficult to do.
It's not tough to pray to Him and ask for His help. It's not tough to thank Him for what He's done. What is tough, is giving up my will to Him. And it's hard to not get so busy that I don't have time or energy to simply be in communion with Him.
There’s always a million dishes to wash, thousands of clothes to fold and don’t get me started on the number of toys in our house. Life has a tendency to just be busy and take up our time for more “important” things, if we let it. Instead of household chores, my priority should be communion with my Father.
This might take the form of prayer or may even be a simple conversation. "Good morning, God. I'm so glad you'll be with me today. I know I'm going to need your help around mid-afternoon when I've been listening to who wants to play with what colored four-wheeler since 8 a.m. I pray I'll make it that long without snapping. Thank you for lending me your patience and your perspective."
See? It's so easy. All that is required is the effort on my part. I have never felt that it was a one-way conversation. I can almost always feel His presence, even if I don't receive a particular answer to a particular problem right away.
Writer Henri Nouwen performed an experiment of sorts by attempting to be in constant dialogue or communion with God. His results are fascinating. How inspiring to know that you can, if you work at it, have a spiritual union with God that doesn't have to take place just when you pray, but rather all your waking hours!
If you look closely at the life of Jesus, it’s what he did on a daily and hourly basis. He knew His Father not just because He was Jesus, but also because he was always communing with Him.
Jesus’ example is a call for us to be in constant prayer or constant dialogue or a constant abiding in God’s presence.
I know I'm not worthy of the honor, but I'm so encouraged that He would even consider it, I can't help but feel special and loved.
What a God that He would even offer Himself to us on such a personal level. Even if it's amid the dirty socks, broken toys and peanut butter sandwiches.
–Elisabeth Eliot
I don't need to be reminded how important prayer and talking to God is. I already know that. (Something will inevitably slap me across the face to let me know I can't do everything or anything on my own).
It might be a lack of patience with the kids. It might be a lack of trust with finances. It might be an impossible person. It might even be the lack of hours and minutes in the day.
Regardless, there is always something to pray about or to pray for. That has never been the issue.
What I do need on a regular basis is the motivation and determination to stick to it. I can't tell you how many times I tell myself, "I couldn't have done this without the Lord's help." And yet when another irritation, frustration, pressure or stress comes up, I somehow fail to remember to go to God FIRST before the issue becomes too big to handle.
I'm not sure why it's such a difficult concept for my little brain to grasp. My God is big enough to handle anything.
I'm reminded of a song that we used to sing in VBS growing up. The lyrics went: "My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do."
He has proved Himself time and time again, yet giving up control of a situation is still so difficult to do.
It's not tough to pray to Him and ask for His help. It's not tough to thank Him for what He's done. What is tough, is giving up my will to Him. And it's hard to not get so busy that I don't have time or energy to simply be in communion with Him.
There’s always a million dishes to wash, thousands of clothes to fold and don’t get me started on the number of toys in our house. Life has a tendency to just be busy and take up our time for more “important” things, if we let it. Instead of household chores, my priority should be communion with my Father.
This might take the form of prayer or may even be a simple conversation. "Good morning, God. I'm so glad you'll be with me today. I know I'm going to need your help around mid-afternoon when I've been listening to who wants to play with what colored four-wheeler since 8 a.m. I pray I'll make it that long without snapping. Thank you for lending me your patience and your perspective."
See? It's so easy. All that is required is the effort on my part. I have never felt that it was a one-way conversation. I can almost always feel His presence, even if I don't receive a particular answer to a particular problem right away.
Writer Henri Nouwen performed an experiment of sorts by attempting to be in constant dialogue or communion with God. His results are fascinating. How inspiring to know that you can, if you work at it, have a spiritual union with God that doesn't have to take place just when you pray, but rather all your waking hours!
If you look closely at the life of Jesus, it’s what he did on a daily and hourly basis. He knew His Father not just because He was Jesus, but also because he was always communing with Him.
Jesus’ example is a call for us to be in constant prayer or constant dialogue or a constant abiding in God’s presence.
I know I'm not worthy of the honor, but I'm so encouraged that He would even consider it, I can't help but feel special and loved.
What a God that He would even offer Himself to us on such a personal level. Even if it's amid the dirty socks, broken toys and peanut butter sandwiches.
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