Category: Encouragement

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Twice Lost

lost: Unable to find one’s way: a lost child.

I was twenty-two years old the first time I lost my brother. Eighteen years later I have lost him again.

The first time he disappeared my parents left me in charge of the twelve-year-old squirt while they vacationed in Europe. I came home from college one Spring break to care for him and failed miserably in my first attempt at pseudo-parenting.

One afternoon he took off a skateboard to play with the neighbor kids and didn’t return for dinner. After searching door to door and calling all his friends, I finally contacted the police in desperation. Close to midnight, I stood in the darkness outside of my parent’s home and with tears and sobs and groans of utter despair -I begged for God’s mercy.

Something overtook me then–something holy and mystical –a presence of sweet and utter peace. And I knew God heard me.

Two hours later, after the police combed the neighborhood with dogs and helicopters, my brother was found. He had fallen asleep on the floor of the next door neighbor’s house in their third floor playroom. Somehow in the panic of the search and managing their own five children, my brother had slipped by unnoticed by the neighbor’s and only woke with the roar of helicopters.

I took my bargain with God seriously. The next day was Good Friday and I stood up at the altar call and officially sealed the deal with my Savior.

It’s almost twenty years later and in a weird twist of irony it’s Easter weekend again.

And once again my brother is lost.

It happened in the blink of an eye. He started using drugs. He lost his job and girlfriend. The highs became higher and the lows became lower.

On Palm Sunday my father called me from the hospital and choked out the horrific details.

In a violent and vicious drug rage, my brother attacked our parents and almost killed my step-mom. He was arrested for felony assault to elders and incarcerated.

My father, suffering from dementia tried to protect his wife and call 911 as he was forced to defend himself against his own son throwing blows at him.

I’ve never felt more helpless, shocked and honestly –ashamed. I wanted to hide and tell no one.

Good Friday came. And once again I stood and lifted my arms to God. When it came time to write out my sins, I sat there in my chair and scribbled one word –UNFORGIVENESS.

If my heart ever felt hardened to a human this was it. Love and hate intermingled with betrayal.

I dragged my feet up to the cross and slowly lifted the hammer to nail it in. And I forced myself to remember how much God has forgiven me through each thump of the hammer.

It’s been a long week of picking up the pieces of a family blown to bits by evil. My step-mom has multiple fractures in her shoulder and arm. She is bruised from her chest to the tips of her fingers. My father is dissalusioned, sad and scared. And even though the physical wounds are painful, the bruises to their spirit are far deeper.

To make matters worse, my brother was let out of jail on Thursday by an accidental clerical error. The charges had to be re-submitted. Once the warrant goes out he will have to be re-arrested. He was defiant upon release and showed no remorse. Although there is a restraining order, his instability doesn’t leave my family feeling secure.

In the meantime, he was spotted wandering through a trailer park high and incoherent.

Easter hit me like a ton of bricks.

The resurrection we celebrate on Easter morning means everything to the followers of Christ. We base our lives and hopes and beliefs on it.

But the resurrection means EVEN MORE to the wandering souls who reject him although they may not know or care; because in the worst of times there is always the possibility of hope and a return to the father.

Our God died for us while we were still sinners and he continues to pursue the lost until they are found. And even in trailer parks and prisons and to the ends of the earth, I believe God will pursue his lost son.

It’s not easy to share this story. It’s still raw and prickly, but I believe there are many families out there just like ours battling for their sons and daughters (and brother’s) hearts. The one thing I have learned by tentatively sharing and asking for prayer is that I am not alone in this. Please don’t isolate –reach out to your community and church for support. These tragedies are too big for you to handle alone. If your family member is suffering from an addiction and has turned abusive or violent, please find help.

–Samantha

“But his father said to the servants, ‘Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. 23 And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, 24 for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.’ Luke 15:22-24

 

Photo Source: google.com via Ashleigh on Pinterest

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Finding Peace in a Mother’s Chaos

Christmas 2012

Almost a year ago I made the jump from working at the office full-time to freelancing. 

One day a week, I pull out my old work clothes and attempt to de-Momify.  One day a week I am a professional.  The rest of the week I wear yoga pants.

Here is what I learned about working mostly from home –it’s (insert bad word) hard. 

There are no boundaries between work and home, just blurry lines and lot’s and lot’s of compromise.

I erroneously thought it would be easier to be at home more.

Even though I used to be a stay at home (for the first six years with Kyle and Faith), I forgot how managing a home and toddlers and teens will suck a woman dry. 

Kind of like the Dementer’s from Harry Potter. SWWWOOOOOSSSHHHH.  Can you picture it?

Sometimes I feel like I have an identity crisis.  I work outside the home and inside the home.  It’s like two-full time jobs competing for my attention.

I still have to clock in the 20-30 hours of paid work so we don’t starve.  But now I have no housekeeper to take the edge off.  I still have to cook meals and make lunches and drive 21 trips to or from the kids schools a week.  I have to maintain sports schedules and wash stinky football clothes and bring snacks.  I am still a team mom-although I really shouldn’t because I am so NOT that mom)

Some weeks I manage it all and sometimes I want to sit on my dirty floor and cry.

As I sit down to write I see dust bunnies floating by –taunting me as only a dust bunny can do.  My bathroom is messy and the laundry piles up and out the door. 

No guest is allowed to enter the upper chambers.  I can keep the downstairs immaculate but I’ve pretty much given up on the upstairs.  It’s a disaster in progress.

I have friends that joke about how I can do it all.  I just shake my head and drool.

A mother of a large family simply survives.

Mom’s simply work and work and work until they fall down from exhaustion and then they watch HGTV or the History Channel (because their husband has canceled all the good channels to save money) and they lie like a zombie on the sofa until their kids throw things at them and demand to be fed and taxied to the next event.

Every day I am forced to choose between keeping up with the house or making enough money to have a house. 

I read the other day that although work equality has “come a long way baby,” (since the 1960’s) household management has not seen any change.  This means most women now work and carry the full load of housework and kids.  Dads might help more with baby and kid’s activities but guys feel completely entitled to park their butts in front of a football game and let mom serve them.

Of course I’m talking about national averages here.  My husband is the exception.  When he is home he always pitches in.  Unfortunately, until he finishes graduate school and juggling a million pastoral duties…well you get the drift.

But even though I still feel overwhelmed with motherhood, being at home more is well worth the struggle.

Because there is a place in my heart now that used to ache and now the ache is gone.

A year ago, I missed my kids desperately and day after day being gone for ten hours at a time was killing me.  (Along with the commute)

I really don’t think you can put a price tag on peace.  And a mother’s peace is different from a man’s.  There are certain desire’s of the heart only a woman understands. 

For the first time in ages, I am home when my big kids get home from school.  I am home with my toddler more often than not.  I get to go to the park and the pool and take bubble baths and read books and watch Mickey’s Twice Upon a Christmas four hundred times. 

I get to be present with my kids. And even though it’s really HARD it’s good. 

So…although my house is dirty and I have to squeeze in work and writing assignments during nap time and at zero dark thirty, I know I am not missing a thing.

And for a modern mother it doesn’t get much better than this –identity crisis and all.  (Although if anyone knows a free housekeeper…it could be a teeny-tiny bit better)

What things in your life do you need to change to find peace?

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Killing Superwoman

 

Growing up in the eighties, I vividly remember a perfume commercial with a gorgeous gal clad in a chic suit prancing home from work in sky-high heels to assemble a gourmet dinner for her adoring family.  The catchy tune playing in the background “I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan…,” became the mantra of a generation of women trying to do it all.  Just being a stay-at-home mom lost its glamour and allure as women flocked into the corporate world.

This pseudo super-woman was beautiful and fit (despite feasting on bacon), a doting mother, sexual tiger to her man, room mom, CEO and host of a weekly wine group.  Mattel even made Dr. Barbie in a white coat and gave the doll a more professional ensemble to match her new identity.  Barbie pushed her twins in a double-stroller and then drove to work in her pink corvette smiling and waving at the nanny.

And a whole generation of young women bought into the lie we could be all things and do all things well, forgetting the natural limitations of energy and balance and sanity. 

Clearly the song forgot to mention how super-woman started having heart palpitations and chronic fatigue before she hit forty.  It failed to acknowledge super-woman’s love/hate relationship with her job, the guilt of constantly dumping car-pool on her neighbor, and the anxiety of slipping out of work early every Thursday to watch her son play t-ball.  The song didn’t address sleepless nights with baby, shouting curses at her husband over who would get up for the four a.m. feeding, playing dead from sheer exhaustion when her husband begs for sex, and stapling badges on her little girl scouts sash in a last minute desperation because she hasn’t a clue where a needle and thread might be hiding.

The song left out all the unspoken but necessary intangibles that go along with a real life of balancing work and children and hubby.  When I recently saw the movie, “How Does She do it all?” I laughed bitterly.  Not only could I have written the script –my life was even more hectic with three kids, a full-time job and a freelance career on the side.  But something in me identified with this compulsion to master motherhood and family despite the toll it was taking on my body.   I wasn’t ready to give up anything, choosing instead to scurry and race along on an endless hamster wheel of busyness, always on the edge of hurtling off into the abyss and a nervous breakdown.

I really thought I could pull it off.  I was the exception.  Sure, my eating habits were getting a little processed and I exercised less often than more; but I was holding up and playing the martyr mommy role with gusto until my heart literally stopped me. 

The details are a little fuzzy, but I recall running on a scorching hot Sunday morning with my baby daughter tucked in her bright orange jogging stroller.  Overly ambitious, thanks to a Venti Americano buzz from Starbucks, I rashly determined to sprint up a monstrous hill near my home at top speed and go for the burn.  I arrived home winded and panting, and headed straight for a hot shower with the baby in my arms.  I lathered up, rinsed and then bent over to pick up my adorable daughter.  As I started to raise her in the air, a slippery soft cherub covered in bubbles, a white light ricocheted through my skull and blackness enveloped me.

I don’t know how long I lost consciousness that morning.  I awoke slumped in a heap on the shower floor over my howling and terrified baby with icy cold streams of water prickling my back.  There were hospitals and endless tests and then the results I never expected to hear. 

At the tender age of thirty-nine –under order of a cardiologist, I was forced to pick between juggling two jobs or find myself with a pacemaker within six months.    As a mother of three beloved children, the decision wasn’t too tough.  It was time to kill super-woman. 

My kids and I put Dr. Barbie into a boat and we launched her with glee into the ocean as an act of surrender and a celebration of the beginning of a new season.  (I thought burning Dr. Barbie might be a tad too traumatic for the two-year-old) 

Then I changed every facet of my life starting with work and moving outward circle by circle.  Now when I take a jog, it’s not to fit into a bikini, it’s to keep my ticker going strong for my kids.  Things like nap-time and nutrition have reemerged and rest has taken on a whole new meaning since caffeine isn’t my go-to pick-me-up anymore. 

But the biggest lifestyle modification was changing my broken thinking.   I started to accept I can’t do it all and I certainly can’t do it all well.  Super-woman is a myth which has deceived us all.  Working mothers carry tremendous guilt and stay-at-home mothers struggle with their identity thanks to her.  No one tells a young woman she might someday have to choose between a big family and a successful career –because the personal compromise she will make to do both might eventually destroy either her health or sanity.

Fortunately, I recognized I was getting a second chance to pick what is most important and move towards that which resonates in my soul and gives me life –relationships, family, writing, and a story lived well.  Surprisingly, my list of non-negotiable items was much shorter than I anticipated after I cut off all the good I was doing to make room for the best.

Is it time you killed super-woman?

Photo Source: 500px.com via Alexandria on Pinterest

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The Face Plant

It was one of those perfect winter days masquerading as spring.  The sun warmed my toes and a soft breeze tickled my ears.  The trees overhead swayed back and forth and in the distance I heard Kolby’s high pitched giggle as her little legs pumped high on the big kid swing. 

We were at one of our favorite parks in Old Town San Juan Capistrano.  We stopped for a glass of wine and a yummy appetizer at Sundried Tomato, picked up a latte at Hidden House Coffee, petted a few stinky llamas and alpacas at Zoomars and then headed to the park.

Daddy laughed along with Kolby’s screams of glee and pushed her higher and higher on the swing while I lounged on a wooden park bench in the sun.  My eyes got heavy and finally closed as I listened to the happy sounds of kids playing and the train off in the distance. 

Until I heard a high-pitched scream that woke me up fast.

I jumped up from the park bench and raced to the swings where little Kolby lay face down in the wood chips.  Her feet had dragged and with a violent smack she face-planted. 

I gently picked her up and blood poured out of her tiny nose.  It was her first big Boo-Boo.

Daddy and I cleaned up her face, checked for a broken nose and tried to cheer her up with a promise of ice cream.

Kolby’s blood and tears dried fast but daddy’s cheeks remained ashen. 

This little girl means the world to him. 

It reminded me of the first time my son Kyle took a spill, face planted and ripped open his lip after I encouraged him to try a big slide.  I felt like a tool for pushing my 12 month old to go big and take a risk before he was mature enough to tackle it.

But years later I recognize it was those very risks and  encouragement that allow my son to dream big.  Kyle might eat it when he tries new things and he might occasionally even fail but he believes in himself and fear does not define him.

Kolby  told us later on that night she would “never go on the big swing again.” 

Tim looked crushed.

Then I reminded my three-year old of how great she did on the big kid swing and how maybe in a few months when she grew a little bit bigger that it would be fun to try again.

She considered my words carefully and sighed big.  “Ok, mommy.  I will try again soon, but I need to eat more vegetables and grow before I try that scary swing again.”

Daddy and I nodded in agreement and affirmed her willingness to get back in the swing.

I love how with just a little encouragement Kolby turned her fear into a challenge to grow. 

(And I’m really thrilled how my eating vegetables brain-washing is sinking in)

I know there will be many more scrapes and bumps along the road for my youngest girl.  And I know my husband will have his heart wrenched a thousand more times as he watches his first (biological) daughter grow up.  

Their daddy/daughter love story reminds me of my own journey with God–a loving father and a scared little girl who sometimes winds up face down and bloodied in the wood chips.

But she gets back up because she is loved.  And next time she will swing even higher.

Have you taken any big risks lately? 

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Fred, George and Goldilocks

Christmas 2012 Kolby 4

Fred and George still haunt me.

Not in the way they used too, I mean I’m not afraid of ghosts anymore, but their names still bring back delicious terror.

You see…daddy told me when I was a wee tot that two ghosts lived inside the walls of my bedroom and if I dared to climb out of my bed they would get me.

Let’s not even bring up how demented this is.  When I’ve suggested it was a form of child abuse to my dad he still falls over laughing. 

But one day I realized, like Jim Carey in the Truman show, that no apparition appeared if I defiantly stuck out a toe or a limb.

I caught on pretty quick that my reality was not REALITY.

Eventually I worked up the courage to run like a bat out of hell out of my room and sneak over to my mom’s side of the bed who always let me in for a cuddle.

I thought a lot about Fred and George last night because my toddler refuses to stay in her bed.  And after two weeks of not sleeping and now fighting off illness (probably from massive sleep deprivation) I’m almost ready to ask Fred and George for some advice.  They keep appearing in my feverish hallucinations taunting me with a whole night of un-interupted slumber.

Kolby moved into the BIG GIRL BED a few weeks ago.  We took the crib down, stored it in the garage and unknowingly kissed sleep goodbye.  Most of the time I take the hit for Tim, because out of the two of us I do better without sleep, although he had to step up last night as I borderlined pneumomia.

It’s the second time we’ve tried the BIG GIRL BED.  After a failed attempt a year ago, we aborted mission and put her back in the crib.  Last time it was because she potty trained and needed help to use the restroom in the middle of the night.  I couldn’t handle waking up every three hours to help her tinkle, so up went the porta-crib again in our room so I could at least keep the lights off as I guided her tiny butt to the potty.

But now she is physically too big to stuff in the porta-crib.  The fact that she was complaining about her legs and arms hurting might have been an indication we had played out that card a little too long.

In goes Kolby into the BIG GIRL BED and within one hour she has snuck back into our bed to go horizontal on us and kick one of us in the head or the kidney.  She lies on me, throws elbows in my chest and breathes her sweet baby breath in my face.

I put her back to bed.  Tim puts her back to bed.  Press repeat over and over until we are so exhausted that Tim goes to the sofa around 3:00am to salvage any sleep whatsoever and then Kolby kicks the crap out of me until 6:00am when I have to get my teenager ready for high school.   

I am a ZOMBIE and I am way too old for this.

I’d toss her out like a sailor if not for the fact that I love her soooooo much.  This third baby of mine has both daddy and I whooped, sucker tied and wrapped around every phalange. 

She is terrifically spoiled and we are wimps when it comes to her little grin and Goldilocks.

Is bribery the next option?  Will it take a puppy to get her to sleep in her bed?  I’d gate her in but she shares a room with her sister with an adjoining bathroom to her brother’s room.  She’ll just walk right through into his room and find us.  She’s smart like that.

This kid needs incentive…

What makes a toddler want to stay in bed?

All advice will be considered except ghosts and spanking.

 

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“Why” You Need to Read the Labels

Love 2“Mom, my eye is killing me.”

From a far off distance, I heard Kyle’s plea for help. With a groggy groan, I roused myself out of the first waves of sweet sleep and sat up to examine him. Indeed, his right peeper appeared bloodshot and his cheek below was red and irritated from scratching.

I hopped out of bed, ran to the bathroom cabinet and searched for the eye drops. I found the tiny bottle and ripped off the wrapping. Sitting Kyle down I dumped a few drops in his sore eye.

I waited to hear, “Ahhhhh, thanks mom,” but it never came.

Instead Kyle started howling, “It burns, mom, it burns.”

Confused, I turned on the light and looked at the bottle. It said “Otic” Solution not “Optic” Solution.

“Otic” means ear not eye.

“Abort, Abort!”

We rushed Kyle to the sink to flush his eye out with water. Tim searched online for medical treatment and I prepared to go to the hospital and then the slammer.

Tears choked my stutters of rambling, “sorry, sorry, sorry.”

I patted Kyle’s back and ached with his every moan.

I could see the headlines. “Mother accidentally blinds budding football star with Otic Solution. Abuse Charges filed.”

Suddenly Tim yelled from the bedroom, “It says it’s a common accident. The medicine “neomycin” actually the same, just in a higher concentration for sensitive eyes. He’ll live. Just wash it out good.”

My son playfully glared at me with his good eye. “Nice mom, thanks for the love!”

Kyle went to bed and I fell back to sleep exhausted. It had been a long week. Kolby had a high fever for almost five days in a row and I was running on fumes from nursing her. But my sleep was troubled.

Mommy guilt was setting in. The fog of inner torment settled on my shoulders like a backpack.

Kyle’s eye was better in the morning and I sent him off to school somewhat relieved but feeling like a big loser.

When I sat down with my Bible I needed grace more than ever. My prayers went something like this: Jesus, I suck as I mom. I failed my kid. In my weakness and exhaustion I slipped. I’m supposed to be his rescuer. I remembered the day when I accidentally nipped his tiny finger as a baby with the nail trimmer. Every drop of blood tortured me. This moment felt strangely familiar.

Please, please, please help me climb out of this hole of self-abuse.

And then my solace came. Slowly, quietly and with stillness. Psalms of praise, thanksgiving and love.

I felt my shepherds gentle pat and knew everything would be ok.

I am so thankful for God’s unending grace and mercy to a troubled mother’s heart. It was just enough to get me through the day, although a few tears of remorse continued to cloud my vision.

Do you ever struggle with “mommy guilt” when you blow it?

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The Habit of Excellence

“Excellence is not an act….but a habit.”
Aristotle

Thoroughly engaged in munching on a sloppy burrito, the group leader’s question caught me off guard.  “What are your New Year’s resolutions?”

I gulped and coughed on a chunk of chicken. My mind screeched, “NOOOOOOOO…….”

Strangely enough, I struggle with being put on the spot for “group sharing,” specifically in ministry groups where I randomly tag along with my husband just to get free Baja Fresh. 

I hate the stilted quasi-spiritual answers that ensue. 

No one wants to admit their true resolution is to lose weight or ditch the potty mouth.  It’s always things like, “I’m working on my spiritual disciplines, or trying to get in an extra two hours of Scripture memorization a day.”

Yeah, right! 

But now I was in over my head.  The question moved around the large table (actually two tables awkwardly shoved together as one) until it was my turn to share.

I mumbled something about being more present with my kiddo’s, an area God has (legitimately) been working on my heart for the last year, but the truth was I didn’t have any resolutions.  I barely made it through the holidays and then it was Kolby’s birthday and I haven’t had a minute to stop and reflect and consider any real life change.

But later, curled up with my books and journal I chewed on the resolution’s a bit more.  After catching up on some reading and e-mails, I dug out a series of articles my ex-husband sent me to motivate my son for football.  The articles –by Western Branch Head football Coach Greg Gibson were on excellence and something in my heart perked up at Coach Gibson’s approach to life..

Gibson wants his players to strive towards being an “11” for life.   Why stop at “10”?  I love this!

 He stresses the pursuit of excellence in all his players.  With teenagers, it’s hard to communicate this enough and it creates high expectations, but this high expectation also creates great young men when they rise to the occasion.  

(In a world full of entitled slackers, I couldn’t agree more.)

Coach Gibson proclaims:”We want to increase our excellence and reach our potential in every area.  We have to discover our individual identities, find our purpose, decide what we want to accomplish, and create a plan to achieve.”

“Executing a plan to reach our full potential takes a lot of preparation,” the coach stresses.   “We want to uncover all of the things that can help or hinder putting that plan into action.  The willingness to do whatever it takes to execute that plan will yield excellence, but it doesn’t just happen.  Achieving excellence requires a great deal of hard work.”

Coach Gibson’s instruction on pursuing excellence doesn’t start with playing the game on the football field.   It starts with playing the game of life.   It starts with how you treat yourself and how you treat those closest to you.

Gibson’s advice:  “Excellence means understanding the needs of everyone in the family and sacrificing the time and effort it takes to meet those needs.”

“Listening is an important skill and discipline. When we listen, we learn, and move out of our comfort zones and into the other person’s world.   We have to make the necessary sacrifices and develop the commitment, focus, and discipline it takes to build tremendous relationships in our own families.   I recommend my players craft a plan for excellence.

My New Year’s resolution for 2013?  I want to shoot for an “Excellent Approach” in all areas of my life –as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, writer, blogger, speaker and friend.

The Bible puts it this way…

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men…”(Col. 3:23 NIV)

And I think I’ll start by using that new gym membership my sweetie got me, because I did an excellent job of polishing off a ton of sweets over the holiday season.

What are your New Year’s Resolutions?

 

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Doomsday Eve

I feel a little discombobulated today.

The protocol of Doomsday Eve is a bit uncertain. I’ve never experienced the last day before the last day of the world –unless you count Y2K and I recall that evening as REALLY anticlimactic. Nothing exploded, NORAD didn’t go off, and the champagne fizzled. 

But back to today…should I do anything radically different? 

I’ve considered going big.  Maybe downloading some new books on my Kindle, charging a few items on my credit card (since I’ll never have to pay the bill, right?) and topping off the evening with lots of kisses and cuddles to my munchkins and hubby.

Since we are starting a new tradition here, now that the end of the world seems to be predicted every ten years or so, maybe we could light a few candles and say a few prayers to all the doomsday Jackwaggons who have profited by instigating mass paranoia, hype and fear among the nations.

I read today that the real Mayans aren’t stocking up on food or guns.  Since half of the prophetic tablet is broken, they aren’t looking for decimation but instead towards a new season where they can fill in their own calendar with soccer games and Mayan celebrations.  I like their simplistic philosophy –while they happily live in huts and avoid the rat race, we in the more developed nations read their ancient antiquities and freak out.

A comment on one of the Doomsday sites from Mike Vidovich had me in stitches.

“Calendars change throughout history.  Caesar added leap year in 45BC. The Mayan calendar didn’t account for it. That added 514 days (1 every 4 years). By the Mayan calendar, today should be near the end of July 2013. Technically the world should have ended 7 months ago by the Mayan calendar.”

Mike, that’s comforting.

If one was to predict a real Doomsday, I think we might all be better off keeping our eyes on the nukes in the Middle East, preparing for more super-storms and taking earthquake and tsunami preparedness a little more seriously. I’m more afraid to send my kid to school these days then to worry about aliens coming down to some mountain in France tomorrow.

None of us is promised another day.  Lord willing, we will all have one more day to love and serve and make the world a better place.

So today, I will write, I will love and I will finish my Christmas cards.  I will clean my house which has gingerbread cookies crumbs everywhere and I will find the time to buy more presents that I can’t really afford for my beloved family.  I will snuggle my kids and wrap my arms around my darling husband.  And if this is my last day, then I will have no regrets.

And Saturday morning I will try not to mock the people who are disappointed to see another sunrise. “Try” being the optimum word.

 

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Party Pooper

I wanted to help a new friend.  So I broke my own cardinal rule and hosted a jewelry party for her at my home. 

It’s never a good idea to stray from core values and it didn’t go well for me.

There may be something to picking a bad event date.  Note to self  *Nov. 7th SUCKS!  Most of my good friends were previously engaged with kid’s activities and work and board meetings. I should have canceled the event or picked a new date.

I get it.  We are busy, busy people. But almost a dozen ladies agreed to join me, so I went ahead and forged on with the party. 

Some cancellations are explainable.  My sweet neighbor has a three day old baby.  She gets a pass.  Another dear friend is moving –she fell asleep accidentally early in the evening.  I hate moving.  I understand.

But the other ten people who RSVP’d to my party and didn’t show… I need a note from your teacher.

Because I felt like a BIG loser. 

It’s like waiting for your date to show and waiting and waiting and waiting.  And then you take off your makeup and try not to look in the mirror to see your sad face.

I did however have three of my daughters friend’s over.  We played Just Dance and ate all the food I prepared.

We ate a lot.  Hey ladies…the appetizers were awesome.

I sat on my barstool next to my jewelry friend and tried not to panic.  But we both knew by 8:30pm the party was a disaster.  My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

It stinks to feel unwanted and discarded for the “Voice” or something better that came along.

My pride prickled.  I wanted to cry but I honestly didn’t have it in me.  I was too exhausted from cooking and cleaning. 

It was a great opportunity to be reminded of my true worth and value which is not dependent on a room full of women purchasing jewelry.  I spent some time in Psalms this morning refreshing my wounded spirit.

“Although you and your circumstances may change dramatically, I remain the same throughout time and eternity.  This is the basis of your confidence.  In my presence you live and move and have your being.”*

I’m guesing Jesus had some parties that didn’t go over too well either.  It brought back my smile.

Next party…no jewelry. And just so you know, if you no-showed, I still love you.  A lot!

Have you ever had a party where no one came? 

 

*(Taken from Acts 17:28 Jesus Calling)

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A Soppy Dog Day

A long time ago I made a list of how God sees me.  I read and re-read the list over and over for years until I memorized and internalized certain truths about my identity.  When a bad day hits, I go back to the verses and remind myself of whom I am in Christ.

It gets me through THOSE kinds of mommy days. 

Like yesterday, when I pulled out all the fixings for dinner and discovered I had purchased hot dog buns for Sloppy Joes instead of hamburger buns.  My kids looked at me like I had been smoking crack and even though I tried to explain it was an accident, they gave me the LOOK like I was losing my marbles. 

“Mom, hot-dogs and hamburgers are very different,” my daughter Faith explained in her snotty Jr. High voice.

Ya think?

Even little Kolby gave me a hard time and refused to eat her “sloppy dog” (except she called it a “soppy dog” because she struggles with her “L’s”).

Then there are the days like Monday when I set up a princess tea-party for my girls with home-made chocolate chip cookies and sweets and crisp white linen cloths with an elegant tray.  Kolby and Faith donned their fanciest gowns as I carried the lovely china bursting with yummies outside to our front porch.

The clouds were supposed to part and the harps were supposed to sing…right?

But just as I placed the feast down on the table, we were accosted by the roar of a Carpet Cleaning Van parked in our neighbor’s driveway and a hot wind blowing an inferno in our face.

COME ON!  Princesses aren’t supposed to sweat profusely in mid-October or have to shout over rumbles.  I wanted serenity and girl-time, but instead I got sweaty pits and a migraine.

These are the days I try to remember my God affirmations.  I have to repeat over and over, “I am a good mom and a loved child of God, even when I screw up Sloppy Joes and my princess party fails,” instead of berating myself for the mishaps. 

I want to think about things that are good and true and noble instead of focusing on the bad. 

But geez…it’s so dang easy to complain. 

Lately, God has been nudging me to stop focusing on the little irritants and keep my eyes focused solely on him.  I wish I could say it was effortless, but the truth is, it’s a hard road for me to navigate. 

I am a woman after all. We like to complain. It bonds us.

Most days I feel like Peter walking on the water, eyes squared on the BIG man and then suddenly I drop off into oblivion when a gripe seeps out.

Walk, drop, swim…walk, drop, swim…

Over and over I play this game. 

Sometimes it feel s like I doggie-paddle more in the deep than I walk on top of the water, but I am determined to keep paddling towards the only one who can lift my soppy dog head out of the water again.

Do you ever struggle with complaining?  How do you keep your thoughts positive on a bad day?

 

 Photo Credit: From nowserveme.wordpress.com

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