Alarm

So on school mornings I'm up at 5:50am, getting the kids up and retrieving the coffee for Ben and myself. I wake Emma at 5:55 and she says, "5 more minutes?" and I say, "ok". Then I wake Caleb and say, "I'm turning on the big light" and he pulls the covers over his eyes and I hit him with the overhead lights. Then I peek in on Anna Grace and she's usually awake from the other wake-up calls and she covers her eyes and I turn on her bedside lamp and make sure she knows what she's wearing to school. Then I double-back to wake Emma again and head downstairs for the coffee that is brewed on a timer and check the school cafeteria calendar to see if I have to fix Anna a lunch. And by 6:50 everyone is rushing out the door and Ben is driving them to the bus stop.

But not this morning.

I awoke to light...daylight. Oh crap (or something LIKE that). I rush in to wake Emma at 7:18a. The bus is long gone and on days when it's my fault they're late I can't feel good about making Ben drive them, so there I was...rushing around, making sure they're hurrying along. I head out to the car at 7:40 and just picture this: I'm in my thick black/white socks that warmed my feet all night long. Then I have on lightweight jammie pants and one of Ben's t-shirts. Over that I'm wearing my down puffy jacket. I have on some really funky glasses because there was no time to pop my contacts in and my hair is HIlarious. Half-way to school I make a comment like, "What if a teacher makes me get out and sign you guys in or something. Wouldn't you die?" And when they looked at me with these horrified eyes, I kinda' started to panic. Like oh my gosh...I would die. And then I told them that we'd totally play it off, that I was the live-in maid or something and I'd say something like, "No speak english."

But seriously, I hate that feeling of sleeping late and like there is no getting those minutes back. We're late and there's nothing I can do about it. When Anna Grace got out of the car she gave me the look of death because she was going to have to stop in the office for a tardy slip and carry it to her very intense, loud-talking teacher from up north. She was not happy with me. Not to mention the fact that our local djs were discussing this "no spanking" law that Massachusettes is considering and when I asked if she thought that we ever spanked her too hard she said, "YES. The spoon and the belt? They hurt." Now, it's been a really long time since she got a spanking, but not long enough, obviously. I guess it's not like childbirth (when you forget the pain) because she's hanging on to this hostility for dear life.

So the kids are late and it's my fault. I am dressed like a homeless person so when they're embarrassed it's my fault. And I beat my kids...which is obviously my fault. Man, this parenting gig is not always very gratifying. But there is something so cool about watching them get out of the car, walk towards the school with their backpacks hanging heavy and turn around to wave like maybe they really do like me after all.

Thanks

Brennan Manning had two really cool things to say about thanks in his book, Ruthless Trust. (And if you know me well, you'll be amazed that I actually made it through a non-fiction book.) Manning said that his heart grieves for the atheist because he has no One to thank. The second thing he said (and it's been about 7 years since I read this book, so forgive my paraphrase) was that we should thank God for everything...good and bad...because He can use anything for our good. So this year instead of using this post to thank God for the abundance of obviously good things in my life I am going to thank Him for the hard things that He has promised He can use for my good and the good of the people that I love.

Thank You for Ben's headaches. It sucks that he's sick most of the time and sometimes I feel angry that you don't just go ahead and heal him already. But I know that this hardship causes us to depend on You and your perfect timing. I also know that I lack, in a major way, compassion for the physically sick and tired. I'm not sure why that is but I am going to pray that You use this to draw me into Ben's pain and remind me that you came for the weary and the sick.

Thank You for financial hardship because it reminds me daily of my flesh and my weaknesses. If I were more disciplined and creative I could prevent some of my own stress. But I choose the easy way out and on occasion I see clearly what You want for us and it has absolutely nothing to do with money or wealth. It has everything to do with relationships. Sometimes it's hard to live in such an incredibly wealthy area and not be incredibly wealthy, but it is opportunity for humility and honesty and I'm praying that you will develop that in me.

Thanks for our 1998 Volvo station wagon...it's a whole 10 years "newer" than the last one I had and it has power windows. Yes, it makes some kind of jet engine noise occasionally and it's cost us thousands in repairs and maintenance, but the a/c works and it's got leather interior. Yes, it's black inside and out which makes it hotter than Hades in the summer and filthy-looking in the winter, but it's a quiet ride and we can fit a Christmas tree in the back. When we first purchased it I couldn't believe how 'lucky' I was to have it, luxury compared to the 1988 I'd just given up...but as time has gone by I've looked around and become discontent. Sorry for that.

Thanks for technology. I hate it most of the time, except when I'm blogging or receiving emails from friends and family. But it's Ben's passion and he's really good at what he does. Without it I'd probably be an air force wife, trying to keep from falling apart with three children and a husband in great peril. Thank you so much that you gave Ben the gifts you did, led him to the job he has and allowed him to work from home. It's amazing that we get to spend so much time together as a family. Technology has allowed Ben to be so involved in the lives of the kids.

Thanks for the recorder. There are very few sounds that make me as crazy as the recorder playing "Hot Cross Buns", but it's teaching Anna Grace about music, so Thanks.

Thanks for dirty laundry, dirty floors and dirty dishes because it means that all five of us are mobile and healthy enough to make a mess and eat a full meal.

Thanks for all the taxiing of children that I do because it gives me the opportunity to have time alone with each of them.

Thank You for the hard things and help me to be ridiculously thankful for EVERY thing.

Mess

My house is a mess, 90% of the time. All five of us are slobs. We don't pick up after ourselves. The only thing you can be sure of is that the kitchen will be clean when I go to bed at night. There is nothing I hate worse than waking up to a dirty kitchen. But besides that all bets are off. Right now, on our bedroom/Ben's office (we share a room) floor there is an incredible assortment of stuff...a screwdriver, socks of all sizes and colors, Cooking Light magazines, a Woodworking magazine, computer games, file folders, disposable cameras (dating back to 2000), a mag light, a motherboard, a Sprint cell phone bill, extension cords and computer cords, a box of pull&seal envelopes, 2 green rubberbands, my bathing suit, a babydoll bed that Anna Grace doesn't want anymore, Winston's favorite toy, 2 cardboard moving boxes, a gigantic magnifying glass, Ben's leather laptop bag, a couple Harry Potter dvds, you get the idea. And as I trip over things to reach the bathroom I just have to laugh.

I give Emma such a hard time for not keeping up with her room, but look at this. It's unbelievable. I stopped by a friend's house and she was embarrassed. "My house is such a mess." And she cleans houses for a living. But of course her own is neglected (I totally get that). She made some comment about how my house is so neat all the time and Emma and I looked at each other like, "Wow, have we got her snowed!" The only time she comes over is for a monthly book club meeting and of course I can get the downstairs clean once a month. I said something to that effect and she asked me to leave it for the next book club. Just leave it the way it always is...and I agreed to do that. WHAT WAS I THINKING???

If you read ahead to my last blog entry you'll see that I was born a performer and I don't really like for people to see my dust bunnies. I act like I'm comfortable with total honesty, like my life's an open book. And to some extent that's true. I don't mind being transparent with people, but there's something about this particular truth that I'm uncomfortable with. Why is that? I can write about being a slob, but I really don't want you to see the evidence. I can write about being bad with money or aimless or insecure as a parent or as blind as a pharisee and I can even allow you to see the evidence of all of those things, but when it comes to a dirty bathroom I am completely freaked out.

Insight anyone?

Applause

I work for it every day. I want someone to tell me that I'm doing a good job. I want my boss, Kelly, to recognize me for being a hard worker and an effective salesperson. I want my children to tell me how great I am at helping with homework, or taxiing them around town or giving them wise counsel. I want Ben to appreciate the things I do around the house and/or how sexy I am. I want my small group to think I'm the hostess with the most-est. I want my friends to know that I'm trust-worthy and funny and painfully honest. I want my writer/brother-in-law to approve of how I string words together to form smart witty sentences. Even in writing this I'm looking for applause. I want a prize.

You know the phrase, "Bring your best to Jesus"? Maybe you've heard it in reference to how you dress on Sunday mornings. Maybe it's more about behavior for you. Maybe it's been taught to you like it's about tithing your 10%. Your first fruits. What does it really mean? What does my best look like? Does he really see my beautiful Sunday dress or my patience with mankind or my sacrificial giving and think, "Wow. That Michelle sure is doing a good job bringing me her best!" Do I really think that those things bring me favor with God? Can I actually fool Jesus into believing that just maybe my best might be bordering on possibly being enough? Are chances good that I can bring him something pure enough to truly please him? On my own?

I think we might be convincing each other that we can work towards this lofty goal. And I'm nervous about it.

I was watching The Simpsons with Emma and Caleb the other day and Homer had died and gone to heaven. St. Peter told him he had 24 hours to do one selfless act of kindness to get through the pearly gates. I turned to Caleb, opened my mouth, but before I could even get it out he turned to me and said, "MOM...I KNOW! You don't have to be good to get in to heaven." I have worked hard to pound this truth into their heads. Because if you can be good enough then what's the deal with the cross?

Sue, my Bible Study teacher, speaks this truth every single week. We talk about nothing else. Only the truth of the Gospel. We have no alliteration, no 5-steps to clean living, nothing but Jesus on the cross. Jesus plus nothing. She mentioned the patriarchs yesterday. You know...Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. She was wondering aloud about how in the world we could get a book of virtues from their lives' examples. "Talk about an elephant in the room!" Rape, murder, thieving, polygamy, lying. Their lives were fodder for today's trashy reality tv. We make excuses for them and then focus on the things they did right. The one time out of ten when they "brought their best to God." It's ridiculous. Nauseating. Mind-blowing. I'm quite upset.

We either need Jesus or we need the five step program. We can't need both.

But...but...but...but...but I need practical steps for godly living. I need some forward momentum to get moving in the right direction. Which is forward. I need something logical that I can really follow, so I know that I'm bringing my best to Jesus. So that I can feel good about it. So that Jesus can feel good about me.

WHAT???

He did not come for the healthy, but for the sick and dying. He didn't come for the ones who refused to recognize their own need. He came for the ones who were so needy that people turned away in disgust. He came to free the captives and bring light to those living in darkness. He came to bind up their wounds, our wounds. He didn't come for the ones who think that all they need is the five steps and then they can walk the path on their own. He came for the ones who cannot navigate this life. The ones who stumble and fall and who lay there waiting for someone to pick them up. Waiting for the kind of love that heals and changes from the inside out.

We can definitely continue to bring Jesus our best. And I'm sure I will. Because I'm human and I want to present the best possible version of me. But it earns me nothing. No applause. No merit. No favor. And the only one I'm fooling is myself. And even then I'm not terribly convincing.

Hassle

My friend, Pam and I went to lunch yesterday. We had a waitress who was probably late 40's but was trying really hard to look about 25. She was bleached blond and had that lip liner issue that makes me want to turn into an intrusive old lady who uses her licked thumb to clean off other people's faces. (Either keep up with your lipstick or quit using liner!) And she had definitely spent too much time in the tanning bed. She was a little forgetful (or tipsy, not sure which) and mentioned that it was her five children that had made her that way (forgetful, not tipsy). She could have left it at that, but she went on. She explained that her children had made her crazy. That when her 17 year old daughter had come to her and asked to live with her dad that this waitress/mom/forgetful tanner had tried her best to look pathetic and sad but inside she was doing the happy dance. She was basically telling us that she was relieved to be rid of her teenage daughter. I laughed appropriately (?) and in my own subtle way tried to end this weird conversation.

Pam emailed me last night and asked if I was going to blog about this lady. Hmmmm.

At dinner Anna Grace asked me how many more bites of her grilled cheese she had to eat and how much more soup she had to slurp before she could be done. Caleb said, "As many bites as it takes." I teasingly asked him if he'd always wanted to say that and he said that's what he'd tell his own kids someday. Then I asked them both if they wanted kids when they grow up. They said no.

"Why?"
"Because kids are a hassle."
"Seriously???"
"Yes," giggling.

That got me thinking. Have I communicated that I think kids are a hassle? Have I, without being a blond, overly browned 40+ waitress, communicated that parenting is a heavy burden that I'd rather not carry? Do they really think that I'd do a happy dance if I was relieved of the responsibility?

Now, having lived with a teenager for almost a year and anticipating Caleb entering his teen years in just under two months, I can understand a certain amount of relief. Imagine someone else being responsible for the day-to-day decisions or for controlling the facial reactions to the mood swings that come with middle school.

There have been many times when I've acted like it was such an inconvenience that they had to eat to live. I've been put out when they ask me to tuck them in at night. I avoided getting down on the floor and playing with them when they were still into Thomas the Train. I've preferred reading a good book over engaging them in conversation. I've put in a second movie for them so that I could have more uninterrupted time to do what, exactly? I've rolled my eyes when they asked me the same question for the fourth time in a row. I've complained (loudly) that "no one picks up after themselves." I've said no to countless offers to play "a quick game of Monopoly." And they're going to leave.

They'll be gone before I know it. And there will be regrets. I hate it, but it's true. I will wish back all the meals, the bedtime prayers, the missed conversations, the repetitive questions, the strewn socks and the endless games. I already wish them back and they're still here.

I don't want to live a life of regret. I don't want to see this like it's a done deal. I want my words and my body language and my attitudes to reflect what's REALLY true about my life. I want to cherish the days that I get to spend with my kids. I want Emma to know that taking her shopping for a dress is fun because it's an excuse to spend time with her. I want Caleb to know that sitting on the edge of his bed at night isn't an obligation but an honor, pure joy. I want Anna Grace to know that helping her with her torturous 4th grade homework isn't torture, but that it's a chance for us to learn together and for me to cheer her on.

It boils down to being thankful, deep in my heart, don't you think? I want to be filled up and overflowing with the knowledge of what I've been given. I want to look at my children and have visions of wrapping paper and bows and cake with ice cream. They are 3 of the 4 best gifts I've ever received. And they better believe it!

Couch

Ok. So. My sister, Lorraine knew this day was coming. And I'm not even going to verbalize it, like out loud. I'm just going to write it down and hope that she doesn't bring it up. I hate my couch. Ben's eyes are avoiding mine. He's trying his hardest not to scream, "I TOLD YOU SO!!"

We've had several couches over the years. The first, a white couch from the 'damaged room' of a strip mall furniture store in a po-dunk Georgia air force town, cost us about $200. If. Then we added to our living room furniture by paying a small sum for a friend's brown velour-ish puffy couch. You know the kind: the head cushions are attached at the top edge of the couch so that when you're moving the couch they hang upside down like they'd rather be anyplace but on this crappy couch. When we made the move to Denver we rid ourselves of the brown couch, but hung on to the white(-ish) one. My folks came for our first Colorado Thanksgiving and my mom agreed to help me reupholster the couch. I was really into different fabrics combining on one piece of furniture, shabby chic. So we did a mint green for the body of the couch and fruit fabric for the cushions. Then there was a really cool 50's couch that I paid $15 for at an estate sale. Out went the re-do and in came the old, yet original. Ben detests garage sale, consignment store, goodwill anything so we decided to do the next purchase right.

Out went the old, yet original and in came our first brand new, undamaged couch , love seat and chair. We went to Krause's sofa factory where you could design your own stuff. Pick a style and then pick any fabric you desire. Well, much to Ben's dismay, I chose a gray/brown/green color for the couch, a sunshine yellow for the love seat and a plaid to tie it all together for the chair. And I use the phrase "tie it all together" in the loose sense. We hung on to that furniture for quite a long time. And before we moved to Asheville we sold it for nothing at a garage sale. The gray/brown/green (our family couldn't agree on what that color was exactly) was stained and the yellow love seat had red kool-aid on it.

We moved to the furniture capitol of the U.S. And I had about $800 to spend on a couch. That's not a lot when you're trying to pick a good, solid couch. We went everywhere and everything just seemed boring, too traditional. I should have gone with it. My sister, Lorraine, tried to help me learn from her mistakes. They got a great deal on their living room furniture but the legs have fallen off and the fabric is too nitch-y. She told me not to settle. "You want a sofa that will stand the test of time." Instead I went to Sofa Express and picked a white background with black/gray ticking stripes. That was two years ago. The other day I was trying to get my vacuum extension under the couch and realized that part of the frame has broken and it's sagging an inch or two from the floor. My parents avoid sitting on the couch because once they're IN there, they need assistance to extricate themselves. The fabric is dingy and I would give anything for a boring, traditional couch in a neutral forgettable color. Can I get an AMEN?

Wellspring

There was a Sunday night in 2000 that was life-changing for me. I had been visiting churches on my own because Ben was taking a break from church. The kiddos were between 2 and 6 and so I'd usually leave them home and go on my own to scope things out. I had slept in that morning and so I decided to try an evening service. An old friend of mine was part of a church plant consisting of a small group of believers that met at a big Episcopal church in town. They had all been members of the host church and yet were unable to reconcile their theology with the changing teachings of the Episcopal church. They decided to start an AMIA (http://www.wellspringcolorado.com//) church and I was curious.

My background is very evangelical, conservative. I had no experience in the high church or with liturgy. I had no idea what to expect or how I'd feel at the service. But I felt like God was calling me to something new. I was wide open. I drove into the parking lot and as I was getting out of the car I noticed a young mother unloading her three young children from a minivan. She was beautiful, outwardly yes. But her smile radiated kindness and sincerity. It was inner beauty that overshadowed whatever else I might have noticed about her. I asked her if I was in the right place to attend the Wellspring service and she said that yes I was and that she'd be happy to show me where to go.

I got settled in a seat, not knowing anyone in this small group of maybe 20 people. There was no blending in. There was no observation that took place anonymously. I was watching them and they were watching me. Actually it was not really a "watching" on their part, but more of an awareness. They did not fall all over themselves to meet me. Their stance was welcoming and yet completely free of expectation. I knew immediately that wherever I'd come from, whatever beliefs, prejudices or failures that I'd brought with me were of no consequence.

We started with music and it was upbeat contemporary style with a guitar accompaniment. I was a bit surprised because I thought with an anglican church I would get hymns. The more sacred style. I had to chuckle at the guitar player because with each song he was getting more animated. He did this marching thing while he played, keeping time with his feet. Not a tapping of the foot but he was actually marching in place. He was REALLY into it. I was amazed by his lack of self-awareness.

We had the Old Testament, New Testament and Gospel readings. This was all new to me. There seemed to be hand signals that went with the Gospel reading, but I couldn't quite figure them out. And then it was time for the message. Guess what? It was the marching guitar player. He was the pastor. And he started talking and I wish I could import a sound clip for you, because it was the way he said "Jesus" that almost broke my heart. He said that name like the Son of God was actually the SON OF GOD. It was not a 'WWJD' version. Or a J-E-S-U-S cheerleader. Or even a 'Jesus is my best friend'. It was sacred familiarity. It was romance and intimacy. It was fear and trembling. It was awe. It was a way of breathing...like he inhaled the name and then exhaled the name. Even when he was talking about a botched home improvement project or a moment of impatience with his son it was like the name of Jesus was at the back of his throat, waiting to be spoken.

We had the "prayers of the people" and people actually prayed out loud, in the middle of church. That was crazy. Praying during a church service. What were they thinking? And then communion. I had to get out of my seat and go forward with all the other 19 attendees. And I didn't know what to do or how to do it. I watched and learned and tried so hard to act right. And something happened in me when I took the cup of wine. I started to tremble and it happened every Sunday for the next 5 years. I could never take the cup without trembling. It was embarrassing, although I don't think anyone noticed. But I think it was the weight of what was being offered to me that was overwhelming. "The body of Christ, broken for you." "The blood of Christ shed for you." I wept.

As I was leaving someone introduced me to Janna, the pastor's wife. By the way, she was the one with the radiant smile who welcomed me in the parking lot. Who failed to mention her role as the pastor's wife. If there was any question about the humility and sincerity of this group, it was gone at that moment. I had come home.

Dog

Our family's reputation is a bit sketchy when it comes to dogs. I grew up with Fluffy, a mut who was waiting anxiously for me when my mom brought me home from the hospital. She lived a good, full life...free to roam and happy to return. She died of old age when I was 9 years old. Then there was Sniffer. Some hunting breed. Hyper as heck and impossible to train. She got adopted out.

Ben also had two dogs growing up. The first, Rusty (part beagle, part terrier?), was a fun little dog who lived with them for about a year but never learned to look both ways before crossing the street. Much much later when Ben was in high school they got a shelty named Shelly (creative) and that lasted until Ben left for college. As soon as he was out of hearing range his mom found a new home for Shelly.

Ben LOVES dogs. I could go either way...although I didn't realize that until 3 failed attempts at dog ownership after we were married. Our first was a golden retriever, adopted after only about a year of marriage and left alone all day because we were both working full-time. Her name was "Roo" (like from Winnie the Pooh) and she was sweet but incredibly hyper. She piddled when the mailman dropped the mail in our box. She was never fully potty trained and after we had Emma it was too much for me. She went to a farm in the country where she could run and play (no, really...there was a farm where she could run and play). Next came "Bo"...an animal shelter rescue and I picked him out. I can't quite remember what went wrong with Bo but we never bonded. And he ended up with some friends of ours (he died shortly after, sorry about that). Then Ben got it into his head that we should get a cool breed, like a Rhodesian Ridgeback...African origin, bred to hunt lions, with a ridge up his back where the hair grows in the opposite direction. We got a deal from a breeder in Texas. Our Ridgeback was ridgeless. We named her "Honey" (which was a little confusing b/c that is also what Ben and I call each other). She was hyper. She ate sandwiches off the counter and hunted Anna Grace (who was 2 years old at the time). The collective eyes of our friends and family were rolling back in their heads. It took us less than a year to figure out that we were not cut out for this. Honey went to a fellow Ridgeback owner. They called her a rescue. That didn't make us feel very good.

We were total failures and we knew it. And just in case we might forget, there was always someone standing close by to remind us.

About 5 years went by and we moved to Asheville. I started talking about getting a dog. Ben couldn't quite believe it. He said that if we got a dog, it would have to be my doing because he didn't want to be held responsible when the dog started driving me mad. It is the hair that really makes me crazy. I HATE swiffering dog hair every single day. I begin resenting the hair-producer. Well, we had recently met a family who had a labradoodle. That's a lab/poodle mix. Strange but true. No shedding. Now, I'm not a big fan of the poodle but these dogs are cute! Seriously. So I found a breeder (http://labradoodlebreedersc.com/ ... totally cheesy sight but you get the idea) and we filled out an application and amazingly they approved us. Winston was born on November 17, 2005.

He is all black. I am in love with him. My friends cannot believe it. They keep asking how this could have happened. It's a dog after all. What's the deal? All I can say is that he is precious. I baby talk him. I let him sleep on the bed with us. I feed him pork loin. Caleb bought him a kiddie pool this summer. We put him in an up-scale doggie day care when we go away. And I call to check on him. Some people practice on a pet and then when they have children they know what they're doing. We did the opposite. Winston, for one, will grow up to be perfectly well-adjusted, able to give and receive love with his boundaries firmly in place.

He does totally annoying things...he eats Emma's flip flops and cannot chill out when we have guests. He doesn't always listen to the "come" command. He barks his head off at his reflection in the window. He pulls on the leash when we try to walk him. He likes not-yet-laundered underwear. He begs at the table. And will not shut up when we take him on car rides. He failed puppy manners class. (They gave him a diploma, but who were they kidding?) I actually cried.

But he waits expectantly for us to come home. He runs away but when he comes home he is a happy puppy who doesn't realize he's been naughty. He cocks his head when we say unfamiliar words in baby-talk. He is SO soft. And his hair turns to dreadlocks when he hasn't been groomed in awhile. He runs to the neighbors and steals their dog toys, bringing them back like a prize to be cherished...like the toy was meant for him in the first place. He exemplifies unconditional love. He always expects good things and never fears us. He is independent, not needy except when there's a storm. Then he follows me around or hangs out under Ben's desk. He is absolutely predictable, never in a bad mood and always ready to enjoy my company. Even when I'm unenjoyable.

When we were waiting for Winston to be born I would pray with the kids and ask God to choose the perfect dog for our family. Caleb thought this was ridiculous..."God doesn't care which dog we pick." I can understand his skepticism, but I think he's been converted.

50"

We have a HUGE television. It's a 50" projection tv. It's embarrassing. Our home really isn't big enough to support such a massive object of our affection. And it really is the center of our living space. Everything revolves around that area. We pass by it on our way to and from the stairs. We walk by it when we enter our home and when we leave our home. Sometimes I think Ben touches it affectionately when no one is looking.

This is a brand new thing...Up until a few months ago we had one 14" television, and only one. When we moved to Asheville and into a rental home we bought this little television because our other 14" tv was on the fritz. We moved into the house and it had one of those built-in tv holes above the fireplace. We could fit the tv, the cable box, my scrapbooks and decor that I didn't know what to do with up there. If we wanted to watch a show together as a family, we had to pull up chairs and get our binoculars out just so we could make out the expression on Ryan Seacrest's face. Let's put it this way, no way would we ever invite anyone over to watch the game.

The other thing you should know is that we are a computer family. We have 4 computers and parts to build at least one more. Plus we have two laptops. That's 6 computers. There's only 5 of us. Ben's work PC has a Mac monitor that is HUGE. It's the envy of our entire extended family. Ben has boxes and boxes and boxes of computer parts. He has a large rubbermaid storage box filled to the top with computer fans. Just fans. A whole box. The garage houses tons of computer stuff and it spills out into our everyday lives, everyday. We could open an Internet store and put our kids through college.

One of the PCs is hooked up to the BIG television. It also has Internet access. We can check our email on the 50" screen. We can download movies from Netflix right to the PC and then watch them on the 50" screen. We can listen to hours, days of music that is stored on that PC. The kids can do their homework on the 50" screen. This makes Ben very happy.

Now, before when we had our extremely modest tv I had a pride issue. People would walk in, immediately comment on our teeny tiny little screen and I would say something like, "Yes. The size of the screen reflects how much we care about tv." I think I was a little self-conscious and I was trying to compensate by making them feel bad about being so materialistic. (Sorry if I did that to you.) And it's weird how changing the size of the tv we own hasn't squelched my pride. I'm embarrassed (another form of pride) that our tv is monstrous and so I say things like, "Well, before we had a 14" tv and this is Ben's dream come true. He's been waiting for like 15 years to get a TV he can watch from the comfort of his very own couch!"

Why can't I just smile and ask if anyone wants to watch the game?

Blind

I'm getting in touch with my inner pharisee.

I've been ranting all week to anyone who will listen about how bad I hate it when people use morality as religion. I've been upset with the gossip that gets spread as if it's a prayer request or even a genuine concern. I've been angered when I've seen legalism win out over grace, causing people to feel "less than".

And then I went to church.

Dave is preaching on John 9, where the blind man gets healed when Jesus makes mud pies with dirt+spit and spreads it on the man's eyes. He talked about how the Pharisees got really p.o.'ed and started questioning the parents of this man and the man himself, just daring this little family to talk about Jesus as if he's Someone special. The guy's folks ditch him. They turn away in fear and say, "He's a grown man. Go ask him." The Pharisees use man-made Sabbath laws to make Jesus look bad. It's ridiculous. Well, now I'm even more fired up. Those stupid Pharisees. But the more Dave talks, the more I realize that my pent-up resentment towards modern-day legalism and morality-talk is big trouble. It's me looking at my fellow humans and saying, "I get it. I get grace and you don't. You're all a bunch of jerks." And guess who's acting superior now?

It's hard. How can my sin of feeling good about "getting it" be as bad as their sins of awful self-righteousness and legalistic judgement? Well, it just is, that's how. When I receive the gift of sight it's very easy to fall into the belief that I earned the gift or that God favors me because I'm cute. I start feeling sorry for all the church-going schmucks who think they get the big picture, but don't. And now I'm beginning to wonder if God regrets blessing me with any such knowledge or understanding. If I'm just going to use this gold to make someone else feel bad, then what's the point? If I'm just going to use it to make myself feel good, then what's the point?

Simple truth: My sin is just as much sin as the next guy's. Just when I think I can wrap my brain around that I start feeling good...because I can wrap my brain around that. And then I've got pride.

John 9:39-41 And Jesus said, "For judgment I came into this world, so that those who do not see may see, and that those who see may become blind." Those of the Pharisees who were with Him heard these things and said to Him, "We are not blind too, are we?" Jesus said to them, "If you were blind, you would have no sin; but since you say, 'We see,' your sin remains."

So is it the admission of sin that frees me from my blindness? Is it when I can finally say, "I'm so full of sh__", that Jesus heals me? I think that's what He's saying. So I will, day after day, claim that I'm more righteous than the legalists. Then God (in his graciousness, and because I asked for it) will point out that I am blind in a very bad, needy, un-cute way. And I will learn to love because He loves me. And I will pity my inner pharisee and I will love the ones who surround me. Not because it's the seeing thing to do, but because it's the blind thing to do.

Noisy

I like it quiet at bedtime. I like to wash my face, brush my teeth and crawl between the nice cool sheets to read a book or work on a sudoku puzzle. I want to unwind and talk about the day and cuddle. I want to look at Ben's face, instead of the back of his head at a computer monitor. I want to be companionable.

I am constantly aware of how much noise is going on in the house after the kids are in bed, sleeping. If we watch an action movie it's like the remote is the baton in a relay race...constantly changing hands. Loud gunshot. Michelle turns down the volume. Whispered conversation. Ben turns up the volume. My children have grown up in a noisy home. They sleep through anything, so I don't know what I'm so worried about. It just bugs me. I can't help it.

I married into a "tv in every room" family. They watch tv while they are preparing to teach a Bible Study. They watch tv while they cook. They watch tv in bed, while they are falling asleep. Now, when I say "watch" that's not really accurate. It's more like background noise. This is weird to me. So, we have a laptop at the end of our bed and Ben's nightly routine includes picking out a movie to fall asleep to. We go through movie cycles. Usually they are kids' movies. He'll go through a Nick Park phase when he chooses Chicken Run or Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. Or Night at the Museum with Ben Stiller. Sometimes it will be an action movie like Rush Hour with Jackie Chan. Lord of the Rings is the series he chooses if he's got a migraine headache. Or Harry Potter.

An additional piece of this noisy routine includes a bowl of cereal that he brings to bed with him. (I could write a whole post on the fact that Ben doesn't know how to eat a meal in the kitchen, or in fact a whole post on his eating habits in general.) He takes this huge spoonful, loaded down with cereal and milk and slurps all the milk before he sucks the cereal off the spoon. Then he chews. And it's crunchy and then it's mushy. So, it's kind of like this, "scoop, slurp, crunch, mush, swallow". And when he's finished with the cereal he slurps the milk out of the bowl, making sure that none of it slips off the rim and down the side. I hate mouth noises.

He also chews on the crushed ice that he brings to bed with him. This is a relatively new part of the routine. And it's not just a little kid cup of ice, plastic and harmless. It's a tall glass tumbler that he taps and shakes to loosen things up. And then there's more slurping. And crunching. Curse that new refrigerator with the crushed ice option.

But at the risk of sounding completely sappy...it's worth it. We go to bed together. He gives me first dibs on which movie to pick. When he goes down for his cereal he asks if he can bring anything back for me. A snack? A glass of water? And when he's crunching on his ice he's also rubbing my head...long after he's obligated. He's a good man, with a few idiosyncrasies. And I'm 100% ok with that.

Jesus

I have been wondering a lot about what my kids think and feel about Jesus. Because Ben and I grew up in missionary homes and we were "churched to death" I think we over corrected our own upbringings by putting very little emphasis on church and devotions and Christian music and Bible stories. I think we've cheated our children out of Bible knowledge and hymns and teachable moments. I think we've let them off too easy, not expecting them to be interested in spiritual things or not expecting them to care. I've got some guilt.

Recently I was watching some teen girls doing their devotions in a public place. I asked them about it and they told me that they had been to an incredible camp where the worship time was amazing...they sang and prayed and cried and were inspired. They looked almost angelic, in their bikinis with their Bibles lying open and their highlighters out. I had two absolutely evil responses...both of which I covered with a smile and an encouraging nod. First I thought to myself..."I did that a million times as a kid, rededicated my life and had a whole month-long stint of quiet times. It won't last." The second evil response was, "Why can't my teenager be more like that?" I am ashamed that I reacted that way. So self-righteous. So insecure. So superior. So scared. And they were 13 year olds. What is my problem???

I have thought a ton about that in the last month or so. God has really very gently brought me to a place of understanding. First, I have cheated my kids out of some perfectly golden moments when the gospel could have been shared in a very real way. And for that I'm sorry. Also, each time a kid has a "mountaintop experience" God reveals himself to him or her in a way that they can understand. How in the world can I judge that experience? Sure they'll come down. It's just like my own life, sometimes I'm feelin' it and sometimes I'm not. The difference is that the older I get, the less I rely on feelings to determine the truth that I live out of. And all of that cynicism is tied to my guilt about not "doing" enough to encourage my kids spiritually.

The other really big thing happened a couple of nights ago. Emma had a really hard start to this school year and she's been grieving her expectations not being met by administration and especially by friends. She's being left out and left behind. One of her friends has taken a really strong stand against rock music and gossip (these are a few of our favorite things...). Emma respects that, but doesn't like the way that her friend is communicating this stand. The stand is all being done in Jesus' name. She's had a mountaintop experience, but the problem is that she is showing little to no concern or compassion for the situation that Emma finds herself in (lonely and sad). Emma looks at me and says these awesome, insightful words, *"I thought God was all about love." What her friend is doing doesn't feel like love, it feels like legalism and judgment. It's a pat on the back and the dreaded words, "Just pray about it." So she's not feeling the love and she is feeling the condemnation. She just needs a note with hearts all over it that says little things like, "BFF" and "I Miss U", folded into a teensy tiny triangle and passed between classes. In spite of my own failures as a mom, it seems that Emma has gotten the message that Jesus loves her and He cares deeply for her. And hopefully she knows and experiences this truth: "There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."

WOO-HOO!


*Emma's Notes:
"If my friends are truly concerned about being the 'good Christian' and WWJD then why don't they communicate love when I need it? Jesus would love a friend in a lonely time. It's not about being a "good Christian" it's about being a good friend, who is encouraging and loves God." That's more like what I said, I am really against the whole be a "good Christian" or "what's the Christian thing to do" as my friend would say. And it's not just rock music, it's basically any non-Christian music.

BFF

My best friend, Krista, sent me a hilarious card recently. On the front is a very enthusiastic high-kicking, big-haired, slightly 80's looking teen girl. It says, "When I'm President, I'm gonna settle all disputes with a dance-off." Inside it says, "You're gonna be Vice President, so work on your moves." If you saw me 'shake it' this would be especially funny for you...

The words "best friend" just roll off the tongue. A bit juvenile for a woman in her late 30's but I don't really care. They best describe that relationship in my life. I've had several best friends in my life. My first was Beth. I met her as a new student in a new school in a new town half-way through kindergarten. I cried every day and was terribly homesick and needy. I needed a friend. She was absolutely beautiful. Her mom was 100% Swedish, tall with long blond hair and lush looks and her father was a native of India, short and brilliant. Beth was a perfect combination of the two. I envied her beautiful skin and long dark hair. We played house and school and scared ourselves silly when her folks left us alone one night. We both went to different schools for the third grade and we drifted apart.

Then there was Dawn. She was my grade school friend, the one who I started high school with. She grew up in a Mennonite family and had little posters of kitties and puppies on her walls that she had ordered from Scholastic books. But, don't be deceived by her portrayed naivete...she was a rebel. She and I stayed up late watching "Friday Night Videos" before there was MTV. She was my first friend to french kiss a boy and she demonstrated for me on pillows, mirrors, walls, anything that would hold still long enough.

I kind of cheated on Dawn with Jennifer, (Chinese pig latin pronunciation: Jong.E.Nong.Nong.I.Fong.E.Rong). She was another beautiful girl. And very dominating. She demanded loyalty and constant companionship and there was no room for argument. She was pushy. Her father was a chocolate salesman so she came by it honestly, I guess. Her mom was beautiful too, although anal retentive to the max. I remember that Jennifer had to Windex her entire room EVERY morning. They had a room that we couldn't go into because our footprints would ruin the sunburst pattern that the vacuum had made in the carpet. They were so clean. They showered all the time. She always had a boyfriend and it was usually the boy that I was secretly in love with. I used to sing in the shower, "I wish that I had Jenny's boy" to the tune of "Jesse's Girl". It was pathetic. I was the best friend with the "great personality". I hated that.

My parents and I moved to Haiti during my freshman year in high school and by my sophomore year I had another best friend. Another Jennifer. We learned to drive in Port-au-Prince and so we faced death together each and every time we left the house. There was no drinking age so Bartles and Jaymes became our boyfriends. And we would lay on her roof, slathered in baby oil listening to Brian Adams "Cuts Like a Knife" album. Good Times.

My senior year I met Kathy at boarding school in Asheville, NC. She was so much fun. She was a good girl and I appreciated that. She and I would stay up late studying and doing silly experiments like seeing if you could actually light a fart on fire. (You can) She would bring me a snickers bar when I was down and I would get her inhaler for her when she quit breathing. We made up silly words and listened to prohibited rock music. We live close enough now that we can meet half-way for lunch and get to know each other's children. It's so cool.

Next came Sue. Her nick name was "Sue-bee Doo-bee", for the same reason that the Doobie Brothers are the Doobie Brothers. (Hint: Their last names are not Doobie and they're not brothers) I was feeling pretty lonely, pretty desperate for some fun and extremely sick of the church youth group scene. So, one night I told her that I wanted her to teach me to drink beer. She told me that I had to take three gulps at a time and I would feel the effects in no time. (It works) She was hilarious and very sweet, extremely loyal. I think she was searching for God and I was running away from Him and I have a lot of regrets about that. I think that He could have used me in her life and I was unwilling. I'm sorry.

My parents got really peeved with me...my grades, my behavior, my lack of spiritual maturity so they made me choose a college with "Bible" in the name. It couldn't just be a Christian Liberal Arts school, it had to be a Bible school. So I chose Columbia BIBLE College for one reason only. Kathy was there and she agreed to room with me...her troubled friend. Two great things happened in that one year of hell: More time with Kathy and meeting my best friend for life, Ben.

This brings me to my current friendship roster. After Ben and I got married and moved to Denver I met two young women who would define friendship for me and for whom I am writing this particular post...Candace and Krista.

We were all very young, with babies and the deep desire for true and honest relationships. We started a play group and talked. And talked. And talked. We never really DID anything, except wipe poopy bottoms and answer the door for pizza delivery. Krista and I would meet at the park and it was as if we had telepathically decided who would pick up the Starbucks. My marriage was in the toilet for most of those years and those girlies were AWESOME in the middle of all my crap! They prayed for Ben when I was too pissed off or heartbroken or hopeless. Some friends just can't stand the husband, but they really truly saw him for the man that I had married. They saw him like God saw him and they stuck by him, just like they stuck by me with all my fears and flesh patterns and weirdness.

They were there when I had Anna Grace, in the room cheering me on. It was a party. I got to be there for each of them when they gave birth too. We love each other's children. We discipline each other's children. And if anything ever happens to me all three of mine want to go to Candace (She's got candy and Krista's too strict.). They are the moms that I prayed my children would run to, if they ever ran away.

They are the friends who truly rejoice in my gifts and challenge me to use them. They don't compare themselves to me, making me feel less than or more than. They have been able to look me in the eyes and tell me the really hard things, things that might have completely broken me if it hadn't come from their particular lips. They tell me the truth.

We live 2,000 miles apart now. It sucks. I hear their voices in my head when I shop and people think I'm crazy (and incredibly snotty) when I say out loud, "I would look GREAT in this." I can't help it...some one's got to speak that truth. My new porch swing makes my heart ache because it is the spot that waits for them to come and sit a spell. Candace sends her Jacob to his first day of school tomorrow and I should be there, waiting on her front porch when she comes sniffling up the walk. Krista and I should be spending the first day of school at an outdoor table drinking Starbucks and enjoying the quiet. But life is like that. You enjoy the people He gives you and you miss them when they're gone and you look forward to the little gifts of time spent with them that you'll get every now and then.

So now I will say something completely cheesy...like, "you'll be in my heart forever" or "you're the wind beneath my wings" or "did you know that you can actually light a fart on fire?"

Moo-lah

We are absolutely terrible with money. It started out with the devil coming to each of us in the form of student credit cards during our college years. We sold our souls. Then we did bigger and stupider things with credit. We bought tvs and music and food on credit. We leased a minivan. We bought houses. We bought name-brand clothing for our children, who were growing 3 sizes a year. We took trips to Disneyland. We paid bills on credit. Then we lost everything. We learned a lesson...but only one. We learned that we never wanted to be in debt the way we were back then. But we are still terrible with money.

Ben gets a bonus twice a year. Those bonuses could be used to make an extra mortgage payment or to pay off our used car. But instead we act like we're millionaires and we treat people to dinner and take our kids to the movies and buy big birthday and Christmas gifts, like i-pods and pool tables. We don't keep track of how much money from the bonus we spend, we just have a "ball park". Never trust yourself when you're working with "ball park" figures.

I left for an overnight last weekend. I had a ball park figure in my head and it wasn't much. But, hey...I'm on a trip. So I pay for gas and I treat my parents to meals and I order like three triple grande lattes from Sbux in a 24 hour period. And I get home, check the bank account and see that we have $1.99 in there after everything clears. That sucks. I actually went to the middle-schoolers in my household and collected on old IOUs. I mailed in medical reimbursement claims. I went to the consignment shop and received the $8.87 they owed me.

Now, we just bought a house, so I'm thinking..."We need to adjust. The house payment is more than what we were paying in rent. It's an investment and it works on paper and it's wise." But, right now...I hate it. The real question is...am I going to be a totally grumpy wife and mother until the next paycheck or am I going to bounce?? Am I going to let these temporary circumstances completely ruin my outlook or am I going to go with it? Is the glass going to be half-full or not?

My children are healthy. We have a car that runs and we can get where we need to go. I have the cutest dog in the whole wide world. My husband totally digs me and me, him. School is starting and I'll have money-making opportunities as soon as the flu hits the teaching staff. We are just plain spoiled rotten and we have all the makings for s'mores. What am I crying for??

Kids

Children are unbelievable. Emma was my firstborn and I just couldn’t get enough of her. I asked the nurses to let her sleep in my bed during my hospital stay and I would just stare at her for hours on end, even after we’d brought her home. Caleb was born one year and ten days later. I was totally into him too, although he slept all day and was awake all night. He was a light. Three and one half years later Anna Grace was born and I left her in the nursery during my hospital stay and asked the doctor if he couldn’t find a reason to keep me there longer. It was peaceful there, in my private room, with my own baby ladies whose sole purpose it was to bring her in when she was hungry and take her out when I was tired. They got paid to tell me that she was fine and I couldn’t hear her fussing from where I slept. Ignorance was bliss, all 36 hours of it.
I am reminded of all the times when I said that “my child will never act like that” or “my child will never look like that” or “my child will always…”. And guess what: My child acts like that, looks like that and never…

Things are out of hand. I maintain the illusion of control some days. But other days I throw my hands up and have to admit that the important things, like what they believe and what their flesh desires and how that will play itself out in adult relationships is completely outside of my control. They have to make their own way and that drives me completely mad. But, would it be better if I could lay out the path in front of them and had a guarantee that they would follow it? I can’t even get to the grocery store without making a complete mess of things. How do I know what they should choose and whether it will turn out right? They have to get to Jesus on their own, in their own way. I cannot map it out for them and if I tried they’d get lost for sure.

A counselor once told me that I needed to be more confident in my parenting. “Quit acting like you don’t know what you’re doing. They’re like animals. They smell fear and they use it to their advantage.” He was right. God gave me these children. God, the creator of the universe, gave me…ME…, these exact children: Emma, Caleb and Anna Grace. I don’t know why he chose me. I don’t know why they weren’t born to Ruth Bell Graham or Gail Queen (my perfect home-schooling Catholic friend who already has 6 of her own, but could do 3 more, no problem) or my sister who loves kids and struggled with infertility. But he chose me. I tell my kids all the time that I’m not perfect. I tell them that I screw up every day and that I make poor choices and that they are suffering the consequences of having me for a mom. But then I say the words that I think God gave me…”If I were the perfect mother you wouldn’t need Jesus.” Is that a copout? I hope that’s not how I use it. I really mean it. I think my weakness points them to Christ. If they can’t depend on me for every good and perfect gift, then they’ll have to go elsewhere.

The real question is this: “Do I believe that God’s got my kids?” Do I really believe that they will find their own way? Do I understand that it will cost me greatly to let them find their own way but that it will cost more if I get in the way? Do I believe that I cannot make up for my own deficiency as a parent? That I can’t try and love them better or more or longer or in a different way to make up for my past mistakes, but that the way I love them is enough and that God will make up the difference?

Aimless

I can’t imagine caring enough about anything to actually go to school to study it. I’m a stay-at-home mom with three children and a very part-time job as a substitute teacher. I work when I feel like it (which is seldom). I went to three different colleges in three different states. I had three different majors during those three chaotic years. And I ended that particular madness by dropping out and getting married (which, at 21, is madness in and of itself). I have no ambition, no drive, no deep yearning to know what I haven’t yet learned. There are things I’d like to be – like a family therapist for example. I’m a great listener and a really good friend. I think I’m already qualified on many levels. I’ve spent a lot of money and hundreds of hours “observing” counselors. Surely I’ve learned enough technique and skill to walk someone through a rough patch. But I’m not hirable because I don’t have a degree. And now they’re saying that to earn a position as a counselor I’d have to complete a MASTERS program. They’re raising the bar and I just don’t want it that bad. I don’t want anything that bad.

I had a counselor, my favorite in fact, who said that I was working out of my survival toolbox instead of my thriving tool box. Ken said that life wasn’t just about getting through the best you could, it was about thriving, enjoying life to the fullest…sucking the marrow out (or some such nonsense). He said that I needed to start dreaming more and thinking about what I could do, not only about what I should do. “Quit “should-ing” all over yourself,” he’d say. But there is within me either a lack of drive or a lack of confidence. I wish I was delusional enough to say that it’s contentment, a deep satisfaction with what has become of me and all that God has blessed me with. But, let’s be honest, that’s not it at all. In fact, even survival is negotiable.

When we watch “I Shouldn’t Be Alive” on TLC I think to myself, “I wouldn’t be alive.” Plane crashes, boat wrecks, grizzly bear attacks, safaris gone wrong…count me out. That happens to me and I’m taking the easy way out. No way will I walk 17 miles in the blistering hot sun with a fractured foot and pull over to roast a bunny for protein. Just leave me back at the crash sight. I don’t want to work that hard. And God forbid that Ben is rendered helpless because I wouldn’t last two hours “going for help”. He thinks I’m crazy, that I’m underestimating my gumption. “You’d do what you had to do,” he says. But he flatters himself. I’m telling you. It’s too much effort for no guaranteed happy ending. Think about all those people who shouldn’t be alive and, in fact, aren’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not lazy, per se. I cook, clean, do laundry, shop and keep a functioning household. I take kids to practices, doctor’s appointments, camps, lessons and sleepovers. I work out on occasion. But there’s something about ambition+education=career that just doesn’t work for me. I have my pride, believe me. I don’t like showing up at social gatherings and admitting that I have no career, no further education to speak of and no plans for achievement. It’s embarrassing. But not embarrassing enough to do something about it, or at the very least to make something up. I shuffle around and pretend like it’s cool to be an uneducated parent with kids old enough to look like my siblings.

My 12 year old son wants to build a monument to me when I die. He says that I deserve more than just a headstone, that there should be something to memorialize my life that is visible from a great distance. I just want one of those flat grave markers with my name and the important dates. He pushes me…”What would you want your monument to look like?” “What do you love to do?” “What would best symbolize you as a person?” Finally, just to get him off my back I say, “Just do something like the Washington Monument. I’m fine with that.” Why is that? Even in death I aim low. I am completely unoriginal.

And that gets me thinking… What if my life is half over? I’m only 37 years old, but that’s already half way to 74. I cannot believe that if I live to be 74 years old that this year marks the half-way point. Holy crap. What have I done with my life? A lot has happened to me. I’ve responded to certain situations and handled things, but I’ve not really gone after anything. I haven’t pursued life. I’ve made lists, but only because life demands it. Things become urgent…so I adopt a sense of urgency. But I don’t act, I react. Is this a personality type? or a major character flaw? or have I just not found anything that really inspires me? I want to be inspired. I want to wake up in the morning and think, “I can’t wait to______________!”