When Celebration Doesn't Come Easily

Tomorrow is Christmas, a time of joy and celebration, yet as I scroll down my Facebook newsfeed, I see article after article about imperfect lives, about loss, about grief. I think of families I know who are navigating this first Christmas without a loved one, awkwardly learning new roles, new traditions, new ways of remembering the person whose absence on this first Christmas without stings so much, and I wonder if more than a Merry Christmas, we need a Real Christmas, a Christmas when we shed the facade of cheerfulness and speak honestly of our imperfections, grief, and even plain, old-fashioned weariness. I'm not saying we shouldn't be happy and joyful and all that... just that maybe it's okay to be still when all the world dances.

Below are some thoughts I shared two-and-a-half years ago on grief and loss as they pertain to Easter celebrations. I think they apply equally at this time of year when we celebrate the birth of Him who came to take away the sting of sin and swallow up Death in victory.

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Good Friday typically does not top the list of favorite holidays, probably because it's not really human nature to celebrate Death with warm fuzzies and apple pie.  Deep down, I think we all pretty much despise Death.  I sure do.  Yes, because of Christ's death and resurrection, we have the hope of eternal life in heaven when we die, but until then...

Until then, Death steals from us without remorse.  Though defeated, Death lashes out, like a dying despot trying to destroy as many in his demise as in his reign.  Death takes ones we love and leaves us swimming through a flood of emotions ranging from horror to anger to fear to emptiness and finally to surrender.  A shadow of sorrow remains, even as Life brings new joys to celebrate.  So when Good Friday comes around, and I think about Christ's death on the cross, a bit of my soul rejoices in the knowledge that someone, namely Jesus Christ, took on Death.  And won.  While it may not be entirely reverent, I picture myself on the sidelines of an epic boxing match, shouting, "Yes!  You're going DOWN, Death!"

And then comes Easter, with pastels and bunny rabbits, pretty clothes and special music.  The meaning of Easter sometimes seems a bit hidden under all that clutter, but it is a beautiful day.  Easter is that day when we learn that Good Friday worked.  Jesus won.  We win.  Easter is a day of rejoicing.

For some though, rejoicing may not take the expected form.  Rejoicing may not be a jubilant laugh bursting forth from a glad heart, but a choking cry, wrenching its way from the deepest recesses of a broken heart, for whom Christ's death and resurrection are not only its greatest hope, but its only hope, the fine thread keeping its nose above the flood of grief, sorrow, and agony.  For those acutely suffering Death's dying sting, rejoicing is more gritty, more desperate than a pretty pastel Easter morning.  But this sort of rejoicing is just as beautiful as glad faces raised toward Heaven.

Listening to John's ipod as I ran last night - yes, my child is more technologically blessed than his mother -"He Reigns" by the Newsboys came on.  I like the entire song, but the last verse especially stood out last night:

And all the powers of darkness
Tremble at what they've just heard
'Cause all the powers of darkness
Can't drown out a single word

When all God's children sing out
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
All God's people singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns

All God's children sing out "Glory, glory.  Hallelujah.  He reigns."  Whether in jubilation or desperation, this song silences the powers of darkness.  It rises above the dying shriek of Death to give glory to Him who defeated Death once for all.  I guess the point I want to make today - besides expressing appreciation for the raw wonder of the cross - is that whether your heart is moved by the softer side of Easter or stinging from the agony of Death, whether you feel more attuned to Easter or to Good Friday, you have a part in the worldwide choir of God's children.  Don't wait till Sunday to sing.

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Grief is ugly. It's clumsy and messy and painful. But it is real and it is necessary, and I hope and pray that those enduring it this season will find the grace in the midst of it. 

The Grace of Living in Community

I don't remember what started it. Maybe it was staying up late last night. Maybe it was the excitement of the local festival. Maybe it was all the candy they'd downed at said festival.

Whatever it was, when my children climbed into the van, they did so with - How shall I say this? -  less grace than I would have liked.

And I, stellar mother that I am, oversaw said loading into van with less grace than I would have liked. Sliding the door shut with more force than necessary, I moved to the front of the van and sat on the hood, thinking that maybe they'd figure out that we weren't going anywhere till they settled down and began behaving like little human beings who have been carefully instructed on proper manners and conduct.

Go ahead. Laugh with me.

As I settled into my hood-top perch, someone behind me and a few cars away said, "I know that feeling." The father chuckled and continued unloading his van, and I laughed, too.

We all know that feeling. Sometimes a reminder that we aren't alone is enough to dispel that feeling.

We were out of the parking lot in moments, and our stop to fill up the van went off without a hitch, but the best was yet to come.

As we tumbled out of our van and into the grocery store parking lot, an elderly lady stopped and looked at my children most wistfully. She remarked on how beautiful they are and asked if they are all mine. She then told me very sweetly that I "have a job,"  and that I'm doing it very well. (If only she'd seen me sitting on the hood a few minutes before!) Maybe I'm a great mom, maybe I'm not, but her words reminded me to be a great mom - or a greater mom - right then and there. Her words - words of love and encouragement - lifted my spirits as I headed into the grocery store with four energetic children.

We were almost to the entrance of the store when the most bizarre, wonderful, tear-inducing thing occurred.

My son, so often prone to keep to himself as much as possible, asked my permission to go help an elderly lady load her groceries into her car. Permission granted, he approached her and pleasantly offered his help. She declined, but my heart soared seeing his desire do something so simple, yet so beautiful for someone in his community.

We live and grow and thrive in community. None of this - not the encouragement I received nor the connection my son made - could have happened in isolation. I had to take my children out into our community. I had to be honest enough to sit on the hood of a van of screaming kids. I had to be humble enough to let an elderly lady see the inside of my van, in all its candy wrapper-dirty socks-towels left after swim practice-glory. And my son had to see a frail woman with a cart of groceries standing at the back of a beat up station wagon. There is amazing grace in living within a community.

We never know when our words or actions may set another's course in an entirely different and vastly superior direction. So be nice. And moms, dads... If you're wondering what happened to all those lessons you've taught your children from the cradle, they're in there, they'll come to the surface when you least expect it, and it will be nigh unto impossible not to cry when they do the beautifully right thing on their own.

These seemingly insignificant events have left me humbled. At the close of a half hour that began with less grace than I would have liked, I found far more grace than I ever would have imagined.

On the Subject of Negativity

I jokingly subtitled my last post, The Post in Which I Ignore All Things Negative. It was a joke, mostly, because we all know people whose lives are so perfect you want to, I don't know... spill gourmet coffee all over their spotless counter and wipe it up with their brand-new, organic cotton washcloth. Or maybe, don't judge me, lick up said mess because who wants to waste coffee?

But seriously. I know those people, and I roll my eyes at them, too. Life isn't perfect. It's full of messiness - literal and metaphorical - and I'll never pretend it isn't.

But here's the thing: It felt really, really, really good to sit down and write about everything that's going right. Maybe it's a bit self-congratulatory, but maybe it's a lot refocusing. Maybe it's where you exchange doubt for confidence.

So, here's what I want you to do - because today, I'm going to be all hokey and ask you to do something. In the comments section, tell me what's going right in your life. Don't be shy, don't be meek. Look around and see the beautiful things happening in the midst of your mess and chaos. Rejoice in those things.

Other Things (or, The Post in Which I Ignore All Things Negative)

So, we're still here. 

In the midst of other things, I haven't completely forgotten about this blog. It's just that, well, other things take up so much time.

We've been back to school for a while now, with a sixth grader, a fourth grader, and a first grader, plus a four-year-old who loves to color pages and pages and pages and pages and... yes, even more pages. Our home is a sea of paper on the best of days. (On the worst of days, it's a sea of coffee and chocolate milk spills and dog vomit and laundry, but not all weeks are as filled with messiness as this one).

Despite the mess and chaos, we're learning. 

Our oldest is learning independence, responsibility, and diligence as he delves deeper into his studies. He's also joined me in some flash fiction writing exercises, and it's always a delight, though sometimes a little frightening (ahem, Sith backstories), to see what flows from his creative, eloquent mind. Our biggest obstacle is staying on task, as there are so many other things we'd rather learn than, say, grammar... (Scratch that. I love grammar. I mean, things he'd rather learn!) But even in that department, we are progressing. Slowly at times, yes, but Rome wasn't built in a day, though he might be able to tell you how it was built, complete with sketches of ancient architecture - a lesson I don't perfectly recall assigning.

Fourth grade has a different set of challenges and delights, the biggest of which are both found in the need of the child in question to have me nearby. We're spending more time in discussion, with closer supervision and deeper explanations, now that Andrew has moved to Middle School level materials and we have switched to a Math that requires more teacher instruction than our previous program. He, too, is learning so much. He's learning to take deep breaths, to see each task through to completion, to correct his errors. I hope he's also learning how very awesome he is, how he can do anything he sets his mind to do. Because he is and he can, and I am so proud of his growth over the past couple of years. I'm also thankful to him for teaching me the very lessons he's learning himself. We are, as I often tell him, in this together.

Then there's the girl, who in addition being (usually) eager to complete her lessons, has shown steadfast determination to keep up with all the older, more experienced kids on the swim team. Her Wise and Wonderful Aunt could probably tell you the origins of such plucky competitiveness. Even so, it amazes me to see her so at ease among her teammates, so eager to please her coaches, and so enthusiastic about each practice. 

Last but not least, our little Doodlebug is not so little. At four-and-a-half (How on earth did that happen?), he's sweet, funny, smart, creative, and all around incredible. He is also singlehandedly destroying the forests via his insatiable appetite for coloring, drawing, writing... (What does he do with all that paper?) 

So we're busy and we're messy and we're loud. We're navigating through laundry and paper and books and things we aren't sure where they came from or where they're supposed to go. There are weeks when I'm in such a fog I repeatedly run the Keurig without a cup, but when I write it all down, for myself as much as for anyone else, I realize that in the midst of all those other things, we are alive and we are well.

Of Pea Green Chairs and Everlasting Love

Few people would wander into a thrift store on a Wednesday afternoon, spy a pea green chair worthy of Archie Bunker, and think, "I have to have that!"

Then again, the husband and I aren't particularly in the habit of avoiding what "few people do."

When we were newly married, he dropped out of seminary to pursue another career. We sold most of our furniture and moved halfway across the country to settle ourselves sight unseen in a new city for the three years he would be in school. On our meager income, we furnished our tiny apartment with secondhand furniture. In the very beginning, we had...

a dining room table and chairs, $125

a dark green recliner, $40

a pea green recliner, $25.

Within a few years, the dark green recliner had fallen victim to the cat's claws, but the dining set and pea green recliner have traveled with us from house to house over the last twelve years. We sanded the table (with the exception of the leaf) to a beautiful light shade and gave it a coat or two of polyurethane. Then the children added the finishing touches using various shades of permanent markers and oil paints. It currently resides in our third child's bedroom, topped with jewelry, little girl books, and art supplies. Which leaves the pea green recliner...

Despite years of begging, my husband refuses to part with it. He denies my suggestion that it would look lovely in his office. He insists it remain an integral part of our living room decor. (In case you were wondering, our living room couches are blue, with not a spot of green to pull the chair into the decorative scheme). He's kind of, sort of in love with that monstrosity.

So when I saw a second pea green chair in a local thrift shop, I was as surprised with myself as you might be had you seen a pea green chair and thought, "I have to have that!"

But here's the thing: I've realized my husband and I might not grow old to sit on our porch in white rockers. We might just opt for pea green chairs. Not because there is anything inherently better about pea green chairs - They certainly aren't prettier than white rocking chairs! - but we have this pea green chair that's been with us almost since the beginning. It's a part of us - of our past, of our present, and it seems, of our future. Somewhere along the way, though I hate to admit it, I've come to cherish the old pea green beast enough to think we ought to have a friend.

That said, even I'm perplexed by this turn of events...

There's This Guy...

You see, there's this guy...

When we met, I immediately recognized him as "my sort of person."

We became friends.

"Just friends."

And then he said, "What do you think about us getting married?"

And I said, "This summer?"

And he said, "Yes."

And so, six weeks later, we each said "I do."

A couple years later, we had a baby.

And then we had another.

Just when we thought we were complete, we had another baby.

And then another.

I love this guy.

And I couldn't ask for a better daddy for my children.

Happy Father's Day.

A Father's Day Conversation

Last year was my first Father's Day after my father passed away. Later that week, a friend delicately asked how my Father's Day had been. An awkward pause ensued as I considered how best to answer her question.

You see, my first Father's Day without my dad was, to be entirely and brutally honest, a lot like every other day except that I realized that I didn't have anyone to call. I wondered how my mom was holding up - and how my Wise and Wonderful Sister was holding up our mother as they spent the day together, but I didn't experience the feelings expressed by friends on Facebook who posted poems and tributes to deceased fathers expressing an intense longing to hug them again or an eager anticipation of reuniting in Heaven.

The thing about my dad is that over the years, he read a lot, he talked a lot, he philosophized a lot, he quoted theologians and writers a lot. He didn't gush or pamper a lot. He lived ten hours away and for health reasons, rarely visited. We had great phone conversations every now and then, if my mom didn't get to the phone first.  Our conversations, however, were few and far between. So as shameful as it seems to admit, Father's Day ran pretty much like any other Sunday. My eyes remained dry, my greatest turmoil the realization that I didn't feel like a daughter ought to feel on her first fatherless Father's Day.

My sister has said that our dad raised us to grow up and do our thing. (Something like that, but more eloquent). The point was, he taught us to function as adults. More than that, he taught us to see beyond the visible; to cherish the invisible; in essence, to be the creatures of eternity of which C.S. Lewis speaks when he says, "Humans are amphibians - half spirit and half animal. As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time."

My father surrounded us with books and immersed us in Lewis and Tolkien and other writers of epic tales. He quoted Calvin, Wesley, and countless theologians as if he were intimate friends with them.  Somewhere along the way, he pulled his children into the Great Conversation and passed on to us a vision of the eternal, a vision that understands that Death is not the end, but simply the doorway through which we enter a deeper conversation. I'm especially thankful for that today.

I'm not sure how biblical the idea is, but it would not surprise me to learn that my father is sitting up in heaven engaged in contemplative discussion with a few of his theological mentors. I expect, in one way or another, he is carrying on the Great Conversation with other enlightened souls. 

My dad raised us on epic stories and visions of eternity. When I think of him introducing Aslan and contemplating Calvin... when I think that he carries on just as he always did, but better, wiser, and purer...  when I see him and myself and every single one of us as characters in an epic tale of redemption, then I feel most keenly the conflict between Time and Eternity, and well, that can be a matter worth tears.

Yet as I remember on this Father's Day both my father and others who have left us to struggle here in Time, I turn to a beautiful quote from one of my father's favorite authors, J.R.R. Tolkien:

"I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil."

What We're Reading

As we begin our summer break, here are some of our recent and current pleasure reads, with a few thoughts on each. I've starred the ones I wholeheartedly endorse. The rest... no guarantees.

Boy #3 (4 years): 

Diego Saves a Butterfly by Laura Bergen

The title is one big, huge, preschool spoiler. Diego... saves... a... butterfly. Our library carries several of these Diego Easy Readers, and the kid loves them all. The plot never wavers. Some animal needs to be rescued. Diego (and if you're lucky, Dora and/or Alicia) goes off in search of some poor critter, overcoming three obstacles with the help of Click the Camera and Rescue Pack. While I can't give a glowing review, because, well... Diego... the books are decent enough... and relatively short. I cringe a little when I see them in my child's hand, but the pain is fleeting, and I can pass it off as a small sacrifice for preschool biology.

*The Very Busy Spider by Eric Carle

As she weaves her web, a spider passes on several opportunities for fun with friends. At the end of her very busy day, she catches a fly and falls asleep. Eric Carle is a magnificently fun author and illustrator. His distinctive artwork may be the most recognizable of any children's book illustrator out there. His books are fun must-reads.

Dragons Love Tacos by Adam Rubin

An impulse borrow, the title promised a fun, quirky story. What we got instead... I honestly didn't understand this book. I have four children. We have gone to the library almost every week for the past decade. Ask the librarians: We read a LOT of books. Never in my life have I come across so incomprehensible a book. Dragons. Tacos. Salsa. Dragons at a taco party. None of it really made sense, and not in a good way.

*The Duckling Gets a Cookie by Mo Willems

The Pigeon, long disappointed by the denial of his requests, can't believe someone gave the Duckling a cookie just because the Duckling asked (politely). As is so often the case, Mo Willems reserves a surprise ending (which I will not give away and so allow you to think you don't need to go check out this book). Seriously, whether you go with The Duckling Gets a Cookie, We Are In A Book, Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, or Knufflebunny, if you have a child in your house, find a Mo Willems book ASAP. (Insider Tip: I recently read that Mo Willems keeps his illustrations simple so kids can easily draw his characters themselves. Go, Mo!)

The Girl - (almost) 6

*Ivy & Bean by Annie Barrows

A recently-discovered-by-us series, a sort of Ramona meets an elementary version of Lloyd Alexander's Eilonwy, Ivy and Bean are absolutely charming young ladies. The Girl and I alike are enjoying their mischief and adventures. The books are quick and easy, with chapters short enough to read at the end of a long day. Sometimes I read two or three chapters, just because I can.

American Girl Books

Eh. These are rather advanced for The Girl, but she insists. I think we'll both enjoy them more when the issues the characters deal with are more pertinent to her life and she is able to read them on her own.

Step-Into-Reading Barbie Readers

A series of flaky stories that often fail to make literary sense. The Girl loves them, though, and can read them on her own.

(MORAL OF THE STORY: FIND MORE IVY & BEAN)


Boy #2 (9 years)

Scooby Doo Reader

Far below his reading level, but he picked it out with no nudging from me, no "Pick a book, any book... FIND SOMETHING!!!!" This is the kid who has the most difficult time finding something he wants to read - though when he finds a book he likes, he devours the series like nobody's business - so when he picks up a book on his own... YAY! 

Warriors: The Dark River by Erin Hunter

The second book in (one of) the (numerous) Warriors series, we are working through this sometimes as an independent read, sometimes as a read-aloud. Since I've missed portions of the story, I'm not entirely sure what's going on. The names (lots of So-and-So-Paws and Such-and-Such-Kits) are cumbersome on the tongue and there are a TON of names. Honestly, I'm not sure all these cats needed to be named... On the bright side, the boy is enjoying the book, and since he's kind of picky about what he'll actually pick up and read, I won't complain about this book. Instead, I have explained to my child that, as hard as it is for me to read it to him, I will continue to do so because in our family,

WE DO HARD THINGS 

because 

WE ARE TOUGH LIKE THAT,

and 

SOMETIMES WE DO THINGS WE DON'T WANT TO DO 

because 

WE LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

Boy #1 (11 years)

Miscellaneous Star Wars Novels

He discovered the bottom shelf of a tall bookcase, on which sit a long line of Star Wars novels his father has had longer than he's had me. As I am sure I would be lost by the end of page one of any of these books, I trust that they won't harm my child any more than they have harmed my husband, and since I kind of, sort of, really like my husband... I let the kid read to his heart's content.

And then there's me...

Having come to the end of revisions to my novel - or at least this round of revisions - I'm compiling a mental list of books and authors I need or ought to read. I'm just not entirely sure where I'll start...

Flourishing Failure

Last spring, we began a worm bin, a fun little project in which dead leaves, table scraps, and a handful of worms transform an old trash can into a compost factory.

Like so many of our well-intentioned projects, however, the worm bin kind of, sort of, somehow... Let's be honest... failed.

(Since we're being honest, I'll tell you that it kind of, sort of, somehow failed because I kind of, sort of, somehow forgot to do more than periodically throw in a bowl full of fruit and vegetable scraps).

So when our "compost mentor" asked how our worms were doing and if we'd been watering the bin, I smiled and hung my figurative head in shame. Then I went home, poured some water over the dead leaves and scraps of rotting food, and stirred it up a little. 

And because the darkening sky threatened to let loose a deluge, I left the trash can lid open.

Several days later, because... Let's be honest... neglect is a hard habit to break, I revisited our little failure of a worm bin, and this is what I found:

I'm not gardener enough to tell you with any certainty what these plants are. I have my ideas, but I won't embarrass myself. The point is, things are growing, flourishing even, right in the middle of my failure of a worm bin.

And the other point, far more inspirational than random vegetables sprouting in my worm bin, is that failure isn't always failure. I have read several reports of parents feeling like failures lately. Whether failures as home educators or failures as classroom parents or just plain failures as parents, I think we have all, at one point or another, felt the defeat of failure.

But look at those pictures again. 

Trash and dirt and worms. 

A crummy, neglectful gardener.

And out of it all, Life, beautiful and good.

However ugly, dirty, and thoughtless your life is, it's not the end of the story.  The Creator of the universe, who causes the sun to shine and the rain to fall even on a neglected worm bin, can turn your failures into something beautiful and good.

The Upside of Everything

The winter holidays fill me with a certain amount of trepidation. So much to do, so many places to be... and all intentions of sending out Christmas cards drown in the sea of my internal angst.

The new year comes too quickly for me to send out a New Year's Newsletter.

And then, before I know, the Ides of March is a distant memory, and I have failed to send out the Happy Ides of March Update I thought I'd be able to manage.

But now I'm seeing all these End of the Year Celebrations and Reading Banquets and "Look at my Middle Schooler!" pictures on Facebook, and you know what...

I'm going to rejoice.

I'm going to set aside all our current and past struggles and just rejoice in the past year's successes. Regarding those struggles, they have existed and do exist, and if you want to know more, pour a cup of coffee for us both and get comfortable.... but not today.

Today, I rejoice in the following triumphs:

1. The hubby has taken up running and is logging ridiculous miles. As much as I may tease him for wearing tights or short shorts, depending on the weather, I am immensely proud of him and a little jealous of his tenacity, to say nothing of the pounds he has shed.

2. The eldest is a whopping eleven years of age now. He continues to devour books at a rate too rapid to document, is gaining independence, and is in general, a super-cool preteen. 

3. The nine-year-old has acquired a taste for Percy Jackson and Warriors, and likes most to hear these stories in the comfort of a snuggle, which suits his mother marvelously. His creativity continues to amaze me, as does the progress he has made in communicating and controlling his feelings over the past year.

4. The girl, soon to be six, is beginning to navigate the strange intricacies of socializing with elementary-aged girls. While sometimes appalled at her overly expressive face, I find her ways generally delightful and her tenderness toward the young heart-wrenchingly beautiful. And since I've shared her older brothers' reading feats, she has joined the world of readers and is fitting in just fine.

5. Our little Doodlebug... loves Star Wars, stuffed animals, AWANA, and Mo Willems (whom you all should go read right now, by the way). He has just graduated to the booster seat WITHOUT the back, at least in Daddy's car, a fact that somewhat appalls me. My baby is... not so much a baby anymore. He is, however, a darling, funny, adorable big boy.

6. And then there is yours truly, who finished a novel and is pecking away at revisions in the hope of catching a literary agent and hopefully a book deal in the coming year. At times, I struggle to balance the wonderfully demanding roles of wife, mother, teacher, and author, but each role is satisfying in its own way, and I am immensely thankful for the liberty to hold and cherish each role with which God has blessed me.

The year ahead holds  many changes for our family, some predictable, but others, if the past is any indication of the future, will take us entirely by surprise. 

But always, always, always, whatever may come, 

I rejoice.

The Mommy Wars: Tactical Maneuvers

Maybe it's because I'm a mom, or because most of my friends are moms, or because I have a daughter whose biggest dream, when she isn't mesmerized by thoughts of being a dentist or a dolphin trainer, is to be a mom, but when I hear about The Mommy Wars, I want to fight the injustice of a culture that pits women against each other and against themselves.

On Wednesday, a friend sent me an article combating that Time Magazine "Are You Mom Enough?" cover with the notion that none of us is "mom enough," but God is "God enough." Today, Facebook offered the following tidbit: Behind every great kid is a mom who's pretty sure she's screwing it up. The messages are good, but they identify a disturbing reality.

The Mommy Wars never really go away, do they?

It occurs to me that they don't go away because we mommies don't let them go away. We're holding on to the very insecurities that make The Mommy Wars so very successful. However many inspirational quotes we post to our Facebook pages, however staunchly we defend our parenting choices, however great our kids are turning out, however fulfilled our personal and professional lives are, the questions remains. Am I mom enough? Am I screwing it all up?

I'll be honest. I ask those questions myself, and I don't know how to make them go away. I think we need to fight back, though, and we're going to have to do it together.

Don't worry. I'm not going to ask you to compromise your beliefs about childbirth or infant feeding. I'm not going to ask you to stay at home with your kids or anything like that. At this point in the battle, I frankly don't care what you do. So keep doing whatever it is that you do.

But do these things, too - 

Notice a mother and praise her children. When you see a mother out in public with her kids, smile at her. Tell her her children are beautiful. She might need your gentle reminder of the truth she knows way deep down in her weary heart, even as her little hellions-apparent are darting in and out of the clothing racks at Target. I don't care if her kids are the ugliest, rowdiest, nastiest creatures you've ever seen. Really, I don't. Lie if you have to, and console yourself in the knowledge that your opinion aside, God has made all things beautiful - even snotty, unruly children. She might be, in fact, a crappy mom. But she might just as well be a great mom having a hard time keeping it all together while her children work off the effects of insufficient sleep, inadequate exercise, or excessive sugar. Your casual praise may change drastically her accounting of her maternal abilities, and thus the trajectory of her day. So praise her, praise her children... even if it feels like a stretch. You can afford to be nice. 

Tell your daughter she's going to be a great mommy. I know not every little girl is going to grow up to be a mommy, so I'm not suggesting you overdo the mommy thing to the extent that your sweet little girl grows up to think being a mommy is the ONLY thing in the world. Introduce, explore, and encourage a world of possibilities. But let her know that she has what it takes to be an awesome mom. She'll have enough doubts of her own, especially if these Mommy Wars continue. Make sure she knows there's at least one person - one person who knows full well what being a mommy takes - who has complete faith in her ability to care for a tiny human being. Show her how to do it, and praise her when you see her mimicking you with her baby dolls, her little brother, a child at the playground. Give her the courage not only to pursue with confidence her dreams of dentistry or dolphins, but her dream of being a mommy.

That's all I have for now, and I hope it didn't sound too combative or... or... or... whatever. It's just that it makes me a little mad to think that my generation of mothers might be remembered as one of constant comparison and self-doubt. I want better for us. More than that, I want better for our daughters. I want them to march into motherhood with complete confidence in their God-given skills, abilities, talents, and gifts. I want them to know without question, without nagging doubt, that whatever lifestyles they choose for themselves and their families, they are indeed Mom Enough.

One Word

The question was asked,

"In one word, what does the cross mean to the world today?"

I said nothing, in part because I was still suppressing laughter over irreverent fried chicken jokes, but more importantly, because I value words. If someone asks me to answer a question, especially one as significant as the one above, in just one word, that one word had better convey everything I need it to communicate. I won't be shouting out the first thing that comes to mind because I know it won't be sufficient. I'll keep my mouth shut, probably look like I'm apathetic or a million miles away or just plain rude.

But I don't ignore the challenge. Now that I've had a few hours to mull it over, I think I have my word.

Redemption.

Not love or sacrifice or peace or reconciliation or even salvation, though those are all a part of it.

Surely Christ loved us. Surely he sacrificed himself for us. Surely we have peace with God through Jesus Christ. But somehow these words don't go far enough for me, don't encompass the essence of the cross.

Redemption: the act or process of buying back. Repurchase.

Because from Eden till Calvary, from Calvary till now, and from now till Christ's return, God has been about the business of redemption, of purchasing back from Death all that was lost in the Fall. He has not just saved us, like one might save a man from drowning by throwing him a rope without cost to oneself. No, there was an exchange of currency in our salvation. God redeemed us, purchased us from Death with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect. It was not free, not for Him.

Some might like the word reconciliation. We have, after all, been reconciled to God through Jesus Christ. I almost liked the word myself. And I do like it - in that it expresses our current state of relationship to God - but it fails to communicate the means by which our peace was attained. Reconciliation, as a word, conveys little more than a shaking of hands and a shrugging off of past differences. The cross was much more than man making nice with God or God making nice with man. It was God paying the high price of his only Son to free us from the darkness of Death and bring us - as a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God - into His Kingdom of Life.

So I'm back at redemption.

For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver and gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect. He was chosen before the creation of the world, but was revealed in these last times for your sake. (I Peter 1:18-20, italics added)

And in the words of the four living creatures and twenty-four elders in John's vision:

You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation. You have made them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God, and they will reign on the earth. (Revelation 5:8-10, italics added)

Redemption.

That's what the cross means for our world today - as much as it did for the world 2,000 years ago and as much as it will for all the years to come.

Yoga Pants Day vs. Valentines Day

Yoga Pants Day or Valentines Day? 

You know which one wins around here, and I'm going to tell you why. I'll keep it simple, because my yoga pants and I have a lot to do today.

Why Yoga Pants Trump Valentines

1. Unlike roses, yoga pants don't wilt in a week. Yoga pants will make you smile for years.
2. Unlike chocolate, yoga pants don't make you fat. On the contrary, they make you feel svelte, athletic, like you might have actually done something to combat the chocolate you just ate.
3. Unlike a huge stuffed bear holding a heart, no one will bat an eye if sleep with your yoga pants. They're almost pajamas anyway.
4. Unlike jewelry, yoga pants offer excessive comfort. They're a lot cheaper, too.
5. Yoga pants, as hinted above, will wrap you in a layer of comfort all day long.
6. Yoga pants never say the wrong thing.
7. Yoga pants ask for nothing in return.
8. Unlike Valentines Day, which comes once a year, you can celebrate Yoga Pants Day as often as you wish.
9. Yoga pants are yoga pants. Your loved one doesn't have to worry, as he does on Valentines Day, that his gift for you isn't as nice as the bouquets, baskets, and bounties your friends have posted on Facebook.
10. If worn correctly, yoga pants contribute to marital bliss. Rather than building up expectation, only to disappoint, wearing yoga pants puts a woman in a state of blissful content. When her husband arrives home, she blesses him, whether he bears flowers or a scowl, with a joyous greeting rather than a critical eye.

As sure as my yoga pants are on my body, there are more reasons Yoga Pants Day surpasses Valentines Day, but as I said, my yoga pants and I have a full day ahead of us... Please, voice your support for yoga pants in the comments section!

The Official Pitch

In my last post, Pitch Perfect, I promised a little back cover blurb of the novel I'm trying to publish. This goes in the letter I send to literary agents, requesting representation. The idea, of course, is to so enthrall them that they must have more. As always, your comments are welcome!

Without further delay, I give you... THE OFFICIAL PITCH... with one character's name held back, out of little more than my desire to keep something secret. I hope you will indulge me in this.

The first lesson we teach our babes is, "Never approach a stranger without a ready weapon."

When Grit of Berth and Stone, a young woman on the brink of warriorhood, stepped off the well-worn path to aid a struggling woman, she broke the first rule of Threshan society. Cast out of her village, Grit vows never again to show weakness. Everything changes when she meets K, who dares her to accompany him to the Southern Realm.

"When you get around to deciding whether to accept or decline my offer," he says, "it all comes down to one question: Have you the courage to believe that I will help you and not harm you?"

In the courts of K's castle, Grit encounters a courage deeper than she had ever imagined existed, a courage she must claim for herself when K sends her back to the village she swore to forget. There, Grit must correct the errors of her past and prepare to face an ancient evil set on plunging every corner of Chasmaria into utter chaos.

The First Draft 

Pitch Perfect

As many of you know, I'm in the process of finding an agent for my YA Fantasy novel, a.k.a. "That Thing Lisa Won't Shut Up About."

 (Because I love you so much, I'm not even going to yell at you for ending a sentence with a preposition!)

Anyhow, this part of the process involves a lot of "pitching." Sometimes I get a letter and a few sample chapters in which to impress a literary agent, sometimes less. Whatever I get, I labor to make it as close to perfect as possible before sending to said agent. Then I sit back and wonder what I could have or should have done better.

With a Twitter Pitch Party on January 25, and Writer’s Digest’s Dear Lucky Agent Contest both fast approaching (and both of which may be worth looking into if you happen to have a manuscript ready to go), it’s time for me to put my 71,000 or so word novel into 140 characters. For the math nerds out there, if I’ve calculated correctly, that amounts to reducing my novel to four ten-thousandths its original length. I’m going to need some help here.

Please tell me which of the following lines would make you most likely to want to read more. Any constructive criticism – “combine this,” “that sounds dumb,” “what about…” –  is welcome! 

1. Cast out of her village, an aspiring warrior joins a stranger’s army, little knowing how much is at stake or how great her role will be.
2. By stranger betrayed and village shunned, young Grit, once a promising warrior, fights to trust the only one who can bring peace to her land.
3. In a stranger’s castle, a disillusioned warrior finds courage, hope, and a reason to fight for the village she swore to forget.
4. After building a new life in a stranger’s palace, a young warrior learns she must return home to fight for the village that scorned her.
5. Betrayed, shunned, and finally welcomed into a stranger’s palace, young warrior Grit finds courage, honor, and a reason to fight for the village she swore to forget.

Watch for a short “back cover blurb” to be posted later this week, giving more information about this project. For now, since this is all I get to tweet, it’s all you get to read. Please, please, please let me know if you find any of them particularly intriguing! I suppose you should let me know if they all stink, too, though I'm not nearly as eager for that sort of feedback.

Thanks, and best of luck to you if you decide to give either contest a go!

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Courage in the Kitchen

"I can't." 

I heard the frustration in his voice, this child who threatened to crash under the weight of the last section of a worksheet. Then a small miracle occurred, right there in my kitchen. Without a word from me, even before I'd had a moment to compose an encouraging mini pep-talk on how he really, truly can figure out the answer to the question or a matter-of-fact lecture about how we must do some things we don't want to do, which I felt was the real heart of the issue... before any of this could happen, he continued in a voice completely free of emotional strain.

"I can, but I don't want to."

And then, wonder of wonders, he proceeded to complete his assignment.

I call it a small miracle because that's exactly what it was. In the midst of his distress, he found peace, courage, and resolution. I scrapped all thought of cheering or scolding, and told him simply that I admired his courage, that finishing a worksheet might not seem like a courageous thing to do, that little acts of courage like this prepare him for big acts of courage later.

Others have said it before, and much better than I have, but it bears restating. Little acts of courage aren't little. They're huge. They train us for those moments when things of far greater import than a worksheet threaten to overwhelm us. We must practice courage in the little things if we are to have any courage at all in the big things, and we must teach our children to do the same.

Speaking of teaching our children and things that require courage, it's about time we did our math lesson...

When Stubbornness Becomes Determination

I don't have time for eloquence this afternoon, but you have to love a nine-year-old boy.

As he worked diligently to get the southern border of Nepal just right, I assured my son that it would be okay if the salt map wasn't perfect. The judges and spectators at the geography fair would be impressed enough that he had taken the time to make such a neat map.

Without looking up, his attention fixed on the southeastern tip of Nepal, he muttered, "I'm not doing this just to do it."

A moment later, as he added a dollop of salt dough to his map, he said, "I want to win."

If I play my cards right, I'll have a Nepal expert by sundown.