Exploits of Mommyhood

The Journey

2012-02-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

Life is not a competition.

If it were however, I could measure myself by my weight, pace per mile when running, number of kids that I have, choice of education for my children, our household income, the size of our home, and how many tropical vacations we've been on in the past 5 years. I could judge my success by how well behaved my children are when we're out in public, by how "healthy" or "gourmet" I can cook, and by whether I have the latest style handbag hanging on my shoulder.

On a more serious note, if life were a competition, I'd pay close attention to how many times I've cried this month, how many times I've yelled at my kids and whether I'd volunteered enough of my time for selfless endeavors. I'd wonder if I had put enough effort into my relationships with my children, my husband and with God.

The problem is, when you're in a competition (and I'm not... at least that's what I'm telling myself daily), you have to COMPARE yourself to other.. well, competitors. Then all this nasty sort of self-talk wells up inside; things like: "She's definitely fatter than me, look at those chunky thighs..." or "That woman must have had a tummy-tuck.. there's no way she's had a couple of kids and been able to bounce back to that shape!" or "I would never homeschool my kids with that curriculum!" or "Man, their house is way newer and nicer than ours..."

Then, on an even deeper level, you might begin to compare your successes in your personal and emotional life; particularly your ability or inability to maintain sanity in the midst of work, kids, marriage, etc.

And when we compare ourselves among ourselves... we either deceive ourselves and can fall in to pride, or we simply fall short.

For we dare not class ourselves or compare ourselves with those who commend themselves. But they, measuring themselves by themselves, and comparing themselves among themselves, are not wise. ~ 1 Corinthians 10:12

Oh how true it is... The only measuring stick I ought to use is that of my conscience; as I stand before the Father God. Yet even in that instance, I must be grounded in the truth and light and in the hope of His grace.

A thought came to me the other day: Don't compare the journey if you're riding a different train...

(photo from: http://thebigrocks.com)

The fact is, life is a journey, not a competition. And we are all traveling on different paths, using different methods of transportation. You might be in a sports car, an SUV, on an airplane or in a helicopter. For now, I'm stuck in a fully occupied, 8-seater minivan with crumb filled car seats, candy wrappers on the floor, and a stroller in the back. I have to slow down quite a bit for my passengers... pit-stops, potty breaks and sometimes to stretch our legs and get our wiggles out. It would be ridiculous for me to compare myself to anyone else, especially when we likely have entirely different destinations.

Grocery Store Grief

2012-02-08T17:15:00.000-07:00

I felt at least half a dozen pairs of eyes on me as I struggled to make it through the self-checkout today at the store. Two little boys proved to be just too much on this mid-afternoon, should be nap-time and there's-no-more-cookies-to-bribe-with shopping trip. With exasperation, I roughly and sternly shoved my two-year-old back into his seat in the cart for the fourth time since I started to check out my groceries. One more can scanned, then I whipped myself around and grabbed my toddler's sweater to keep him from tumbling out of the cart.

Caught in the moment; just trying to purchase some food, I barely noticed the smiling clerk as she took a moment to talk with my busy three year old and answer his question: "Excuse me... are clocks expensive?"

"Ummm. Yes." she replied seriously, and then listened patiently as he explained all the things he wanted to do and to receive on his upcoming birthday. That was nice of her.

But I was trapped in my own little cycle - raging war against the most determined, stubborn, grumpy, acrobatic two-year-old that I've ever given birth to... my challenging last-born child who keeps me on my toes as I protect him from himself. (Like all the times he finds knives on the countertop and plays with them... or found a wineglass, broke it, and then cut himself trying to fill it with water... all by climbing up on the counter.)

I felt like racing out of the store, strapping both kids in the van and just screaming for a moment or two - and then maybe I would pick up a self-medicating Caramel Latte at Starbucks, but I needed these groceries! Not only that, but I couldn't slow down - there were people behind me and it was taking so long; this tango - back and forth of scanning an item, then turning and dealing with my toddler - and I was going to be late to pick up my older kids!

Eventually... finally, I swiped my credit card on the pay pass scanner, pushed my toddler back onto his bottom in the proper seat, called to my wandering three-year-old and we raced out of the store to load the groceries and hopefully not be more than a few minutes late to pick up the other children.

Sigh... it seems that in this season of life, so many of my days are like this. I read the magazines and books and listen to other mothers speak on encouraging programs such as Focus On The Family, and they tell me: "Simplify! Slow down! Take time for yourself!" but all the advice in the world can't seem to give me the steam I need to accomplish the necessary and I am caught in this hurried whirlwind of life, watching the pages of the calendar flip before my eyes in fast-forward.

In the end, after the groceries were mostly unpacked and the perishables were put away and the banana peels littered the dining room table and the little kids were put into their beds so Mommy could have a quiet-time, I realized that I forgot something. Maybe I could have asked for help? No... I don't mean I should have turned around to the customer behind me and asked them to watch my kids for a minute while I scanned my groceries, although it may have worked, considering there were a lot of seniors shopping that afternoon and they always seem intent on chatting with my kids (even when I'm in a hurry). But that's not what I'm talking about... something - or maybe Someone - was trying to remind me that a simple heartfelt prayer, such as "HELP!" and turning my focus heavenward to a God who cares about even the little things, could make a difference in my day.

It's easy to feel alone in your struggles when you are the one with the unending list that won't change until your kids grow up and leave home. Even after that milestone, I imagine, there are hurries, worries and stresses that can plague you and leave you emotionally harried. I guess what we (what I) need to remember is that you don't have to do it all on your own. God's love is like a reassuring hand on the shoulder, a gentle reminder that His faithfulness will not fail and that his mercy is freshly available like each new day when the sun slips up and over the horizon. Life may not change significantly when a prayer is offered up in desperation - it doesn't mean that the laundry will be magically folded, dinner will be on the table and an angelic being will come down and scrub your toilets for you. However, I believe that with the asking, and with the acknowledgement of a need for God's presence, there will be a provision of strength for the day. Like manna from heaven, God's provision is usually just enough, just on-time and leaves you still needing Him when you wake up the next morning.

Naptime is about to be over. Dinner is yet to be made. The house is a mess. Okay, I can easily acknowledge that I'm not on top of my game. So... here goes...

God...please help me.

Miniature Successes

2012-02-07T16:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you have to be content with the miniature, everyday successes in life.

I did a load of laundry.
I gave my youngest two kids a bath and they had a fun time playing together, in the tub.
I whipped up a batch of dough for Naan bread.
I didn't stay in my p.j.s all day, despite feeling tired, cranky and under the weather.
I didn't eat too much chocolate. Wait... hold on, is there such a thing as too much chocolate?
As much as I'd like to conquer the world, write a book, be a genius teacher to my kids as I homeschool, and exhibit myself as a domestic goddess day after day... it just doesn't happen.
At least, in the end, I can be content in one thing:
I am accepted in the Beloved.

"to the praise of the glory of His grace, by which He made us accepted in the Beloved." Ephesians 1:6

When Homeschooling Sucks (and your curriculum isn't working)

2012-01-19T13:40:00.000-07:00

I have some confessions to make as a homeschooling mother. Lately, homeschooling sucks! Day after day, I either slog through the material like I'm swimming through molasses in January, and the children respond in kind, acting like a bratty three-year-old at the dentist with a toothache - or, we get next-to-nothing done that could be classified as schoolwork. Meanwhile I am stuck appeasing my 2 and 3 year old with Sesame Street episodes to reduce the number of times they interrupt my grumpy, frustrated, caffeine-powered "teaching/yelling at them to cut-it-out" lessons.

Certainly, I should be cut some slack. I have SIX kids, 12 and under! And they seem to take after their father quite a bit... loud, sometimes obnoxious, energetic, always talking... oh, ya, and the good stuff too: highly intelligent and creative. That being said, I used to picture my "Home-School" as a serene, loving, and somewhat quiet environment. It would be much like that pretty picture on the cover of "Five In A Row", the popular preschool and elementary curriculum utilized by loving homeschool parents much like myself. Children would take turns to make insightful comments or ask inquisitive questions. They would snuggle up next to each other and we would spend half our day sipping tea and reading together and the other half exploring nature and visiting culturally stimulating venues.

Not so in my household. It started with my early years, battling what some might call a "strong willed child"... make that several "strong willed children" and then my eldest struggled to learn to read. So I felt at a loss from the very start, wondering if I was making the right choices and if I really was both patient enough and properly equipped to teach my own children!

Then there were the life-changing interupptions. As in: moving overseas in my daughter's first year of school, then having another baby (making the total at that point 4 kids). Then we bought ourselves a fixer-upper and moved mid-school year. Then another baby...another fixer-upper and another baby... and then we had family move in with us for a year and a half, and we were still fixing up the house... And that brings us to this, my 7th year of homschooling which has already seen 2 major interupptions including a family trip to Arizona for nearly 3 weeks and my husband and I leaving the kids for 10 days to go on a mission trip to India. Oh, and don't forget Christmas.

See? My life has been overflowing with disruptions and interruptions, corrupting my ability to be a decent homeschool parent.

Now that life has settled down... Christmas is over and no-one is living with us and there are no huge trips in the near future... I still find myself floundering. I lack the daily inspiration and creativity to make homeschooling a positive experience for both myself and my children. And let me say that it is not for lack of a good quality curriculum. On the contrary, I have what I would consider one of the best curriculums around. It is literature-rich with a Christian world view and is filled with gobs of inspiration history. I would have LOVED to have been taught with this very curriculum that I am now imposing upon my children! However, it seems that the curriculum I carefully chose is no longer serving me and my children, but I have become a slave to the schedules and book lists and the high standards outlined.

When the vibrant materials I possess fail to come alive under my tutelage, then it is quite obvious that I need to change my program and structure. The glory of homeschooling, at least in my opinion, is a parent's ability to connect with the individual needs and particular interests of each child. You don't have to sit in a desk all day, memorizing pointless facts and figures, but you can go out into the world and experience history and culture! Homeschooling allows you to speed your way through the drudgery of the "required material" and spend your time leading your children in what really piques their interest or allowing them to pursue the areas in which they are gifted. For one of my children, that area is science and for another it is everything related to homemaking: baking, sewing, childcare, etc.

Somewhere along the way, homeschooling ceased to be fun. I want to have fun with my kids again, and not have to "manage" or push away my younger children because they are infringing upon the older children's learning time.

So what am I to do about my current situation? I am fairly certain that my best option at this point in time is to change my methods altogether. To lay down the curriculum which I've invested a good chunk of my homeschooling budget upon and laboriously chosen based on it's core values and functionality, is a difficult decision. However, as they say, "desperate times call for desperate measures". I cannot value my curriculum choice above my children's current levels of learning (and my aptitude to teach them!).

The best answer I have is as follows: to create learning experiences that are active and can involve all of my children (to varying degrees of participation). For example, a while back we were learning a little about the human body. Each child had their bodies traced, and day by day we would add in organs and bones and muscles that they had colored from photocopied tracings. Even the youngest kids had fun with the cutting and pasting, and it didn't matter that they didn't color it "correctly" or even place the organ in the perfect position on their body. What mattered most was that my 4 year old would exclaim proudly to friends and strangers alike: "I have a spleen!"

I'm going to return to my roots of doing fun projects with my kids instead of just directing supposedly amazing literature at them and hoping something sticks amid the potty training, interruptions from other kids and my own distraction as I try to instruct and clean and cook and care for 6 kids all at the same time. It's not that I expect this shift will be a lot easier, per say, but I know that I can restore some of the joy to our family learning time. There may be a lot more messes as we discover and explore together, but the shreds of cardboard and paint on the floor will be worth it when I see the look of amazement on my children's faces as we play "Kings and Queens" in our home-made castle. Most of all, my youngest kids won't be shuffled to the side. I won't have to treat them like they are "in the way" because they stop us from getting through the day's grammar list or "essential" historical timelines, facts and figures for the day.

I'm going out on a limb here... I've confessed my failings. I haven't been able to keep up with the schedules and routines that would be fairly normal in a regular school system. Yet I love my kids, I love having them home with me and I want to rediscover the joy of learning together. Hopefully I'll have a good report to blog about in the near future...

Movement for 2012

2012-01-17T21:41:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been in a public washroom stall, and an invisible hand flushed your toilet before you were... umm...err... done? Yeow! Can there be any more annoying and startling experience than this? Just when you're in the middle of *something*, "FLUSSSHHH!" and you're prompted to remove yourself from the bathroom stall entirely. You gotta love those modern motion-sensor-activated flushing toilets.

Sometimes life is like that. You are wallowing in your situation, taking your precious time as you deal with your crap (pardon my language, but it clearly demonstrates my point). Suddenly, the rug is pulled from under you and you are forced to move on! I think sometimes God is prompting us to move away from our little piles of hurts and sorrows. He nudges us away, or sometimes even finds a way to give us a swift kick that is lovingly meant to prod us to better living.

It would be something if the Bible said: "Even though I wallow through the valley of the shadow of death, You are with me" but it doesn't. It clearly indicates movement... walking through the dark places, with God at your right hand (and sometimes even carrying you through it all!).

I am feeling an unction, if you will, to encourage my readers (and remind myself) of God's desire for forward movement. I understand grief. There are times (and have been times in my own life) where the sadness weighed so heavily on me that I could barely get dressed and feed myself. But even grief is a process, something to move on through. I'm not specifically pointing my finger at these sorts of trials, rather I want to shine a spotlight on the lingering doubts, issues of self-pity and other on-going baggage that weigh you down in what should be a progressive, forward-moving life.

There comes a time when enough is enough. A time where you need to call it what it is - or as my friend and fellow minister likes to say "Put on your big-girl panties!" (If you are male and reading this... well, put on your big-boy pants!)

Let's make 2012 a year where we don't cling to our former habits, destructive thought patterns and debilitating ways of thinking. I think many of us can identify the sludge in our lives which cause us to settle in one place, and sink down in the muck and trials of this life.

I know it's all fine and dandy for me to simply say: "Stop it!" but it's another thing altogether to actually accomplish what I've been talking about. This month at my church, I am participating in what we call "Spiritual Growth Month", which for me has meant getting up early every weekday morning and spending time in prayer and quiet meditation. I found that the first couple of days, I felt quite frustrated, and brought my list of all my atrocious behaviors that I can't change before God in prayer. And the more I thought about the things that I don't do and should do or the things that I do and wish I wouldn't, the more depressed I felt.

As I humbled myself before God and made a commitment to wait on Him, He answered me.

"I waited patiently for the LORD; And He inclined to me and heard my cry." (Psalm 40:1)

What I felt fairly strongly, was not that He was asking me to shape up to my detailed list of all the things that I should be and do, or that I should hurry up and ignore the pains and sorrows in my life, but that He wanted me to have a focus on spending time with Him. All my problems will be resolved in the presence of the Lord, as I bask in His glory and experience His love. You see, it is never about all that we can do for Him, but rather about what He wants to do in us and through us. The more I know Him, the more I will be able to act like Him. But I can't set up for myself a set of rules and regulations... I need to really know Him and spend time with Him.

Well, now I've really gone off topic, but I believe this all ties in to the idea of letting go of the junk in our lives. The best place to bring your worries and problems and pain is to the feet of Jesus. WALK with Him through the valley, and move forward into what He's promised. Life... abundant and full of His grace.

Caught in the Current

2012-01-17T15:55:00.001-07:00

When I was 11 or 12, I took a dare to swim across the river in my city. It was summertime, so the water-level wasn't overly high, but there would still be a relatively strong current and a good patch in the middle where my feet wouldn't be able to touch the ground.

The river had carved out a valley, a quite solitude in the midst of a busy metropolis. The hills were dried and yellow from the blazing summer skies, but down in the val, ley, it was cooler and the soil was rich and the trees were well watered and flourishing. I squinted up at the sky, at wisps of cotton candy clouds and the sort of blue that makes you feel both serene and imaginative all at the same time. My cut-off jean shorts were already wet, strings of frayed white threads dripping cool water down my tanned legs.

With a hearty splash, my brother forged ahead of me: dutifully proving his bravery and leadership in our outdoor pursuits. I watched as he waded deeper and deeper into the water, the force of the river causing him to lean and then yelp as he was overcome by the current, now fully committed to swimming to the other side with a strong front crawl.

After being pulled downstream somewhat, the water became more shallow, and he found his footing on the slippery river rocks. He tumbled, sopping wet, out of the water on the opposite bank of the river and beckoned to me to hurry and join him.

My upbringing never led me to be sheltered or shy or overly cautious. I only hesitated for a moment before moving deeper into the water. I looked down at the clean, rushing water and the muted green, gray, tan and pink rocks beneath me. My feet felt icy cold but the water was refreshing on this hot summer day as the sun shone bright on my bare arms and dark hair. I slipped on a slimy rock for a moment, the current getting stronger and throwing me off balance and I stubbed my toe. "Ouch!" I whimpered to myself, but with a steel jaw I gritted my teeth, intent on moving forward and passing this test of summer bravery.

As the water moved up my legs, past my calves, licking at my knees and then immersing my thighs, I felt a chilly thrill of excitement. It was to the point where I had to lean into the current, ever so mindful of my steps, so I wouldn't slip and plunge fully into the water. Finally, it was too much... I had to fully commit myself to the adventure, and I dove into the water with my whole body and began to swim.

It seemed easy, at first. I had taken swimming lessons throughout my childhood and was a strong swimmer. By my little muscles were no match for the ferocious current. With my head bobbing on the surface and my feet barely grazing the rocks below me, I felt myself being carried downstream.

It is the loss of control that terrifies. There comes many a moment in life where everything seems to rush in and surround you, and you are simply treading water; a clear sky above you, taunting you, while frightening cold water immerses you from the neck down. The world began to pass before my eyes as I watched the shoreline with my brother standing and waiting move out of my sight and I was caught in the current, heading downstream.

I fought with everything inside of me and settled my sights on some trees on the seemingly distant shore. My arms moved frantically, my legs fluttered and I gulped deep breaths of air as I struggled to keep my chin out of the water. Desperation and panic prompted my legs and arms to continue their fight against the power of the water.

Then my feet met the bottom and I stumbled my way to more shallow water. My heart pounded with the adrenaline and I felt instant relief at the solid ground beneath me. With each wobbly step forward, the sun kissed my goosebumped skin, the river water making little rivulets of water from my long hair down my back.

Sometimes life's responsibilities bring me back to my river experience; that place of panicked uncertainty where you must keep your eyes on the distant horizon and plunge forward with all your might. One thing I remember about that summer day, was a quiet moment when I was struggling in the middle of the river. I tilted my head up towards the sky, my body nearly fully immersed with even my ears underwater and filled with the river's roar. In that moment, the light of the sun beamed upon my nose, my forehead and my cheeks and even though the river was carrying me downstream, the glorious radiance of the sun upon my face was restorative and strengthening.

Life's messes scream at us, demanding our attention. Sometimes you just need to tilt your head up and behold the power of the light.

New Year's Pressure

2012-01-01T16:10:00.000-07:00

My trusty alarm clock awakened me early on this fine New Year's day. And by trusty alarm clock, I mean my barely 2 year old baby, who is STILL teething and doesn't always sleep through the night. Not only that, but he also STILL sleeps in our room and his wail is piercing, able to summon the dead, calling for attention and immediate response from all who dwell in a 2 mile radius.

In the foggy fuzziness of after-sleep which lingered upon my brain, words of a foreign origin swirled repetitively in my head: "Gung Hay Fat Choy" which is the traditional saying for Chinese New Year and reminded me that today was January 1st. I don't know why my brain chose to remind me of this auspicious day with another language, but it was enough to get me going. With the new year in mind, I decided to leave my warm burrow under the soft, comforting quilt and tackle this day with vigor and optimism.

As I padded my bare feet across the cool, smooth laminate floor into the kitchen, I began to consider what noble actions I could embark upon in resolution for a better life this year. The scent of rich, dark coffee grounds sparked my imagination and the first thing that came to my mind was the question of how I could resolve to better manage my laundry crisis, as a mother of six. "What if," I pondered, "I washed a load of laundry every day, and promptly folded each load once it had completed the drying cycle...???"

For but a moment, my imagination settled upon the luxury of continual clean and folded clothing, but I quickly came to my senses and realized that the practicality of this idea was completely bogus. What sort of New Year's resolution was "organized and regular laundry maintenance"? Certainly not the top of my list of priorities when I could come up with a dozen other pressing issues in my life.

I sipped the delicious, steaming, rich coffee and considered my options. I could enter this logically, and give myself a list of goals to accomplish, things that I would either feel good about completing before the year-end or things that would lag on me and pronounce guilt if not completed. It occurred to me that instead of plans and goals, what I really need is focus. I seek a new attitude; an all-encompassing presence of mind - a new perspective and a new way of seeing and "doing" life.

The problem lies in the change, however. How do I suddenly make myself better: more patient or gracious or joyful? I could give myself a visual reminder, like a string around my finger. Yet I know I'd find myself deep in the chasm, tossed by the waves and drowning, in the midst of the hurricane with disaster all around before I'd notice that subtle suggestion. Then I would breathe heavy the guilt and drink the sorrows of my mistakes.

I dare not go into a new year with a list of expectations, plans and goals. Instead, I plan to set before my eyes and ingrain within my heart the attributes and character which I feel God desires of me. So my challenge; my proposal is this: What can you focus on for the coming year? What do you need to turn your heart towards? Is it patience? Is it grace, compassion or kindness? Instead of the pressures and restrictions of a specific plan, what about a new focus and purposeful change of perspective?

In the story of Peter Pan, Wendy learned that Peter could fly due to his lighthearted attitude. Perspective is everything. It can leave you in despair, or lift you above the gloom and clouds. I have no lofty goals for 2012. I simply yearn to shift my thoughts to the right place; to focus on the good and to see the world with a more heavenly mindset. Colossians 3:2 reminds us to "Set your minds on things above". The more I focus on Christ and engage myself with Him and desire His presence in my life, the more I will be able to have the right perspective when it comes to my kids, my husband, my home and my self. He is the source of my joy, and the light in my life.

Interruption came to my train of thought as children began to stir... By "stir", I mean I could hear a door slam and someone yelling "Get out of my room!" Then there was crying and calls of "Mo--o---o--m!" My heart pounded more aggressively and my nostrils flared. This is not how I envisioned the birth and glorious inception of my precious new year. But today, like the rest of the year will be about my attitude and my perspective and I will choose not to measure it by all of the standard accomplishments and typical mother's check-marks. Right off the bat, I am given the opportunity to practice my new year's resolution: a new attitude and a perspective guided by peace and patience.

"...think happy thoughts" - Wendy

7 Days In India - Day 5 - One Night In Agra

2011-12-29T19:12:00.000-07:00

It was mid-afternoon and having just completed the sewing school graduation, we were all feeling quite worn out. The hurry and intensity of the last few days in a strange culture were catching up to us. Since we had checked into our hotel in the morning, we were dropped off at the door and trudged our way up the stairway, confirmed the time that we would have to meet again before leaving, and locked ourselves into our separate hotel rooms.

For the price we paid, it seemed that this was supposed to be a "nicer" hotel, yet the white bedspread was stained and the bathroom was not very clean. It made us realize what a luxury it was to be staying in the home of the pastors, back in Delhi - there was nothing very homey or comfortable about this tile-floored stark white room. The one bonus was that we had a balcony that looked out onto the hotel's lawn, but even that had a downside since each hotel room's balcony was connected and I immediately wondered about people looking in our room or knocking at our exterior door in the middle of the night. So much for feeling safe and secure.

Our room had a television, and feeling the need for some down time, we flipped through the channels... In typical Asian fashion, there appeared to be a lot of day-time "soap operas" and despite their bizarre plot lines (as best as we could understand with the language barrier) I soon drifted off to sleep. After a brief nap, I awoke to the sound of Dan groaning as he lay on the bed next to me, and he didn't look so good!

"What's wrong?" I asked with concern.

"I don't feel very good" he said, with one hand on his stomach and an arm thrown across his face to block out the light.

I realized at that point that I also had a strange percolating, gurgling sensation in my stomach. It felt all acidly inside - but not too much... just a slightly uncomfortable feeling. So far, we had remained quite healthy during our trip. The infamous "Delhi belly" had yet to assault our bowels and the food had caused no problems for us. It was nearly time for us to get dressed and ready for the special church service, so we decided to knock on Steve and Kindra's door and see how they were faring.

Apparently, Dan was not the only one feeling a little bit "off". Kindra's skin was more pale than usual, and she confirmed that she also was feeling a bit of "indigestion". We talked for a few moments, going over what we had eaten that day and we soon narrowed it down to the fresh bits of onion and cucumber that were served alongside our delicious Tikka Chicken earlier that day. So much for the adventure of dining on our own! No wonder the pastor had been sheltering us so much during our stay - we rarely got the chance to eat out, and it was never ever at a roadside stall. Far too many times, we would be driving down the road and some delicious scent would assault my nostrils... somosas or curry or something that I had never experienced before. But we were sternly admonished to stay away from these places, at risk of serious illness! Now, the very restaurant that we had been sent to for lunch may be the culprit for our stomach troubles.

If there is anything that I learned back in the days of my much tamer youth "mission trips", it is that when it comes to ministry, you must persevere. There is no sense in letting the short time go to waste, no matter how badly you are feeling. So there was no question in our minds about the schedule that evening - no changes would be made - we would go "on with the show" as they say.

We all got dressed and headed downstairs to the lobby to search for our driver who was supposed to be meeting us. He walked up to us on the hotel's driveway and motioned for us to follow him across the street where he was parked. Stepping outside the hotel's gates, I was once again reminded of the intensity of this culture - people absolutely everywhere, garbage on the ground and the dust and dirt clinging to every tree, brick, and the sidewalk. Then there was the unusual combination of cars, rickshaws, motorcycles, bicycles, horse-and-cart, the occasional camel and the ever-present stray cows and water buffalo that shared this street. Just before I was going to walk across, I jumped back, startled and realized that I had to look the opposite way for oncoming traffic! Not only that, but we were in a society where the rule "pedestrians have the right-of-way" was non-existent! Instead, it was our responsibility to find a gap in the traffic and weave our way through the chaotic traffic. Fortunately, this was a less busy street than many we had seen, and we managed to cross over to the vehicle safely! What an adventure...and this was just us trying to get into our taxi!

We drove down some narrow side streets and were approaching what appeared to be dead end in the road, with a high wall at the end of our path in a fairly isolated area. To be perfectly honest, at this time I started to become quite nervous and wondered just where this driver was taking us! For all we knew, we could be taken to a deserted area to be robbed - everything felt so unfamiliar and we weren't being accompanied by anyone from the church so we couldn't even communicate with our driver! I silently prayed for safety as the vehicle lurched around potholes and slowed as it neared the wall and vacant lot. Suddenly, the driver took a left turn, and then sped his way through a narrow underpass which I could now see was a shortcut under the highway. With a sigh of relief, I turned to my fellow Canadian passengers and admitted quietly: "I was getting a little concerned for a moment..."

One of them nodded and said that they had experienced similar thoughts, but now we were in an obviously populated area once again and we didn't seem to be lost... so we had to assume that we would see the church soon! I think this is where I realized how much of an effect the lack of sleep and the stress of so many new situations was wearing on me! We were in such a foreign environment and experiencing so many new things that it was difficult to relax and trust that everything would work out smoothly. I think also, it was the lack of control over the situation - it felt as though anything unexpected could happen, and we had so little understanding of the culture around us so any problem that arose would be difficult to handle. I suppose that these feelings are all part of the complete experience of a mission trip - prayer and trust in God is of necessity!

It wasn't much longer before the vehicle slowed down and the driver honked the horn at the gate of a building. Smiling, friendly people opened the gate and came out to greet us, and at once we knew that all was well! We hopped out of the vehicle and said "goodbye" to our driver, whom we would see the next day for our sightseeing excursion. Once again, it was such a comfort to leave the chaotic, unfamiliar and dirty world that surrounded us and enter into another safe and peaceful haven. There was such an obvious difference as soon as you were within the church complex - it was quiet, calm and comforting.

That evening we had the privilege of joining in a special church service that was planned specifically for our visit. Steve and I played some of our music from our home church, The Gate, and Dan (my hubby) preached a message of encouragement, with the aide of a translator. Afterwards, the people were invited up for prayer, and it was up to our team to help minister to them! We prayed for sick people, people with struggling businesses and even for a woman who was of the Hindu religion, who had just come to "check us out" and see what the church offered. We also prayed for a young man who was wanting to be married and was waiting for his parents to pick the right bride. It really was a privilege to join our faith together with these people, who opened their hearts to us in trust. Not only that, but you could tell just how important they deemed the power of prayer - they stood expectantly and you could really sense the presence of God as we prayed.

After the service we were treated to another amazing home cooked dinner, this time made by Pastor John's wife. We were seated around the table, along with Pastor J and several dishes with enormous mounds of food were placed in front of us. I felt my stomach clench a little at the idea of more curry, but unlike my companions, I didn't feel sick -just not very hungry, so despite my lack of an appetite, I filled my plate with slightly smaller than normal portions. Kindra, on the other hand, was obviously feeling quite ill yet was trying to hide it from our generous hosts. She politely spooned a tiny amount of each dish onto her plate and I watched as she nibbled reluctantly on her child-sized servings. At one point Pastor John looked at her and said "You need to eat more food!" and Kindra apologetically explained that she was harboring an upset stomach.

Despite the hospitable nature of our new friends, I found myself yawning through the conversation that cheerfully filled the room. It had been an exceptionally long day... from waking early to catch a train in Delhi, to our visit to the Dalit school, and the evening at the church; it felt as though we had filled the day with enough activity and new experiences for several weeks! Fortunately, our hosts were understanding and before too long, we were driven back to our hotel so we could get some sleep.

Of course, to be expected, we encountered another blaring expression of Indian culture when we arrived at our hotel. Loud music blared as we approached the hotel's lobby... apparently there was a wedding in the banquet hall that evening and we would be treated to the obnoxiously loud rhythms of Hindi wedding music as we attempted to fall asleep! Thankfully, the music wasn't too loud once we were locked in our bedroom. And at least it provided continuous melodic background noise that we could attempt to tune out once we collapsed onto our bed.

I climbed between the crisp, cool sheets and tried in vain to smush down my overly large pillow. My mind was reeling with all the experiences of this day, and the previous few days. It seemed like we had been away from Canada for a month, and after our jam-packed schedule, not only was my body tired, but I was nearing emotional exhaustion. As I was thinking of all the beautiful children and the generous sewing school girls whom I'd been so touched by, I dozed off to sleep despite the party that was carrying on in the hotel. It was time to rest my body and my mind in preparation for just a few more days of adventure.

Little children from the Dalit school, praying.

7 Days In India - Day 5 - Dalit School and Sewing School

2011-12-28T10:48:00.003-07:00

Monday,November 28, Agra

Now that we were safely at our destination, we were taken for a quick bite to eat at Hotel Riaz. This was the first time we were out and about on our own, with just the driver dropping us off and waiting for us outside the restaurant. Pastor John was going to meet us after we had eaten.

Notice the dirt on the straws... were they recycled?

With great expectation, and a bit of glee, we perused the menu and deliberated over what to order. All of us were dedicated foodies, and the chance to experience real Indian food, and try new things was very exciting. I, personally, was battling a headache, and tend to be more compliant, so I left the ordering decisions to the others. Soon we were dining on some spicy, delicious food - Tikka chicken which was roasted in a Tandoor, along with some chick-pea curry and garlic naan bread. The Tikka chicken came with some sliced red onions and cucumber and tomatoes on the side, which complimented the spicy hot seasoning quite nicely. Without a thought to the threat of food-borne-illnesses (more to come on that issue...) we gobbled down the amazing food, paid our bill and were joined by Pastor John to head to the Dalit school.


Tikka Chicken... so freakin' amazing!

Dalit is the name for the untouchable caste, of which there are approximately 160 million residing across India. Traditionally, they are the lowest people in Indian culture, such that they may not even share gods with other Hindus - there have been gods "made" just for the Dalit caste. What better people to reach out to and touch with the saving grace provided in the Gospel.


Outside the Dalit School

We drove along some very rough roads, and noticed far more livestock - goats, pigs, cows, water buffalo, horses and even a camel or two along the way. Eventually, we came to what appeared to be a new developing community. There were plotted out lots with bricks lining small areas, but no electricity or other modern conveniences that we are familiar with. We saw a medium sized apartment, and were told that it was a government-made building for the Dalits. However, they have it so ingrained in their mindset that they deserve nothing but to be the bottom, the least of society and beggars for their lifetime; so many of the Dalits would take their apartments and sell them for the monetary gain, which would help them in the short term, but leave them on the streets and in slums for the long-term.

This school was one of the newer ministries and included a sewing school for Dalit women, to learn a skill so they could have the ability to provide some income and be deemed more "valuable". With several honks of the horn outside, a gate opened and we drove into the complex. Now a little more seasoned in the experience of meeting new people, we were excited to get out of the vehicle and get started.

Classes were in session with 4 different levels, arranged both by age and ability. The youngest class, which seemed to have children who must have been barely 3 years old, was seated outside in the courtyard. The children were distracted by our presence and stared up at us with frightened brown eyes. We learned that most of these children had probably never met a white person before, so it was no wonder that they were so concerned! Again, I was impressed at the children's ability to pay attention and remain seated so respectfully. Not only that, but their teachers were just young woman (who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties). We found out that some of the teachers within the schools we had visited were former attendees of the schools at which they now taught! They were investing back into the ministry that had changed their lives as children... an incredible cycle of success breeding more success for the future.

We spent some time in each classroom, listening to the children as they recited memory work. One of the classes was simply a large room with a divider cutting it in half so two groups could make use of the room. Despite the potential distraction of another class carrying on right next to them, the kids remained focused and committed. It was so easy to become impressed with these kids. They were deemed by their society as outcasts, but had been given a vision and new perspective that allowed them to seek more for their lives and their future.

Our favorite class was the youngest one (the children seated outdoors) and when we "toured" their class, their teachers pressed the children to show us what they had been learning. One of they little boys couldn't stop staring at us, and he looked like he was about to cry. Another one was encouraged to stand up and recite something, but stood silent and frightened, with her lower lip trembling and eyes tearing up. Kindra and I, with our mother's hearts melting, squatted down in front of the class and smiled and tried to make ourselves look as welcoming as possible. We were invited to pray for the children, and afterwards, we couldn't bear to leave them without somehow bridging the gap so we attempted to sing a song for the kids. Alas... they remained fairly statuesque, only a couple of them warming up to us and granting us a timid smile! They were so sweet... so precious, and knowing that they were labeled by their society as "untouchable" made me want to gather each of them into my arms, kissing them and telling them that they were loved.

The time came for the children to be given their meal of bread and buffalo milk, as they were going to be dismissed and the women from the sewing school would be arriving. We blessed the food and the children sat on the floor and patiently waited for us to hand out the bread and milk. The room was quiet and calm, as the children intently gobbled up every nibble of bread and enjoyed every swallow of warm buffalo milk. Since we had a short time left to spend with the children once they were done eating, we had them line up in a crowd outside so we could take their picture. From the smallest to the tallest, I looked at each child and stood in awe of their worth. The lives of these children were so evidently transformed by the power of the gospel - not empty, meaningless words that were pronounced from a fancy pulpit in some western-hemisphere church - but the gospel in action, administered with love and compassion.

Some children were picked up by their mothers, and others had only the company of their sibling as they returned to the dusty roads to walk to their homes. I stepped outside of the gate and watched some young children as they wandered away from the school. The world seemed so large, dirty and unfriendly; ready to swallow up these young souls. It made me realize what a light this school was - a place of hope and peace that did not merely provide food, clothing and education, but one that fed their souls and gave life to their spirits. Everywhere I looked, I saw dirt, garbage and a world in disarray... behind me, within the walls of the school was a haven of hope.

The next part of our day involved the sewing school. Originally, these schools were created to give women the opportunity to earn money, making them more valuable as brides. As I explained in a previous posting, bride burnings still occurred and authorities often turned a blind eye to it's existence. Young women, and some older women began to arrive, and they dismantled the children's classroom and transformed it into the sewing school. And by that, I mean they took the divider from the largest room and pushed it back against the wall so there would be more space.

I have always thought of Indian women as very beautiful, in their colorful saris and punjab outfits - and as I watched the women coming in to the class, I wondered about each of their backgrounds - what sort of world had each of them grown up in, and what did their future hold? We were told that we would be involved in the graduation ceremony, and the four of us were once again thrown off-guard, thinking "How on earth do we conduct ourselves and make this event special for these women?...surely they will know that we are inexperienced, awkward and ill-prepared to preform such an incredible task!"

Dresses designed by the girls

Once the women were all seated and arranged in rows on the floor, the ceremony began. Pastor John began by greeting them and introducing us (in Hindi) and then were were told to go and inspect their sewing before the certificates would be awarded. I took a deep breath and waded into the crowd, starting somewhere in the middle. I found a row of 3 young women, who shyly smiled at me in anticipation. I squatted down and was joined by an interpreter and I asked the first girl if I could look at her book. She had a large scrapbook of miniature shirts, aprons, dresses and pants which displayed the skills she had learned - different types of stitching and making pleats and buttonholes. I smiled and acknowledged the obviously tedious work and commented on her fine stitches. She looked very pleased at my words and I continued through her book, ooh-ing and awing at her designs.

At one point I tried to explain how their practice work remind me of my daughter's Barbie clothes, and the translator spoke to the girls, until they smiled and nodded in understanding. It made me wonder if most of them never had toys or dolls, and that was why it took them a few moments to understand my comparison. After viewing each girls work, they would then show me the larger project they had completed - often an entire woman's outfit. Some of them were even wearing the outfits they had created with decorative designs on the neckline. It wasn't difficult to compliment the incredible work they had done!

One of the girls really stood out to me, with her long black hair and expressive eyes. She had such a sweet demeanor and I could tell she was soaking up every word of compliment that I gave as I examined her work. She showed me a beautiful brown tunic that she had made and I looked her in the eyes and said with confidence: "I would buy this if it was at a store - it is beautiful!" She looked down with modesty, her hand covering her instant smile at my generous praise. I continued on to the next girl and a couple minutes later, the girl with the doe-eyes was holding out the brown tunic and gesturing that she wanted me to take it.

She spoke to me, and the interpreter told me that she wanted to give me the tunic as a gift. I was so surprised at her generosity, and felt bad for taking away something that she could most certainly sell and make a profit with. From what we knew, these girls would save up whatever money they had to buy scraps with which the practice their sewing skills. I told her that I was very grateful for her offer, but that I couldn't take it. She looked all the more determined to give it to me, but it just felt so wrong! My attention was diverted elsewhere as we were hurrying to observe all of the student's work before our time ran out.

Once we had examined all of the girls' work, it was time to hand out the certificates. We were called up to the front where there was a stage area, and before we could begin, one of the girls asked to say something to us. She stood up, and with a translator, she told us how in the school, they had learned that although they might not have very much, that God wanted them to be generous and to give. They learned that they could be givers, and even in their newly learned ability to sew, they could see it as a way to bless people - not to merely better their own lives. She wanted to give away one of the tunics she had made to one of us. She came up, and judging our sizes, decided that her offering would be most likely fit me rather than Kindra. As I thanked her and smiled, in the back of my mind I began to feel that maybe I had responded to the first girl wrongly. I had felt so guilty to take something from someone whom I knew to be extremely poor compared to myself, but I was preventing her from operating in the gift of generosity. No matter what your stature, be it rich or poor, all people can exhibit either greed or generosity.

Speaking to the sewing school girls

We were asked to speak a brief word of congratulation/encouragement to the girls and soon the women's names were being called and we would shake their hand and give them their graduation certificate. It was such a triumphant moment in our trip as we handed out these formal slips of paper that represented dignity and hope to each of the women. It felt that we were empowering them to go forth and have success - they were no longer destined to be the lowest of the low, but now had the opportunity to improve both their lives and the lives of their loved ones.

Following the ceremony, we headed out into the courtyard to take a group picture of the women holding their certificates. Afterwards, the young woman with the brown tunic came up to Kindra and offered her the tunic that I had felt unable to accept. After the previous display of generosity that we had seen before the ceremony, it wasn't as difficult to receive this precious gift, knowing that it was more about the attitude of giving than it was about the gift itself. I was glad that this young lady was able to fulfill the urging in her heart, and I knew in the future I would hopefully respond better if met with a similar situation.

The Graduates

Later that evening in our hotel room, as we prepared for the special church service in Agra, we were startled to hear a knock and laughter at our door. We opened it up to Steve and Kindra who were in hysterics over the state of Kindra who was attempting to put on the brown tunic. Sadly, it was a bit smaller than it looked, and Kindra was awkwardly posed with her arms and head in the tunic, but unable to pull it past her shoulders. We all had a laugh at her uncomfortable position, and I offered her the other tunic which I had also been unable to wear due to it's small size. Fortunately, the one I was given fit Kindra, and she offered the brown tunic to me to give to my eldest daughter. So in the end, I was pleasantly surprised that I would indeed get to receive the gift that had first been offered me, although it would instead be worn by my daughter. It is most certainly one of the most precious souvenirs that I have ever been privileged to take home from a trip. It's amazing how much I can learn about generosity from those "less fortunate" than myself.

7 Days in India - Day 5: Train Travel

2011-12-08T22:45:00.002-07:00

Day 5 - November 28

We awoke at the crack of dawn, which was hardly any effort considering the jet-lag, and we prepared for our newest adventure. It was time to travel, India style!

With a stuffed backpack, I was dropped off with my fellow teammates at the local train station in New Delhi, to head to Agra for one night. If we thought we had seen chaos before, we were in for a shock. The train station was crawling with people. If you ever needed a travel wallet (the kind that goes under your clothes) the time was now! People were bumping into us, pushing their way to get in and out of the station. There were old people, young people and entire families with luggage and you could tell that there was people from lower castes and higher castes, all just wanting to go somewhere.

Thankfully, we weren't just dropped off at the door, but we were guided to the proper train platform and the two young men from the church stayed with us to wait for our train to arrive. I held my backpack close in front of me, not willing to have it on my back when it contained so many precious items. This place was beyond crowded! There was a family with huge sacks of their belongings, children laying down on cardboard and covered with a blanket, trying to catch some sleep before loading up on the human cattle-car, also known as "economy class". Thankfully we weren't booked to travel in the "standing-room-only", sardine-packed train car, accented with essence of curry and body odor, but instead we were traveling in style, in second-class seating. That meant we had our own assigned seats that had fold-down trays and a little bit of extra luggage space.

Our train arrived, and we found our seats and settled; keeping a close eye on our belongings as other people crammed in, searching for their places. Right away, it was difficult for me to keep from wrinkling my nose at the obvious grime and dinginess of this train-car. It's not like I'm a germ-freak by any means, but everything seemed to be coated in a greasy, dusty sheen, and I had difficulty looking through the window because of the smears of fingerprints, and imagined (or unimagined) mucous and other foreign matter. I gingerly took the curtain (which felt stiff and grimy as well, like a muddied sock that has been allowed to dry on the laundry-room floor... for a month...) and I attempted to wipe clear the window to get a better view. All in all, it added to the effect of my vision of India - a smoggy film between my eyes and the landscape, corrupting each of the pictures and videos that I took!

The "boys" became adventurous as we waited, and thought they would check out the infamous "bathrooms" on the train. We'd been told by a friend who had traveled to India, that the toilets on trains were for emergencies only. Like... you're about to explode and mess your pants, sort of emergency. They returned to Kindra and myself with eyes as large as saucers, and said "Girls, you do NOT want to go in there!"

They proceeded to describe to us the stainless steel "toilet", actually, more of a hole in the floor and a pipe that curved out and onto the tracks. As cool as it would be to squat over a metal hole and pee onto the tracks while on a moving train, I decided then and there that I would "hold it" until we reached our destination. Kindra questioned whether there was a sink or any means of cleaning oneself after using this "toilet" and we were told that there was simply a small water spigot with a metal cup with which to swish away the refuse... and any remaining germs... ahem... ya. When in India....

With the grand tour of the train out of the way, we settled in our seats and began to move. I worried that I would become motion sick, but surprisingly enough it was a fairly smooth ride. I sat, semi-hunched forward, still feeling uneasy about the grime on my seat and not wanting to coat my hair with the germs of the thousands who had previously rode where I now sat, and I looked with interest out of the window. Sadly, what I saw was once again a prime example of India's poverty. With dismay I noticed many children playing along the tracks, unattended and dirty, seemingly looking for food or valuable scraps that might provide the means to a bite to eat for the day. Others had obviously made their homes along this busy place, and I wondered how one could ever grow used to the constant clatter and noise of the trains passing by. Not only that, but it boggled my mind how mothers (or older siblings) could possibly keep little ones safe in this environment.

For a while, I busied myself taking photos and video clips of the dismaying sight of people's everyday living on the side of the tracks. From large apartments and shops to cardboard shacks, from the middle-class to the very poor, each and every person dealt with the same dirt and smog. There were people everywhere - some hurrying along, some just squatting in the middle of a vacant, garbage filled lot, as if they were aimlessly waiting for something...

After some time, we left the suffocating collection of buildings, and the swarms of people and we were in farmland and open fields. After several days of being stuck in a city of 20 million, myself feeling somewhat claustrophobic and missing my "alone-time", we finally could see the green fields and blueish-grayish sky again! I felt like I could breathe deeply once again, but alas I was trapped on a train with stale air smelling of B.O. and curry so I didn't take that deep breath that the open sky invited.

Meanwhile... we were on a train - not just any train, but an Indian train! One of the most interesting things about traveling this way, was the constant stream of sales-people walking up and down the narrow aisle. I would hear the creak of the door to our train car behind me, and then the smell of curry would waft towards me. Next I'd hear some undecipherable words, as a man carried a large tray with small foil wrapped dishes of curry. There was also people selling chips and other packaged Indian treats and someone selling somosas. There was a young man who carried a large metal bucket crammed full with bottles of pop and water (that looked quite heavy!) and a man with a canister of coffee. Our favorite though, was the Chai-walla (tea seller) one of which had the funniest way of saying "Chai" in a low, guttural tone as he walked through our car. (We managed to catch a little bit of his giggle-inducing-voice on video!)

Eventually, despite the nefarious odors and the grime on the back of my seat, I relaxed and closed my eyes, taking a short nap in preparation for the busy day ahead of us. When I awoke, we were heading back into a urban area - this one looking slightly different than the city of Delhi. Agra, for one thing was a smaller city, with a population of just 3.5 million. One of the things that makes Agra unique, however, is the prohibition of factories and industrial activities which produce pollution, in effort to keep the air clear to protect the Taj Mahal from damage. (We even learned on our tour the following day that there are pollution sensors at the Taj Mahal, and if the smog reaches a certain level, all roads will be shut down and automobiles will be forced to park until the air sufficiently clears!)

Agra appeared to have a lot more rural influence, and there was a lot less cars and a lot more rickshaws, bicycles, horses and carts and other animals present. The train slowed and we soon pulled into our station. We scrambled to collect our belongings, and hopped out to an even greater crowd of people than we had left in Delhi! Trying to put on an air of confidence, I walked forward and scanned the crowd of people for someone who looked friendly... or Christian... or at least who looked like they were looking for us! It was quite a nerve-wracking feeling that we were in the middle of a different country and culture, on the other side of the world, with no one familiar to greet and guide us! Then I saw a two modestly dressed men, one whom was standing and holding a sign that said: 'Mrs. Lisa'. Okay, that must be us, I concluded, and I moved forward and said "Hello". He turned and began to thread his way through the mass of people, and we scurried along to follow him.

He led us to an SUV, and we threw our luggage in the back and climbed inside. We asked if he was Pastor J (the man whom we were expecting to meet us) but we didn't really get much of a reply. At this point, we were a little confused, not knowing if this guy was from the church or if he was merely our driver... or if this was a set-up to drive us to the outskirts of the city, beat us up and rob us. Steve tried once again to question him, asking intently: "Pastor J? Are you Pastor J?' But the the driver didn't appear to understand us, and the man in the passenger seat was busy talking on his cell phone.

Some of us were feeling quite anxious now, and it seemed that we could only sit back and wait for the inevitable to happen. Either we were in the right place, with the right people... or...

Thankfully, it was a short drive and we slowed and turned into the "Hotel Grand" which was not at all grand, but was the hotel mentioned on our itinerary! We were safe...

With a sigh of relief, we jumped out of the vehicle and were greeted by a smiling, kind-looking man: Pastor J! In the comforting presence of a trustworthy guide, we checked into our hotel rooms and began to get acquainted, ready for a day of adventures and ministry in the city of Agra!

The beautiful Taj Mahal

7 Days In India - Day 4

2011-12-06T21:33:00.002-07:00

Sunday, November 27

Time was going by so quickly - and we hardly had time to think about home and our kids because we were so busy, seeing and experiencing so many new things. It really felt like we were on a different planet - or as if we were living in a documentary. Everything was just so different from our usual lives, and there was always something that would surprise us or overwhelm us or capture our emotions... That's why it was nice that it was Sunday. It was a day of rest, a day that would be more familiar, spending time in God's house with people whom we might not know very well, but who would welcome us as part of God's family.

Yet it would not all be familiar and normal this Sunday morning... for starters, the first morning service would be in Hindi!

I don't think I mentioned before, but one of the neat things about where were were staying was that the Pastor's home and the church and Bible school were all on one property, surrounded by a large brick wall. Along with the Bible college students, a couple other families lived on the property, all committed to the cause of the ministry. Again, as I've mentioned, there was such an enormous difference in atmosphere once you entered the gates of the complex - the mess was gone, the hurry and chaos was gone and there was a peace and beauty that filled the air. So it was really nice to be able to simply walk over to the church building rather than battle the insane traffic just before the morning service started.

We walked into the sanctuary, and seated on 3 long rugs, in rows of 2, were all of the girls from the orphanage. Every Sunday morning, they transported the girls here to take part in the worship service. We waved and smiled at them, and a few of them shyly smiled back. Being the guests of honor (which still felt rather strange to me), we were seated front and center. The building began to fill up with beautiful brown people (I don't mean that rudely, at all!) and the worship team took their place on stage. Right away, there was such a rich, vibrant, joyous tone to the music! It was impossible not to clap and attempt to sing along - even thought the words were in Hindi. But occasionally, they used "hallelujah" in their songs, which made it a little easier for us white folks!

As a church, they obviously had a close knit community. They asked who was having a birthday or anniversary that week, and prayed for those individuals. They spent time praying for their nation and it's political leaders and prayed with great zeal and gusto. As planned, Steve and I came up during the offering and performed a song - one that had been written by someone in our church. The people seemed to enjoy the different flavor of music. Then it came time for us to be welcomed and introduced, and they called the four of us up onto the stage. Once again, we were honored with each of us being given a beautiful bouquet of roses. The Pastor introduced us as "a wonderful team from Canada" and then all but Dan exited the stage and the tag-team preaching/translation began.

It only further enhanced the feeling of being in another world to spend so much time listening to a language that we didn't understand, but somehow, we didn't feel entirely out of place in that Hindi service. After a short break, the English service began, and we enjoyed the opportunity to share in the lives of Christian brothers and sisters from the other side of the world!

We were given the opportunity to pray for people afterwords, and as they came with open hearts, asking God for strength and hope in response to Dan's message, we felt our hearts melting at the obvious struggles that these believers faced. It wasn't difficult to commiserate with them, and to share in their suffering as we asked for God's grace upon their lives. But most of all, it was an honor to join with them in faith, as we believed for God to move in their lives and, by association, India as well.

One thing I noticed was an abundance of warmth and openness among the people we met. It seems that hospitality is a way of life for Indians, and we were greeted with smiling faces all throughout the church. One older woman came up to me after the service and grabbed onto my hand, saying "I just had to meet the mother of 6 children!" She had a huge grin on her face and told me how that (lots of kids) is the way it used to be... and that she came from a large family. I just smiled, not knowing exactly what to say, but enjoying her enthusiasm.

Before we knew it, our work was done and yet another milestone had been crossed off the list of ministry work to do on this trip. Somehow, we Canadians, for all of our country's typical apathy and lethargy, were able to be a blessing to this congregation in India. One of the most poignant moments of this Sunday however, had occurred in the peaceful, heavy atmosphere of prayer that took place before the first morning service. It was difficult to not feel a sense of uselessness here in India - that our problems back in Canada were paltry and lame and merely symptoms of extreme self-centeredness.

Then I felt the Holy Spirit speak to my heart. First, I felt Him telling me that I was born in North America on PURPOSE. It was God's plan, His will, and His design for me to born in a more affluent nation. In that plan, he has a purpose and destiny for me to operate within my surroundings. Here is something that rang clear and true in my heart, and I wrote it down in that morning prayer meeting:

We can come to a desolate place, like the slums, and feel such a need to impart destiny and vision in to the lives of these people. While that is necessary and true, I would say that the great deception is in the fact that our churches in North America are filled with people lacking true destiny and purpose. We have been deceived into believing that our destiny is to have a 9-to-5 job, a nice home and family, and to attend a comfortable, affirming church.

What a dismal, uninspired destiny... God has so much more for us!

7 Days In India - Day 3

2011-12-03T08:29:00.001-07:00

Saturday, Nov. 26

Just another cow on the road, slowing down traffic...

This day we had the opportunity to visit another slum school, earlier in the morning before the Pastor conducted a church service for the slum area. By this point we were already more comfortable with the ridiculous, confusing flow of traffic that followed no typical Canadian laws or standards. So the drive over to this slum school was less stressful than our previous day's journey. We still would poke at each other occasionally, wide-eyed and gasping with comments of how INSANE everything was - like seeing an entire family perched on the back of a scooter, weaving in and out of the traffic, or a rickshaw packed with 7 or 8 passengers, or the fact that our driver would continually squeeze our vehicle into utterly small spaces, in effort to get ahead of the buses, trucks and rickshaws that slowed us down.

There was hardly ever a break from the poverty. Occasionally, we would see a new, updated building and it may have wall surrounding it - but that didn't stop the garbage from piling up outside. And it didn't' stop people from constructing shacks of wood, bricks and tarp outside the walls. Again and again, we would pass an empty lot cluttered with trash - and there was almost always people living on the outskirts of the heaps of refuse, and children picking their way through the junk; either playing or searching for something of value.

We stopped at a red light - at least I think it was a red light , but it felt like a traffic jam and all the cars were wedged together and waiting. Along came a dirty, barefooted little boy, his clothing permanently grayed with the dust and pollution. Around his waist was a medium sized metal hoop - somewhat smaller than most colorful, plastic hula-hoops that we are familiar with. He began to dance around outside our window on the side of the road, attempting to provide entertainment and perhaps acquire a few rupees. When his tricks were done, he came over and held his hands out to my closed window. This time, I was prepared and I pulled out an apple from my bag and handed it to him through the window. He took it, looking both puzzled and a little bit miffed. He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, slightly shaking his head at us and said "Rupees... Rupees!" with an aggressive plea. He was actually snubbing our offering of food!

We looked at each other with dismay, astonished that he was upset with us. "No rupees!" Steve said to him, and I shook my head as well. He plodded off towards an older boy on the other side of the median, showing his apple to him.

Just a minute later, a pretty young street girl spotted us in our vehicle. (As I've mentioned, traffic here is crazy, so you can be stuck in one spot for quite a while!) This girl wore a dirty old tunic an pants, and she also had metal hoops to do tricks with as well. She seemed quite excited at the prospect of performing for some white people, and right away did some hand stands and flips, jumping through her hoop and twisting acrobatically. She actually was quite impressive in her antics! As she came to my window to be rewarded I as a little nervous and wondering whether she would even appreciate my offering of food. I pulled out a packaged brownie, leftover from our flight, and pointed at it, asking if she would like it. She nodded and I handed it to her through the window, glad that she seemed a bit more grateful for the food. We watched her as she brought it over to an older woman who opened the little plastic box as if to inspect it, and then closed it again. The transaction was complete.

It was quite frustrating to see the behavior of these street kids. There was a system in place and at work. They were being manipulated and used for their age and vulnerability and they didn't even get to enjoy the "fruit" of their labors, so to speak. Obviously these kids were working for a handler - someone who would guard them and send them on the streets to beg. Every bit of money and food would go directly to their handler, who would, in exchange see that they were fed and somewhat protected. If the child had an extra good day, and brought in a greater amount of rupees, than they might get extra food that night. The handlers themselves, reported to a higher power, including the requirement to bribe the police so that they wouldn't be disturbed on their territory as "their kids" worked the streets.

It was really difficult seeing this, and feeling like our contribution and helping hand really didn't help. We could give them more money, and maybe the child would be treated better that day, but then we were just feeding the system. We could give them food to eat, but as we just witnessed, they might not even have the freedom to eat the food themselves, having to bring every bit of profit to their handlers.

So many children spent their days out of school, wandering the streets and begging. While there are free government schools available for all people, the quality of these free schools is very poor and the kids have both no encouragement or discipline so it is difficult to get a real education. Not only that, but using children to beg is a very lucrative business. Those who profit from the children's efforts - whether it be their own parents, or a handler - will prevent the kids from attending school and continue to force them to work the streets. it means that these kids have no sense of a future and no scope of life outside of the streets. They are doomed from the start to live out their lives as the lowest of the low - helpless and hopeless.

This is where the slum schools were were visiting showed such a huge difference and turn-around for these types of people. The moment you walked in the doors, you would enter an oasis of peace and hope. Everything is cleaner and tidy. The busyness, clamor and clutter is gone. It is like walking into a different world, one that offers an entirely different way of living.

We drove into one of the worst areas we had seen so far and hopped out of the vehicle. There was a narrow walkway alongside a brick building, and all sorts of people stopped their activities and began to watch us as we walked through the area. Some appeared merely curious at our presence, others looked a bit more suspicious.

We turned a corner, and stepping up five worn and slightly crumbling concrete steps, we found ourselves at the entrance of a 12 X 12 brick building filled with children. We were welcomed into the dark, cramped space that had a small spiral staircase just to the right of the doorway, that led to living quarters for the slum school's directors - a married couple with a baby. The children greeted us with their practiced English words: "Good morning!" and we waved and smiled back at them.

We were seated in plastic chairs in front of the crowd of 60 or so children who sat, crowded together on the floor. There were a couple of chalkboards attached to the walls and a few colorful posters with English words for things such as vegetables or days of the week. Other than that, it was drab, dark and felt more like a tiny, old brick garage than a school for 75+ children.

Packed into the classroom, some even sitting on the spiral staircase

The first part of our visit, the children sang a couple of songs and then began to show off their learning. Some of them were painfully shy as they quoted a scripture or told us the days of the week and their spelling, in English - others seemed excited at the prospect of preforming for and impressing some white foreigners.

All too soon, it was our time to impress and we were given the opportunity, with a translator, to speak to the children. Today, we felt much more at ease and having experienced the slum schools yesterday, we had processed in our hearts more of what we desired to give to these kids. We smiled and greeted them, and Dan introduced all of us and told how we were so happy to visit. I spoke to them, asking if they were working hard on their studies, to which they answered in English a resounding "Yes!". We told them how we were so proud of them, and that if they worked hard, and if they followed God, that their lives would be blessed and that they would do well in life.

A couple of us had the opportunity to pray for the kids, and when I prayed, I think they thought they were supposed to repeat me, because every time I paused, they copied my words! I quickly changed the direction of my prayer into something that the children could say with meaning, asking for God's help and blessing. Kindra prayed as well, speaking blessing and protection over their lives. It was so strange how inadequate we felt to minister to these kids - they deserved so much more, yet they looked to us like we were celebrities. We just wanted to bless them - yet they honored and blessed us so much.

Next it was time to hand out milk and buns to the children, since they had to clear out the building for that morning's church service. They brought the large stainless steel vat of steaming buffalo milk, and we lined up and began to hand out the cups of milk and small buns as the children walked out the door. I went outside to get a better camera angle as the children emptied from the building with their treat.

After taking a bunch of pictures, someone invited me to see inside the building next to the school where I saw a small area where they were heating up the buffalo milk in a large stainless steel pot. This was in a tiny "kitchen" area that would be comparable to the space that most of us have for an entryway into our homes. From there, I could see into a doorway of another very small room that held around 30 children, all seated on the floor, with a couple young woman standing at the front of the crowd with a tambourine, leading the children in some worship music, in Hindi. I loved how their singing was so heartfelt and real. They didn't have an amazing band, with professional musicians. They didn't even have instruments. Yet they sang with joy and faith, lifting up their hands and worshiping the Lord.

Preparing the Buffalo Milk

I could tell that my presence was a bit of a distraction, and I didn't want to disrupt this group, that appeared to be a Sunday-school class for the slum kids. So I squatted down on the floor in the doorway, attempting to connect and be a part of this whole experience, not detract from it. I gazed upon the children, all so obviously poor, but somehow looking clean and healthy in this otherwise dump of an area. There seemed to be such a night and day difference between the beggars on the street and the children just wandering around in the slums - and the kids here, who were attending the slum school. They didn't have the same empty, helpless look on their faces. They looked hopeful and you could tell that they had a sense of worth. I continued to sway and nod my head in time to the music, enjoying it wholeheartedly even though I couldn't understand the words, and I felt my heart fill with the hope that was represented in these beautiful children in the room.

After a couple more songs, I reluctantly went back outside to the open space between the two buildings where the children were still coming out of the school with their cups of milk. I attempted to connect with some of the kids nearby, pulling out the pictures of my own kids again, and showing them to some of the children who were standing there. Again, there was great interest in these cute little white children - a novelty with their blond hair and blue eyes. Suddenly, our driver came over and asked us to go back inside the building. Apparently there was a concern that we were drawing too much of a crowd, and there could soon be a riot of people, demanding milk and bread, if we did not get out of sight. We spent a couple more minutes within the brick walls, talking with the pastor and meeting his wife and baby. Then, all too soon, it was time to leave.

It felt like we really didn't have enough time to spend with these kids - all of us felt a sense of loss, wanting to express more love and just be able to sit with the kids and show them that we cared. However, we were still at risk, being a novelty within this small slum village and we had to leave quickly before more people were attracted to the area. We walked away, down a dirty sidewalk, with people lining each side and staring at us with their solemn brown eyes. In the midst of such despair and dirt and desolation, it was amazing to see the contrast of the people with their bright, colorfully dyed clothes. There was life, and hope within this desperate, run-down area.

It felt so different today, to be able to come and visit this slum area and minister to the children. We didn't feel as out of touch and out of place, and found our hearts drawn to the children - wanting to be with them and to really do something to make a difference. We reluctantly piled into the vehicle, gazing back at some of the children who had followed us out to the road. It was such a picture -words cannot describe it, and the pictures that we took can hardly even capture what we saw and felt. We waved back at the children, and snapped a few more photos. Suddenly, one of the young boys came running after us - we had forgotten a water bottle and he wanted to make sure it was returned to us! We felt such a gratefulness for their openness and hospitality. They welcomed us as friends and made us feel like we were special to them... and all we could offer back was a smile and a cup of milk.

All of us felt sad that our time was so short here. Something had changed in us, and the awkwardness was gone - replaced by true compassion and a God-given love.

"Don't forget your water!"

7 Days In India - Second Day - part 2

2011-11-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

November 25 - The afternoon

I had so much to say about the visit to the slum schools, that I had to break up our day. Now I will share about our visit to the Victory orphanage.

Thankfully, the orphanage was located much closer to the Victory headquarters. In fact, we were told that if you walked, you could get there in just 5 minutes, but by car - because of all the winding roads and crazy traffic, it would take about 15 minutes.

We drove through typical busy streets and then came to a pathway that wasn't even a real road through some trees. It was extremely bumpy and as usual, there was garbage all over the place. We bumped along for a couple of minutes and then drove through what seemed like a REAL garbage dump. It stunk horribly, there was junk and plastic wrappers everywhere - but the alarming thing about it was that there were nearly a dozen pigs wandering around the heaps of trash! Suddenly we were back on a more "normal" village road (New Delhi is comprised of many smaller villages, all stuck together) and the orphanage was right ahead of us. We drove into the gate and parked inside the courtyard. Immediately, there was a difference. Each time we entered one of the churches properties, it was amazing how much cleaner, more peaceful and orderly the building was.

We were introduced to some of the orphanage workers and the pastor began to give us a tour of the building. They were constantly upgrading, and doing their best to make the home better for the children, to give them a better life. The girls living in the orphanage were mostly true orphans - with both parents no longer alive, although some orphans have parents with critical illness who cannot take care of them. There were 65 girls in all, and they shared several large bedrooms which had bunk-beds lining the walls. Each child's bed was neatly made and many of them had a tidy yet small stack of their personal belongings on the ends of their beds. Everything was very plain and simple, but obviously well taken care of and treated with pride. There was a small room attached to one of the childrens' rooms that was for the teachers or leaders. We came to a large, well lit open room that was used as a classroom and meeting area. We were invited to wait in a small sitting area downstairs while the children assembled for us.

Again, were were humbled by the hospitality shown to us - we were given glasses of cold fruit juice and some funny white crispy chips that were in the shape of french fries (but tasted nothing like the western snacks I'm used to!). I noticed a menu board on the wall, and took a picture of it. There was also a hand-cute picture of a tree, with little faces pasted onto it, showing the months of each orphan girl's birth.

We were called up to meet the girls, and were brought in to the upper classroom where the crowd of neatly dressed, well-groomed girls were waiting with smiles on most of their faces. Several girls stood in front of the group with bouquets of roses for us. Once again it felt almost wrong that they were honoring us in this way, but we gratefully accepted their gift, and we were seated in plastic chairs in the front of the room.

The pastor was very jovial, and began to talk to the girls in Hindi, asking them about their meal that day. (I could tell because I understood a few of the words were Indian dishes I've eaten before!) Then he told us that the girls wanted to sing a couple of songs for us. They broke out into gorgeous, jubilant melody in Hindi, filling the room with their praises. One of the young girls in the front, sang with her eyes closed, her face uplifted and you could tell that she truly believed what she was singing.

We spent some time speaking to the girls and telling them how special they were to God. It was not difficult to tell them that they were beautiful and loved and precious, because they looked up at us with sincerity and pure hearts. God had truly taken the broken and brought them to a place where they could belong. Their lives had been destined for emptiness, poverty and despair, and now we knew that these girls would become wonderful women who would glorify God with their lives and be an example to their community.

After we encouraged them and prayed for them, we took a couple pictures. (I will update and post them later, but they are on a different camera.) Then the girls went down to their dining room to have a snack and we went down to see where it was that they ate. There were rows of tables and chairs, and the girls were all crowded around. Immediately, we recognised what they were eating: "Somosas!" Dan said "They look delicious!"

"Do you want some?" they asked, surprised that we would be interested in their "boring" snack.

"Yes, please!" we replied, "We love somosas!" We each took one - and proceeded to sit down among the girls and eat with them.

Right away we noticed that the girls became very shy and giggly. We would look down the long table, and making eye contact, would smile at them and wave "hello". They were so sweet and knowing that they all represented a broken family, it was not hard to feel love and compassion for each of them.

We asked why they were giggling so much and the pastor looked thoughtful for a moment and said: "Well, probably because you are eating with them. No white people have sat down at their table and ate with them before."

Whoah! That was intense - just the idea that our sitting with them honored them so much was humbling. We felt humbled to be near them, to speak to them and show them a little bit of love! But they saw us as something special, and were so affected by our visit. It made me all the more determined to smile and show love and attention to them. Every chance I got, I would lock eyes with a girl and then smile affirmingly, trying with all my might to project some of the love of God that I felt towards them.

The visit was far too short. It seemed that we could only glimpse into their lives for a moment, reach out and show them just a fraction of what was in our hearts, and then we had to go.

This home was such an incredible example to me of God's family. You may be broken, alone, rejected, lost, hurting and impoverished. But when you are welcomed into God's family, you suddenly have a home. You have a safe-haven of peace and tranquility where you belong and are given a sense of destiny. These girls had the love of God written all over them, and the work of the gospel, pure and undefiled was evident. They were no longer merely orphans, but daughters of the King.

James 1:27 Pure and undefiled religion before God and the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their trouble, and to keep oneself unspotted from the world.

7 Days In India - Second Day

2011-11-26T19:29:00.000-07:00

Friday morning, November 25

Our team members joined us today (some good friends who are also leaders in our church) and we had a full day planned for us. We were finally going to visit some slum schools and begin to give out Buffalo milk from the money we had raised!

It was our second day, so I felt a little more adjusted to the culture and the overall busyness of the Indian streets that were full of people and, equally important, the manner of driving through Indian traffic. I was also prepared and eager to hand out some food, should the opportunity arise that a beggar child came knocking on our car window again. We had a long drive ahead of us, and there was plenty of traffic to maneuver through.

We came to a place along the road that was intersected by a large overpass. I could see that many children were playing in the rubble, that some homeless people had make-shift shelters and laundry hanging up. Most heartbreaking, was seeing the very young children - practically babies, wandering around with just a scrap of a shirt on and bare bottoms, playing with the garbage on the ground. Too often, I saw little ones without any sort of supervision and it made me wonder how they could possibly survive.

Traffic became heavier, plugged up with the two lanes packed 4 cars and 2 motorcycles across the road, and we had to wait for a light to change. Then a little boy approached our vehicle, barely tall enough to see over the window, and he began to knock on the glass with his dirty hand and looked up at us with large brown eyes, asking "Rupee... rupee??" I pulled out a packaged muffin from my bag and handed it to my friend Steve who was sitting in the passenger position where this little boy was knocking on the window. He rolled down the window, and with a quick snatch, the boy grabbed the package and scampered off. We tracked him as he weaved his way through the cluster of vehicles, away to a sheltered area under the overpass. He ran with light steps, seemingly excited by the treasure we had given to him.

I felt better in that moment. It felt like, for once, I was able to alleviate some suffering - one little child would have his tummy temporarily filled. Yet, next on the agenda was a visit to a slum school - what would that sight behold?

We drove a great distance - in heavy traffic we would have expected to take 2 hours to reach the school, but today we were making good time, and it took around 1 1/2 hours. Some stretches of the roads were smoother highways, other areas were crowded streets lined with small shops and cars haphazardly parked and double-parked on the side of the road. As we drew closer to the slum area, the streets narrowed and became far more bumpy and unkempt. We saw our first cow on the road, which was very exciting for us Western tourists, but a mere annoyance to our driver. We began to see a lot more run down homes and structures - if that is even possible. More of them were semi-constructed brick and sticks and plastic, surrounded by heaps of refuse. Always, there were young children wandering aimlessly or playing in the dirt.

We came to a brick enclosed structure and the driver honked his horn and a gate opened up and let our vehicle inside. A clean, yet very modest structure with colorful paintings on the walls greeted us - we had arrived; the first slum school! There was a small open courtyard, and a couple of buildings attached to it. One had several school rooms - just small 10X10 or maybe 12X12 rooms constructed of bricks with cement floors. Then, on the other corner of the courtyard was a taller building that had a second story with a classroom and an open roof-top sitting area that was also used as a classroom. Everything was dangerously constructed by North American standards - with an open concrete stairway that had no walls or railings to keep you from falling down. But by slum standards, this place was an oasis.

As we stepped out of the vehicle, I was completely overwhelmed to see that 4 little girls, with timid smiles, and a look of awe in their eyes, were holding flower necklaces to give to us in honor of our visit. I felt so humbled and undeserving (did they know what a horribly selfish Canadian I was?) but I gratefully accepted their gift with a very sincere "Thank you!".

We gathered in a small meeting room with an old computer and some plastic chairs lining the walls. This appeared to be the office or meeting area. Then we were introduced to the Pastor and his wife who cared for the children and managed the slum school. They immediately began to serve us, and brought us cups of cold water to drink. In a way, it felt terrible how well we were being treated - like we were dignitaries or something. I just felt so undeserving - here was a couple who were giving up so much to serve the lowest of the low, yet, they were just genuinely happy to see us, and the Indian culture is naturally very hospitable.

We took a quick tour of the buildings and observed for a few moments the children in their classrooms. This happened to be one of the nicest slum schools, and although very crowded, they children had small desks lined up in which to do their learning. What shocked me the most was how young some of these children were! Tiny little 3 year olds sat respectfully and quietly in their seats, in their miniature sized school uniform, some looking up at us white people with large frightened eyes.

There was a watchdog also, up on the rooftop. He was precariously chained to a peg, on a short leash and wandered in small circles quite happily, wagging his fluffy white tail. One false move though, and he'd be hanging off the side of the roof. (Don't tell the SPCA!)

We were informed that we needed to travel to a lesser slum school in the area, that we'd be giving those children their Buffalo milk and buns first. So we piled into the vehicle and began to drive through the village slum area - people staring at us as we passed them by. Along the side of the road were some "nicer" apartments - government buildings that would then be sold to people. For most of the people in this neighborhood, however, they were entirely unattainable in cost. We turned at an intersection, deeper into the slum and on one side of the road I saw a man cooking on the ground in a pot, and on the other side of the road, a man was peeing. We passed by many more broken down buildings, the streets filled with busy people and wandering children, garbage heaps randomly filling a vacant space with goats, pigs, dog and even cows rummaging for something interesting to eat. Here there were open sewers along the side of the road, more accurately described as a deep gutter that was filled with garbage.

We pulled up along the side of the road, and entered a small gate between a couple of buildings, following the sound of children chantings something. There, on the uneven ground with broken up pieces of red bricks and dirt was around 30 children, sitting and squatting in front of their teacher. We could now see through the doorway into the rented space that the slum school was using, and saw that this 12X12 room was also packed with children on the floor. We were greeted with a chorus of "Good morning" from the kids, and I tried to smile back although my mind was overcome just trying to process these conditions and the state of the children in front of me.

We were invited to greet the children and speak to them and I was grateful that Dan, being in the most senior position in our group, had to go first. But as he spoke to them, I felt compassion welling up in my heart and managed to come up with some words of encouragement as well. As simple as it was, all I really knew to say was that these children were special, and that we loved them and cared for them. What really do you say? What can you possibly do? After we spoke to them, we were allowed the opportunity to photograph the children and they were being given their milk as they were dismissed from school for the day.

I felt so inadequate and unsure of how to relate to these children. I crouched down, and tried to make eye contact with a few of the little ones, but they looked at me suspiciously. I smiled awkwardly and just waved in their faces "Hello!"

What do I do? I thought, with panic. Will I just be one of those horrible tourists who takes pictures and says "Oh, that was so sad..." and carries on with life? Can I make any sort of impact on these children's lives?

Moments later, the children were being served their milk and a little one was stumbling on the uneven ground, trying to make her way to a safe spot to eat and drink. An older child, perhaps a sibling, took the cup from her hand for a moment, to keep her from spilling and she burst into tears! He grabbed her tiny elbow and helped steady her, and gave her back her cup of milk. She quickly found a step to sit on and began greedily breaking off chunks of her bun and dipping it into the milk.

Outside the doorway, a small group of people were gathering; curious about the commotion going on at the slum school today. We were encouraged back to the vehicle so as not to draw a lot of attention and cause a crowd to form, demanding milk and food. We drove back to the larger, nicer slum school that was a few minutes distance away and I stared out the window, feeling quite numb and overwhelmed by what we'd seen and how helpless I felt.

Back at the nicer school, there were long carpets rolled out and the children were assembled to have their milk and buns. Soon there were lines of children, back to back, seated on the red rugs, each with a cup in front of them. The children prayed together, a prayer of thanksgiving and began to gratefully receive their warm buffalo milk and soft buns.

This time, I was determined to get in closer and bridge the gap between myself and these precious children. I immediately thought of the pictures of my kids that I carried in my wallet and I pulled them out. I squatted next to some little ones and began to show them the pictures, pointing to myself and saying "These are my babies." All at once, the barrier was broken and the children leaned towards the photos, looking with keen interest. They smiled brightly at Ezra's chubby little baby picture, taken on his first birthday. They looked on with enjoyment as I passed through all six pictures of my children, and then I repeated the actions as I moved down the line, to different clusters of children.

Eventually, all the kids were done eating and I continued to show pictures, and a crowd began to form around me. I stayed squatting, low to the ground so I could maintain eye contact with all the little kids. Little ones began to push their way through the group, vying for a good position in order to see my photos. After showing the pictures multiple times to the group of kids, I began to tell the children each of my kids' names. "Baby Ezra." I would say, slowly and clearly.

"Baby Ezra!" The children repeated in unison.

I went through all of my children's names and then began to ask children around me what their own names were, touching their arms and faces gently as I did so. I couldn't believe that I was finally able to connect and after learning some of their names, I wasn't quite sure what I should do. Here I was, literally surrounded by 20 or so slum children, all of them fully at my attention. I began to sing "Jesus loves me" to them, and would stroke little faces or gently squeeze children's arms or hands as I sang. They listened attentively and seemed to enjoy it. More children pressed into the throng. I felt slightly overwhelmed at the need, and the desire for attention, but I carried on, singing and showing my children's pictures to the crowd.

At one point, I felt a little silly, and my legs were cramping from being crouched down for so long, so I got up and twirled like a ballerina. The children laughed at me, and several of them copied me. So for a few minutes, we played a little game of "Simon says" where I would do an action and this crowd of 30 or more kids would copy me.

All too soon, our time was up. In some ways though, I was spent. I felt physically exhausted, struggling with my insufficiency to meet the needs of these children. These were not normal poor children who had less clothes, less toys and less "nice experiences" like the poor in Canada. These were the lowest of the low, the untouchables, just one out of the 250 million classified Dalit (untouchable caste) in India.

I hated how awkward I had felt with the children in the other smaller slum school earlier. I hated how I just wasn't able to express love to them; how I was at a loss as to how to communicate Gods love. I kept thinking of how Jesus would welcome the little children into His arms, saying "Do not forbid them, for such is the kingdom of heaven..." (Luke 18:16)

The kingdom of heaven was somewhere here, in the slums of New Delhi. It was here, in the eyes of these little ones. I looked closely today, and for a moment I touched it - God's kingdom in the warm smile of a little child.

7 Days In India - Our First Day

2011-11-25T19:08:00.000-07:00

Thursday, Nov. 24 - New Delhi

Our true Indian experience began not outside the walls of the home and church facilities we were staying in, but in the middle of the night, in our bedroom. Having arrived at our host's home at nearly 2 in the morning, we were lovingly greeted by the pastor who offered us some delicious Indian food that his wife had cooked for us. Although exhausted, and wishing we could just crash and go to sleep, we gratefully swallowed down some delicious home-made roti stuffed with curried vegetables. However, that is not where our true Indian experience began.

We dropped into bed, completely worn out, and dozed to sleep. The last 24 hours had been a blur of driving, flying and wandering around airports and we were thankful to finally be in a horizontal position, not in a squishy, compact airplane seat in a plane with 400 other people. Suddenly, in the dark of the night, a loud voice boomed, startling us from our slumber. Chanting began in a language we didn't understand, and we soon realized that there must be some sort of temple or mosque nearby and this was the "call to prayer". While that was certainly a jolt to the reality of being in a new country, after being sound asleep, it held a hauntingly mysterious quality, and for a while, I enjoyed the foreign melody. However, after 10 minutes and no sign of slowing down, my fascination wore off and I rolled over, put my pillow over my head and tried to get some more much needed rest. We later found out that there was both a Hindi temple and a Mosque nearby, and everyday we would be "treated" to a taste of their musical prayers.

For our first morning, our hostess made us an all-American breakfast, and once again I wasn't very hungry because my body clock was so screwed up, but I made an effort to eat a little of everything she had kindly prepared. Once we were fed, we spent some time getting to know our hosts, talking about our church in Canada and asking about their lives here in India. Finally, the question we had been waiting for: "Would you like to go and see some of Delhi or stay here and rest for the day?" asked the pastor.

REST???? No way! "Oh, we'd love to go out and see what everything looks like in daylight!" we responded, enthusiastically.

A short while later, we were seated in the back of another small Indian-style vehicle - this one a bit more like an SUV, and we headed out into the streets of Delhi.

At first, I had to readjust my thinking to the manner of driving, realizing that although we were continually breaking Canadian traffic rules and etiquette, that this driver must know what he was doing because I hadn't seen any dents or scratches on the vehicle when we climbed in. In order to take my mind off of the driving - which is next to impossible with the continual honking of vehicles and jostling back and forth as we swerved through traffic, I began to concentrate on my surroundings.

Many of the brick buildings on the side of the road were extremely run down, but being fully used and occupied by vendors and families. The streets are littered with garbage and many of the sidewalks are uneven with broken areas that you would have to walk around - you would never be able to push a stroller around these city streets, that's for sure! And the people... there were people EVERYWHERE! I suppose that is entirely reasonable for a city of 20 million, but it takes some getting used to. People are running to the bus, they are running across the road, winding their way through the cars, buses, rickshaws and motorbikes. There are mothers and children and there are men walking, working and some just squatting by the side of the road with no apparent agenda. There are well dressed, beautiful ladies in colorful saris and there are woman with worn out, dirt-stained saris. There are men riding bicycles with home-made wooden trailers carrying large barrels, or mattresses or metal pipes. There are rickshaw carts set up to sell treats: ice cream or chips or sweets or roti. I saw a man with a large mirror set up on the brick wall with a stool, shaving another man's head. I guess the noisy, smelly, busy Delhi street was his storefront and that was his barber shop. Oh, and every so often there was a man in front of his parked vehicle, or just randomly stopped on the side of the road, facing the trees - or just a brick wall - peeing. I don't mean to be crude... it's just how it is here!

We drove on and on for what seemed like miles but probably wasn't very far at all considering the traffic and all the weaving around our driver had to do. Then we were stopped near a large overpass and we saw a woman, modestly dressed with a headscarf, albeit dingy and well-worn, approaching the nearby vehicles, begging. She came up to our window, her hands in a prayerful position, up by her face and was talking to us through the window. She asked with a blank stare in her eyes, reaching toward us for a moment, then bringing them back in humble prayer position in front of her face. Moments later, the traffic moved us forward and I was at a loss, not really knowing if I should have done anything. I braced myself, thinking of how this was totally normal here. I reasoned in my mind that she was perhaps one of the less needy, being a full grown woman.

A very short time later, traffic had us stopped again and another woman approached our window. This time, she was younger, and she carried a young baby on her hip. He was tiny, clothed in a dingy brown shirt, bare-bottomed against his mother's hip. He looked to be about 8 months old and his hair was dirty and his eyes were crusty. She approached my window and this little baby began to pat his tiny, chubby hand against my window, staring into our vehicle. The mother pleaded and looked at us, holding out her hand, showing a couple coins. She made motion of eating, obviously saying that they needed money for food. Again, I felt in such a quandary. I felt panicked, wondering how to appropriately respond. My memories of the movie Slumdog Millionaire made me wonder if this woman was merely using the baby to get more money as a beggar - perhaps he wasn't even her child! I wanted to give them some money, but we had only just exchanged our Canadian cash and had no small change to offer. All too soon, the opportunity passed and our vehicle whisked us away down the road, away from the need.

After that point, with my heart melted and my eyes teary, I felt unable to forget the vision of the little baby innocently banging on my window, just inches away from me. I had to ask our host what should be done; how to react. He told us that many of the beggars, particularly the able-bodied, older ones, treat begging as a profession. As for the younger children, it was true that they were hungry, but there was a risk involved in handing money over to them because of the corrupted circles of slum-lords over them - people who were exploiting these children and demanding that they earn money for them. I resolved to hand out a snack to the next child who came begging at our window, knowing that at least the food would not be taken away from them, and could be of use. But the opportunity was missed for that day... before I knew it, we were driving through the rich area of town to do some sightseeing. I felt a sense of loss, wishing that I could have a chance to re-do that experience and give the poor baby some crackers.

For the next little while, we looked in awe at the splendor of some of India's beautiful architecture. Such an enormous contrast to the run down, common areas that we had seen thus far. We stood and took a picture in front of an enormous palace, with heavy security and other tourists gawking at it's grandeur. After some photo opportunities, we piled back into the vehicle and headed to a tourist district with shops and street vendors selling their trinkets. We stepped out onto the street, and I was glad to have my feet on solid ground again, feeling a little car sick from the extremely intense driving experience. The air was heavy with heat, humidity, the smell of smoke, burning incense and an occasional whiff of urine. Everything was extraordinarily colorful with people selling saris, wall hangings, scarves and jewelery. Multiple times we were approached by intent vendors "Madam... hello... Madam, come and see!" and having been experienced in the art of discouraging vendors in Thailand, I willfully avoided eye-contact and continued to walk forward. After viewing the wares of a couple streets, we circled back to return to the vehicle to find some lunch.

Suddenly, at my side was a gorgeous young girl, probably 7 or 8, like my own daughter back home, with long curly hair flowing down and her aqua-marine sari accentuating her cocoa skin and brown eyes. She carried several dozen loops of bead necklaces on her arm, and ran her fingers up and down the colorful beads. "You buy?" She asked me, and began to chatter away: "Just 10 rupees... 10 for 100 rupees... you will be my first customer" and she kept in step with me, dancing in front of me, showing off the beads. I smiled at her, this pretty young girl who was so precious and cunning, but gently shook my head. "No." I replied.

She spent another 30 seconds, keeping up with me and chatting about how it was such a deal, that I should buy her necklaces. I really wanted to buy them too, I was totally convinced. But once again, we had no change to offer, only large bills... and she was just one of thousands of street kids... and I couldn't help them all.

Later in the day, as we drove home from our outing, I remember thinking "What am I doing here?" It would seem that I was in a place that would break my tender heart again and again, especially considering my soft spot for these beautiful, dark skinned children. And I had lost the opportunity to offer food to any of the kids - we never did see any on the way back home because traffic kept us moving along at a consistent pace, and no little ones approached our vehicle, giving me a chance to reconcile the feeling of heartbreak. I thought to myself that I could spend my days walking up and down the streets, handing out food to the hungry. Yet, would it make a difference? - or just serve to make myself feel better, that I had done something, that I wasn't entirely helpless.

I have a lot more to see and learn and do here in India. I don't think it will be easy. I know my heart will be broken. I don't know what I can change. But I'm here... and I'll keep praying that God will use me and I hope you will pray for me too.

7 Days In India - Arrival

2011-11-25T08:43:00.001-07:00

November 23, 11:45pm

We finally arrived in Delhi and followed the flow of people off the plane and out into the airport. I knew I was definitely in Asia when I used the public restroom and the toilet was a "squatty potty". It was as if Asia was saying to me: "Welcome back!" Not exactly the warm welcome I was looking forward to after nearly 24 hours off travel!

We followed the throng of people down a long passageway then down an escalator in to a large open area that was crowded with hundreds of people, all competing for a good place in line to go through India's customs department. Again, the crowds literally pressed against us with no regard for our personal space and in a more humid, warm climate, I felt the sweat begin to trickle down my back.

Yet, we were here! And despite the exhausting journey, I was excited to leave this clean, westernized government building and step out into the night air where the smells, sounds and sights would tell me of India. It was an exciting feeling to come out into the meeting area that was lined up with eager people waiting for family members, along with drivers holding up placards with names written on them. We scanned the line and saw two young men holding a sign "Dan and Lisa" and I waved and we greeted our first new friends from Delhi.

They kindly helped up with our baggage and led us to a small - and I mean SMALL - van. It was similar to a VW van, but even thinner and so tiny it almost felt like India must be the origin of the Smart-Car, except that they make smart-vans designed to transport large groups of people in a TINY space.

Very soon we learned that the honking of your horn is synonymous with signalling and making other drivers aware that you are about to crash into them if they don't get out of your path. There is no typical sense of order in Indian driving, and the lines on the road are more decorative than meaningful. Within two minutes of being seated on the back bench of this tin can - I mean 'tiny van', we came within 12 inches of careening into another vehicle on the road. The style of driving is a continual game of "chicken" with the other vehicles. To get to your destination quickly, you squeeze into any space available whether it's in the middle of a proper lane, or on the shoulder of the road. The result is that instead of the normal 2 lane highway, there is a much more "efficient" 4 or 5 "lanes" squeezed into the same amount of space which we would use for 2 cars back in Canada. Oh, and that's not including the motorcycles and bicycles that wind their way through the congestion of traffic.

Being that it was the middle of the night, thankfully we didn't have to experience the swarms of vehicles that would normally be there... that would wait for the following day. Soon enough, daylight would come and we could observe the culture, the people, and experience the traffic with greater clarity and intensity!

7 Days In India - Travelling

2011-11-24T03:30:00.001-07:00

November 22, 2pm - Calgary Airport

I slept like a baby, and awoke thinking rather calmly: I'm going to India today.

I'll admit that I was teary-eyed, saying "goodbye" to all my little ones, and my sweet 5 year old was wailing and clinging to me, determined to keep me from going out the front door. For a few minutes, my heart was shut inside the entryway of our home, with my children, as we drove away towards Calgary. Would my little ones survive without me? Would my little baby (only 23 months) grow up and learn all sorts of things while I was away?

Well, those worries all blew away as we traversed the highway from Lethbridge to Calgary. In fact, we were quite literally blown with the incredible blast of wind that was gusting in from the mountains, towards us. As we left our home, where was a wind warning for our area and tumble weeds - and some vehicles, even, were blowing forcefully across the highway and into the ditch! (We saw one overturned trailer along Highway 2.)

We enjoyed a last "Canadian meal" - actually, we had sushi and terryaki beef - before we dropped our van off and hopped onto a shuttle to go to the airport. I have to say that it was in that moment, as we left the van and everything familiar behind, that it suddenly began to feel real! With a panicked look, I counted and re-counted our baggage - just 5 bags? How could there be so few? Then Dan and I smiled at one another, realising that we were without kids! Yippeee!!! Free---eee---dommmmm! It certainly simplified things when it came to traveling.

The reality of India came even closer to us when we were dropped off at the airport doors, right behind an Indian family all dressed for their pilgrimage home. It reminded me of our last missions experience, on our way to Thailand. When we lined up for our trans-Pacific flight in L.A., we were the ONLY white people... and we had 3 little blond-haired, blue-eyed children that only served to further single us out as the only non-Asians traveling on the flight. It was so exciting, knowing that we were about to experience something so different and life changing!

Well, it's about time to board and Dan just switched his clock to India standard time: 3:12am. Sheesh... it's already tomorrow and our journey has just begun.

On the plane, just after take-off:

I just heard an interesting announcement from the flight attendant - The first-class compartment will be served meals from the menu, created by top chefs. The economy class will be served "carefully selected meals and beverages". Hmmm... should I be jealous? Just what does a "carefully selected meal" taste like? What does it mean? Apparently, it means delicious, as this picture below will show you. And if fact, it was quite tasty - for airline food.

"Delicious Meal" as seen on the orange label...

Amsterdam Airport - 9:50am

Although we are not yet in India, the Indian culture was beginning to press upon me - literally! we were lined up in a switchback roped-off area, passing through airport security in order to board our plane to Delhi. At this point, there were very few white people in our midst and I got a real taste of the manner in which Indians interact and relate in a crowd. I noticed right away that the idea of "personal space" was not understood by Indians the way it is understood, and upheld, by Canadians. Continually, I could feel the people in line behind me pressing closer, jostling my backpack and even making me wonder if I should keep an eye on my valuables! Then, when the boarding call came, the entire crowd was pushing forward, all eager to acquire prime baggage space for their carry-on items, and settle themselves into their seats comfortably. This was a lot different than I was used to, being a conservative Canadian, but I figured I'd better get used to it considering I'd soon be staying in a city inhabited by 20,000,000 people!

Next stop... India!

7 Days In India - Quick Impressions

2011-11-24T02:59:00.003-07:00

No, this isn't where we're staying... this is the Prime Minister's house in Delhi!

Well, we've hardly been here for more than 12 hours, but we are attempting to immerse ourselves into the culture and went out for lunch today with the pastor, who also showed us a few sights. Along the way, I saw many unusual and colorful examples of India's culture - all on the side of the road. Here's a very brief and slightly humorous take on some of the elements of my Indian experience thus far.

Things to do on the side of the road in Delhi:

1. Get your head shaved by an experienced road-side barber.

2. Face yourself away from traffic and go pee. (Yes, seriously, I saw at least 4 guys peeing on the side of the road since we've arrived!)

3. Avoid the herd of stray, mangy dogs or just lay down on the grass and hang out with them.

4. Get a treat from the "Mother Dairy" ice cream vendor with his rickshaw cart.

5. Hang up your laundry in a tree to dry and become breezy fresh - if you like the pollution/urine/incense-scented dryer sheet smell, that is.

That's all for now! Stay tuned and I'll post more of our trip's adventures very soon!

7 Days in India - Background

2011-11-22T00:19:00.001-07:00

My love affair with India started many years ago. My first neighborhood that I can remember, was in the heart of Northeast Calgary, and we were surrounded by "foreigners" - gorgeous people with dark eyes; bronzed skin and rich, black hair - unless it was covered up by a turban. To be honest, the men with turbans scared me a little bit - but not because I was racist in any way - I was a modern-world child, raised on Sesame Street, and indoctrinated with the mindset that we should love everyone and accept everybody; no matter their skin colour.

No, the reason turbans signaled a slight fear in me as a child resulted from a slight incident involving myself and my brother one afternoon. He was helping me ride his two wheeler, and I steered poorly, careening into somebody's parked car! We ended up causing the side-view mirror to be knocked to the side and I think it was even a little broken! A dark skinned man in a salmon colored turban came running down his front walkway, yelling at us "dumb kids" for crashing into his vehicle. Innocent as we were, at around 5 and 7 years of age, we still held responsibility in damaging this man's car. Thankfully my father was nearby and made amends, promising to make the mirror as good as new. (And of course, we were in big trouble!)

What I remember in particular about my desire to see India starts with a church service in the earlier part of my teen years. A man came to our church one day to talk about his life as a pastor in India. He was a man that seemed to be clothed in humility - not trying to impress us with his manner of speech or dress; but a sincere, truly grateful man who wanted to be a blessing to our rich, comfortable North American congregation. His black hair was speckled with grey and there were lines of fatigue and stress on his forehead. You could tell that he was a man who had been through much in his lifetime... a man who had given much. And indeed, he told us stories of the persecution he and his wife and children faced as believers in a resistant culture. This is not just name-calling and unpopularity that they suffered, but real, physical persecution.

He told us of the unwanted, the orphans and the desolate lives of those living in slums. He also told of of the atrocity of bride burning - where young women are literally burned alive because their family cannot offer an adequate dowry for their daughters. Some women, who manage to escape, are terribly disfigured from the violent abuse and are reduced to being outcasts, with no hope or future to speak of. As a very young woman, I was completely horrified and heart-broken at the thought of these events.

Since then, I had a deep desire to travel to this land of intense culture... so rich and vibrant and crowded and apparently smelly! Surprisingly, the closest I have come thus far to a deeper understanding of Indian culture was in the small industrial city of Sriracha, Thailand, when we lived there as missionaries 6 years ago. We had a family living directly across from us, and beside us in our community who were from India! My neighbor, Madpa was kind and helpful and her husband was a manager in a factory nearby. It seemed that Indians made successful managers and often worked in Thailand because they were more naturally assertive and motivated than the locals tended to be. I would often hear through our open windows the pleasant sound of Madpa and her family chattering amicably with one another in Hindi or some other Indian dialect. Another memory I have was how Madpa and her friend from across the street would lace up their runners, and dressed in their beautiful, colorful saris, would go for an early evening walk almost every night! I secretly wished I could join them, but just didn't feel "cool" enough... after all, I was just a shy white girl in Thailand... and they were gorgeous, talkative Indian women.

Now my bags are packed for our trip to India and I am cautiously excited for our journey to begin. The caution comes from the thought that we just need to get ourselves on the plane, on our way, and then I can really relax and become excited about the adventure that is about to unfold. Now I will really get to visit India - not in documentary form or on the pages of a magazine, but in real life with full-color and full-smell!

The Journey - A Chronicle of Discipline

2011-11-19T05:56:00.000-07:00

I grew up on the Prairies. The land rolls on and on, adorned with combines, barbed wire fences and miles of cropland. On one side, the fields seem to crumple and burst into mountains, like rumpled covers on my bed, bringing a sense of disruption into an otherwise smooth terrain.

Today I thought about the life of a farmer. If I were to stare at my naked field in the spring, and begin to imagine all the hungry people who needed me to provide wheat for bread, and how I must turn this soil into food for thousands, I would be feeling a great deal of responsibility. Before I know it, my imaginary field is littered with people, all hungry; all with their hands reaching towards me, eyes wide and accusing - waiting for me to provide.

If I focus on the goal of farming: simply that I must produce wheat for bread, I may get lost in the enormous responsibility. For indeed, my long-term perspective states that in order to be a profitable, successful farmer, I must turn my cash into a crop and the crop into cash, BUT, there are many steps along the way. Any good farmer knows that growing things take time. You cannot produce overnight - no matter what people may demand of you, and no matter how responsible you feel to provide. The field must be made ready; soil tilled and enriched with manure, fertilizer. The seeds must be buried in the dark earth, hidden away. Then, through a period of darkness and light, rain and sun, wind and calm - the little plants grow, and are brought to maturity for harvest. The job of the farmer is to adhere to the schedule of plating, fertilizing, irrigating (if needed) and... waiting.

Discipline seems much the same way. Take for example my goals in parenting. It is daunting to think of what I dream I could have with my children - amazing relationships full of deep, meaningful conversations throughout their teen years, spanning into their journey to adulthood. I won't settle for anything less! I'm not just here to "raise" them, feed them, clothe them and the like - I want to KNOW them and connect to them. So, that is my goal; my harvest is true relationship and companionship with my grown kids. Therein lies the panic. I jump ahead in my mind, thinking of what I must become and how far I have to go; how much work must be exerted, how much time, energy and effort I ought to apply to achieve healthy, above-and-beyond relationships.

I don't slow down to see the steps. Plant a seed, water it, wait.... Plant another seed: a kind word, considerate actions, sensitivity... water with grace and encouragement, wait patiently... and they grow.

The discipline is in the waiting. The commitment to discipline comes from questioning the goals - is it worth it? and then discerning "how do I do it?". I take tiny, concentrated baby steps. A cherry seed planted won't be a fragrant, blossoming cherry tree overnight. I can't become an endurance runner simply by desiring to run a marathon (or half-marathon). I speak from experience... progress is slow - you take your first step, then each step becomes another city block that you've run, and more steps turn into another mile, until, one day after much persistence and discipline, you run the race! I didn't sit and dream of being a runner - and after much thought, introspection and pondering was suddenly able to run a long distance! It is not the thought or desire that gets you to your destination, but the dedication and commitment - the daily grind.

You cannot reach what you have not set your sights upon. Each journey requires a destination. But today I wanted to address the issue of self-doubt, frustration, fear and the common question: Can I even do it? Will I ever make it? I ask myself these questions often.

The trail winds; a path that seems under construction with numerous detours, speed traps and uneven pavement with a sharp shoulder that reminds me of the highway from Hope to home (this is a real road - one of the mountain roads between British Columbia and southern Alberta!). It's an uphill, steep, treacherous mountain road with a toothpick of a guardrail between you and the edge of a cavernous valley. Often the passenger in our family vehicle, I've stared down the gaping, hungry hole of rocks and deathly steep descent, thinking - praying, really: "God keep our vehicle on the road!" We maneuver the curves and bends along the way - the hills and valleys, and then, suddenly it all smooths out, and we're back in our territory - the flat, utterly smooth and barren prairies with only the howling wind for company.

Sometimes you have to take life and cut it down to bite-sized pieces in order to keep yourself from gagging and choking. You can't become a great parent, spouse, runner, businessman, leader, or even friend overnight - but it is applying the right attitude, coupled with the right actions, day by day, little by little that leads you to success. The discipline is in the journey; living with foresight and committing to little steps even on the "bad days" and the "dreary days".

The deep, dark soil is rich and baby plants have sprouted - some more quickly than others. Daily I will water, nourish and tend to my crop - investing into the lives entrusted into my care. I won't give up on the outcome - but I'll wait, knowing that the harvest is inevitable.

(My beginning thoughts on discipline can be found in this previous post: A Discipline Craving.)

The "Expert" That Made Me Mad

2011-11-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago, I was quite angered by an article written in a local junk mail flyer/newspaper. A father and motivational speaker/author, was writing an "expert" article on families. Part of this article mentioned the importance of maintaining peace in the home and he stated that he had never once raised his voice at his now 8 year old son. He claimed that it was completely unnecessary in the process of communication and would only serve to demean and belittle his child if he yelled.

"HA!" I scoffed angrily, in my head. "ONE KID? ONE MEASLY KID? Try having six to contend with 24 hours a day, 7 days a week....!!!! Then we'll see who's yelling!"

For a while I thought about how freakishly hard it has been for me to control my anger lately, particularly when it comes to yelling and raising my voice. It's not like I ever say "You stupid kid! You are an idiot!" Of course, I would never demean my children in such a hurtful way. In fact, more often than not, I sound like some sort of coach or military captain, yelling "Let's go!!!" or "Stop right now!" or "Everyone, sit down and shut up!" (Except, I would never, ever say "shut up" to my kids... I actually say "Be quiet" or "Not a word" if I need their silence.)

The problem herein, lies in the volume. Granted, my house is noisy. I have a loud, talkative husband who passed down his noisy genes to my children. So if I am to compete with six people making loud noise all at once, I practically need a megaphone - or some lessons in voice projection.

So back to the "expert" article - what on earth could this guy know about yelling? He doesn't cope with what I have to handle, day in and day out. Yet.... conviction pricked my heart. Isn't this an issue that I have been frustrated with lately? Isn't this exactly one of the things I want to change in my household? I desire greatly to deal graciously with my children. I want to love them with real love - God's kind of love that is patient, kind, self-controlled and abundant.

A spark of inspiration hit me this afternoon that may be a helping hand towards my issue of being a recovering yell-a-holic. How bout a yell-jar? Just like a swear-jar, I would have to throw in a quarter every time I yell at the kids. Then, to be appropriate, I will have to use that cash to buy the kids ice cream or some sort of treat.

I don't want to minimize this issue, but I believe a lot my "problem" is simply an issue of a bad habit. Also, I recognize that along with the consequences of "paying" for each time I break the rule and yell or raise my voice, I need to tune my heart to a different channel and work on the feelings that leave me feeling so out of control. With each quarter that I toss into the jar, there will be a prayer lifted up; asking for wisdom, patience, peace and most of all love for my children.

While this plan may appear to primarily be a "slap-on-the-wrist" sort of consequence, I know that the constant reminder of my actions, and becoming accountable for my faults will inevitably either cause me to change or harden my heart. Frankly, I'm steering towards the former. In the end, each quarter will represent a prayer, and an apology. I don't want to make light of this - rather, I wish to use it as a tool to cultivate change, growth and true repentance in my house. I want my kids to stop yelling and fighting, but I cannot expect them to change if I am giving a bad example.

"Yell-Jar 25 cents per offense"

Well... here goes... I better get to the bank and get a roll of quarters.

Let the journey begin:

A Discipline Craving (?)

2011-11-06T00:17:00.001-07:00

Discipline is one of those four-letter-words... er.. make that ten-letter-words - that makes many of us feel either weary, guilty, pathetically weak, or simply annoyed. Discipline is that thing that makes you get up at 5:45am, so you can go to the gym and participate in a "Body Boot Camp" as part of a New Year's resolution. It is what is needed to lose weight, create habits, complete projects, keep food on the table and gas in the tank as well as being a key ingredient in keeping your important relationships from growing stagnant.

Here are some of the areas which I have recognized in my life that require discipline:

Flossing my teeth at least once a day. No matter what. Even when I'm too tired and I'm getting to bed too late and I just want to flop down and pass out...

Exercising even after I've spent a lazy week or two on vacation - eating way too much junk food.

Getting up in the morning to homeschool my kids - especially when there is no buzzer to tell me when school starts, there's no dress code and the house is reverberating with the noise of kids who are running around on all fours, barking like a herd of wild coyotes.

Saying "no" to the extra large slice of chocolate brownie cake and saying "yes" to a heap of fresh veggies.

Being intentional with my relationship with my spouse - not being given to laziness, but really paying attention to his needs and loving him in a way that he can appreciate.

Committing myself to a purposeful journey towards God: prayer, meditation, Bible study, along with fellowship and accountability with other believers (all essential to further my Christian walk).

It's ironic. I crave discipline, yet fight it with every step. I used to envision myself entering the army as a recruit - because then someone would "whip me into shape" or at least scream at me abusively until I accomplished whatever they required of me.

You'd think that six kids would be an aggressive enough force to establish a greater sense of discipline in my life, yet still, I waver.

Over the next few weeks I will be studying and pondering the idea of discipline. Perhaps I'll even venture into the extreme and attempt a few new habits that bring me to greater heights of this disciplined life that I seek. Yet that brings me to another question: Will I be happy by virtue of the fact that I am more disciplined?

All I can say is that I get so frustrated with life passing me by - with life feeling like a crisis and being filled with panic due the fact that I am neither prepared emotionally or physically to face each day.

So I'm putting it out there into cyberspace... I am pursing a more disciplined path. Stay tuned to see what transpires...

Balloon Despair

2011-10-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

As I opened the door of the little community center following my friend's baby shower, I was bombarded by the tormented howls of my 3 year old boy, running towards me from the parking lot. Thinking that he may have fallen and hurt himself on the way out to the car, I exclaimed "What happened, what's going on?" to the older children.

Little Ben, with tears rolling down his cheeks, blubbered tragically: "My ba-woon... it's gone!" and pointed to the sky at a rapidly disappearing green helium balloon on a yellow ribbon. Relief filled my heart that there was no injury; no scrapes or bruises, yet I couldn't help but sympathize at the heart-felt innocence with which my son continued to mourn, his little finger pointing and his eyes wide with terror at the tiny speck that faded into the clouds, far above the city sky-line.

Instinctively, I knelt down, holding him close and tried to ease his suffering and sorrow. I told him that the balloon was going on a journey, way high in the sky, and that it was having an adventure in the clouds.

"But it's gone!" he protested, as I tugged his little hand and moved him towards the waiting van. The tears still poured down, and unreasonable, over-tired protesting manifested itself.

"Maybe someone can share their balloon with you!" I suggested, hoping to offset the tragedy and distract him. "And we have lots of candy in the van from the pinata!" I bribed.

Thankfully, one of my older children took pity upon their younger brother and offered their balloon to him. I commanded the children to hang tight to each of their strings as we loaded everyone up, bucked them and shut everyone (and every balloon) safely inside.

Driving down the freeway a short time later, the cutest words ever came out of my 3 year old's mouth:

"Mommy," he asked, "Can we go to the airport and get in a plane and find my ba-woon?"

Awwww!!! My heart melted at his ingenious, yet impossible plan. Sadly, I had to explain that the "ba-woon" was too far away and we wouldn't be able to find it - not to mention the exorbitant cost of chartering a jet (or helicopter) and taking off on a futile mission such as this.

Oh to be young and have the most tragic occasion be the loss of a party balloon. The pain is great and traumatic in nature, bursting forth with wailing and despair - but can be remedied by the simplest of gestures - a sharing sibling or a bright yellow lollipop. If only it were so easy.

I don't have a heartwarming parable or creative quip to share along with the imagery of a balloon sailing beyond reach. Frankly, I'm at a loss to bring closure to the vivid picture that is a comparable depiction of my own life at times - hope drifting far beyond grasp. And I know that I'm not the only one who struggles with hope and despair; success and failure; good days and bad. Sometimes life is beyond control. Sometimes (sorry to burst your bubble) BAD THINGS HAPPEN. And worst of all, there are times when we feel powerless to fix it.

I take heart in the only thing that is sure and true. God's mercies are new every morning. He is faithful. He is the most secure, most real, most true part of my life. (Lam. 3:22)

For the mountains shall depart And the hills be removed, But My kindness shall not depart from you, Nor shall My covenant of peace be removed," Says the Lord, who has mercy on you. "O you afflicted one, Tossed with tempest, and not comforted... In righteousness you shall be established; You shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear; And from terror, for it shall not come near you. (Isaiah 54:10, 11& 14)

The Pedestal

2011-10-02T14:44:00.001-07:00

Once in a while, I find myself basking in the glow of a compliment, often related to being "super-woman" or something ridiculous like that. Like any attention-obsessive woman, the words will roll back and forth though my head for the next few hours or days until they are blotted out by some self-incriminating judgement which I pronounce upon myself.

So is it wrong to aspire to perfection - or, near-perfection? Because I know I'll never look perfect with my stretchmarks and newly found grey-silvery hairs, but at least I can work on my behavior and try to become as "perfect" as I can... Is there a problem with trying to be the "best" mom and wife that I can be?

I try to be all that I can to my children. I give them the opportunities I never had, and I try to make sure they are well-dressed (while maintaining budget-friendly standards) and I spend time with them, doing all sorts of fun, family-friendly activities. I try to be a kind and patient mom, and even though I get angry far too often, I think I usually am doing a decent job as I attempt to connect to my kids and remain attentive to their sensitive, impressionable hearts.

I do my best to be a great wife which involves not talking about diapers and baby-barf all the time, and occasionally dressing up. Which leads me to the fact that I try to be an interesting wife... so I do my best to keep up to speed with my husband's voracious appetite for knowledge of current events, finances and the latest theological debate. I know he doesn't want a wife who will just smile brightly with a vacant stare in her eyes and say: "That's nice, dear!" (having no understanding of what was just said!).

Then there are the "spiritual" hoops which I attempt to jump though, often guiltily, being dictated by what I feel I "should" be doing, not necessary out of love and relationship to my God. But I work at it, and I struggle - trying to read my Bible and journal and pray... and it keeps me going, and I have another check-mark on my list of requirements to be a good person - a good wife, mother and leader.

Is this what I am, though? All this stuff I do is easily shattered by a bad day. I loose my temper and freak out one too many times - or worse yet, I wake up feeling depressed, weary and uninspired, making the entire day something I just have to "get though" and I miss out experiencing the vivacious, joy-filled relationship my family represents.

We try to be super-mommas and we fail. We try to be Martha Stewart and the stock boils over, the garden doesn't produce and our decoupage looks like the art of a 3 year old. We try to be champions of spirituality: ready, and equipped with all the right answers but sometimes we just have to say "I don't understand". We can attempt to be an exceptional lover - always encouraging, always attractive and always able to get that spark going - but some days the words are few and tense, there's too much dirty laundry and you're barely coping with the utter exhaustion to do much more than mumble "G'night" after circumventing another day of near-financial, relational and general household ruin.

Life gets to us. Yet still we strive. We hold up a pedestal, and scramble to stay perched upon it's lofty height. Why?

I don't think it is wrong to have goals. I don't think it is wrong to want your home, your kids and your self to look nice. The wrong comes from misguided priorities; setting your eyes and focus upon an illustrious image.

Some days, you just need a swift kick in the head to keep from obsessing about minor issues - like insisting that all of the tangles are combed out of your child's hair before stepping outside the door, and not inviting people into your home (offering the gift of friendship and hospitality) because you are embarrassed about the finger-smudged walls, crumbs under the table and your threadbare, cheap furniture. Because once you uphold your appearance and behavior higher than the act of loving others, and even in a sense loving yourself, you've strayed into dangerous territory.

Lady, it's time to get off the pedestal...

Sometimes I try really hard, and hold myself to far too great a standard because I just don't really love and accept myself. I'm not even really talking about a self-esteem issue, though. I don't believe that we should run around, saying "I'm okay, you're okay, let's just accept our issues because everyone is SPECIAL.." Yuck... blech! On the contrary, I know that I HAVE ISSUES. I screw up. I'm selfish like the rest of society and I let people down. Rather than acceptance based on behavior or acceptance based on just being "human", I know that I need to seek a far more eternal, profound anchor. My anchor and hope rests solely in God's love and acceptance of me. He loves me. Rather than a pedestal, I need an anchor. I need something that will tether me to earth, give me roots, allow me to accept my feet of clay. I can't be all, do all, and look like "all that", all the time!

I have noticed that the true barometer of my actions, and whether I am striving or not, is seen primarily in my happiness and contentment.

If I decide to bake 5 dozen cookies and play in the leaves with the kids, followed by cooking up a gourmet meal and wearing heels and lipstick, and I can do this with joy - not with stress and striving, then it's okay! When I am over-extending, straining and torturing myself to uphold a certain ideal or image - it's wrong!

So what knowledge have I acquired though this dialogue?

I started out, driving down the road, alone in my dark-green, messy mini-van, pondering my propensity to try to be "perfect". I shouldn't try to be a certain way to impress others or even to impress myself. I'm certain that I will continually teeter-totter between right motivation and wrong motivation, but I know well enough to sincerely check my heart and consider whether I am doing things for the right reason. I know I can't live on top of a pedestal. I can't set my heart and happiness on a superficial image of who I wish I could be - because I will continually let myself down.

I wish I could end this posting with some magical phrase that neatly wraps up the point I am trying to make. Unfortunately, this is far too abstract to be whittled down to one sentence. Heart issues are complicated. What I will say though is this: I'm okay with not being perfect. I know that my worth and merit is not based on all that I do. However, I will still do my best in all areas of life. It's not wrong to challenge yourself and work hard - but it is important to be cautious about idolizing a certain image or ideal.

"Super-Momma" is not exactly the right term for me - I'm more of a "Super (but not perfect) Momma".

This Wild Ride

2011-09-30T14:43:00.002-07:00

If you really must know what life is like in a large family, I'm here to spill the beans. It's not all glee and giggles, but it's also not always messes and noise, either.

When I decided to have a large family (and my husband, surprisingly agreed), what I signed up for and what I received, was much more than I expected. I was picturing a serene, homey, "Little Women" sort of family - my children adoringly crowded around me in front of the fireplace on a cold winter's day as I read classical literature. Instead, today as I read a chapter of a biography to my older kids, I was interrupted a minimum of 32 times by the following:

"Mo----ommmmmm! I'm done!!!!" (yelled from the bathroom, by my 3 year old.)

"Can we have a snack???? Mom, can we have a snack? Mom, I'm hungry!!! Can we have a snack!?"

"Mom-meeeee! She took my toy!!!"

Then there was the very bad, very horrible smell coming from the vicinity of the toddler...

Then some spilled water, another bathroom break, the breaking up of the younger siblings' squabble and.. finally, we were done a chapter!

Speaking of interruptions at inconvenient times, I've often wondered how many diaper changes has our family has gone through over the past 12 years. Given that there has NEVER been a period of time with no diapers, and that we have had significant stretches of time with 2 children in diapers, I am guesstimating that we have gone through at least 30,660 diapers!!! (Before you freak out about how our family has single-handedly filled up the space of a small-town's landfill, I have tried to be kind to the environment and have used a mix of both cloth and disposable diapers.)

Besides the thousands of diapers, there are the immense mountains of laundry, the gigantic grocery bills, the endless crumbs on the floor and the fight for the use of the bathroom that occurs on a daily basis. Yes, having a large family is expensive - but I will argue that it is not so much in a monetary sense, but in the areas of time, emotions, commitment and responsibility.

These are the areas which I didn't envision in young motherhood. When we had our fourth baby - who was content and sweet, and hardly any trouble at all, I was quick to sign up for more! Suddenly (I think it was about 2 years ago), we had 5 kids, I was 7 months pregnant, getting ready to move into a VERY unfinished home and our 1 year old was the most mischievous trouble-maker I had ever seen! I was trying so hard to keep in a state of calm. I counted my blessings continually. I closed my eyes to the mess around me. Most of all, I just tried to survive!

While many of you are probably ready to write me off as insane, I do have a point to make. Raising young children (and raising many young children) is a lot of work. However, on the plus side, my organizational skills have grown by leaps and bounds! I have the ability to multi-task in the worst of situations - chaos and screaming can be all around me, and I can still answer the phone, stir the pot of stew and hold the baby on my hip; all at the same time (while giving my children a glare that invokes their silence).

Besides some fantastic skills, my children are an endless source of comedy, companionship and cuddles. As they grow and their personalities become more pronounced, I am astounded at their love and care and how they are so different from each other and from me! Six children means that I have way more opportunities to be proud of my family; having so many kids to watch excel in different areas of life!

Large families are bustling families - and there is always someone around to talk to, offer a helping hand or just keep you company. Holidays like Christmas are full of joy and happiness and the house is brimming over with excitement.

If I were to think more industriously about my large family, just consider of all the little workers I have in my home. (Sweat shop, anyone?) We can make up our own sports team in a church tournament or even play music together and start a traveling family band - more like a circus, really! Okay... I'm getting a little ridiculous now!

In the end, I can conclude wholeheartedly that raising a large family and being in a full house is hard. Sometimes really hard. You have many opportunities to lose your temper and feel selfish. Sometimes you just want to be alone, and there is a little person who needs you - again! Sometimes my husband and I wonder, that with all the emotional output required for our children, how we will ever have time and energy for each other.

Yet it is in the challenge that I am stretched, and my patience increases, and I grow. I invest, and the returns will come back to me for generations. Too soon, I will be visiting my children's homes, allowing them to cook for me and serve me. Their lives will become wound up with the demands of young families and I will be winding down; basking in the warmth of grand-babies.

Raising a (large) family is truly like a wild ride in an amusement park. You basically climb in, buckle up and hang on for dear life. Sometimes you feel overwhelmed and you think you're gonna barf - other times, you are taking it all in, eyes wide open, experiencing the many thrills of child-rearing.

Inspired By "Captain America"!!!

2011-09-28T15:54:00.002-07:00

There are two sides to a super-hero story.

First there are those who yearn to be saved by that knight in shining armor or the handsome, muscly man in red or yellow or blue tights, namely the common folk who are oppressed or in danger. Then there are those who secretly wish to be that hero; the underdog who came out of nowhere, who was bestowed a super-human gift of strength (or some other extraordinary ability) and becomes the awe and inspiration of the downtrodden.

My hubby and I went to the cheap theater and saw Captain America last night. Now before you laugh and dismiss my blog posting because you think that movie was "so lame" or predictable, I must say with all honesty that I quite enjoyed the movie and it sparked a deeper message within my heart, beyond the money-making, mindless entertainment than I expect the producers intended.

Right off the bat, you are reluctantly drawn into the story of the good-hearted yet scrawny young man named Stephen, who wishes, more than anything, to become enlisted in the army during WWII. He's so awkward, nerdy and dejected, in fact, that I found myself impatient for the part of the movie where they change him into something great; transforming his body into that of a full-grown, good-looking man so I wouldn't have to wince at his puny stature and all-around pathetic-ness.

I won't get too much into the story, but based on Stephen's character, not his physical stature, he is finally accepted into the army. The night before the procedure, the scientist (who pulled the strings to get Stephen accepted) explains that he has chosen him to be transformed into the super-soldier because what matters most is Stephen's heart. Stephen understands what it is like to be weak, and will not forget it. His objective is not power and control, but compassion for those bullied by the Nazis.

The next morning, Stephen is taken to a top-secret laboratory, strapped into a machine with tubes and wires and all sorts of fantastical gadgets, and there is success: In walked a shrimp - out walks an over-sized Calvin-Klein jeans model (not like the waifs that are favored these days, but a manly-looking man with a six pack and bulging biceps). Stephen's new-found strength is immediately put to the test with twists and turns of conspiracy (as can be expected) that cause this honest, genuinely caring American boy to transform into a hero, overnight!

I won't get any further into the story, as I wouldn't want to give too much away, should you decide to see the movie for yourself. So what is it about this Hollywood blockbuster that captured my imagination and heart, you ask? Well, if I admit it, I've always wanted to be one of the heroes. I grew up with a compassion for the losers, nerds, fat kids, underdogs - you name it. In elementary school, I was was voted more than one year as "Student of the Class", namely for my popularity - not because I dressed the best or had money or was the coolest - but because I continually expressed care and extended friendship to all my fellow classmates. Anyway, I'm not saying this to get brownie points or anything - but I think perhaps the fact that I have experienced hurt in my past has caused me to turn around and have a passion to help those who are hurting. I hate to see people feel left out or alone.

Super-hero Me!

That being said, I'm no super-hero. I get grumpy and selfish with the best of them and when it comes down to it, I don't know if I am willing to pay the price of laying down my life for others! So I'm left at a quandary. Apart from being bit by a radioactive-spider or being selected by a mad-scientist to be magically transformed, I doubt I'll ever be able to attain the heights of wonder-woman on my own.

This is what captivated me about the movie, Captain America. It was pointed out, more than once, that Stephen was weak and pathetic. Yet it was his weakness that made him a candidate for super-human strength. It was his scrawny little arms and his asthma-weakened body that prepared him to operate in the capacity of America's hero.

The Bible talks about a surprisingly similar principle when it comes to accomplishing great things for God. 1 Corinthians 1:27 tells us:

But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty;

It seems that the best place for Christ's power to be displayed is through my weakness. (See 2 Cor. 13:9) When you have a chance to see the oppressed, weak and weary rise up to do something incredible, it brings much glory to God. Then you have witnessed a miracle - the miracle of God's power at work, and His strength shining through human frailty.

Furthermore, those who lack great abilities; intelligence, strength, prowess and even popularity - possess a humility when given the opportunity to succeed. This sort of person KNOWS that they have accomplished something beyond their means, having risen above their circumstances and they are unassuming enough to not take the credit. The best sort of hero is a humble one, not allowing arrogance to defile their pursuits.

-but the people who know their God shall be strong, and carry out great exploits. (Daniel 11:32)

...you don't know what you got till it's gone...

2011-09-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

I've lost my Bible.

It's not that I don't have other ones - I even carry the Word on my phone, and it's just a click of the mouse away on the computer - but I've lost MY Bible. The one that is written on, highlighted and marked; with pages bent and many of them tattered and torn by busy little people's hands. This is the book that I've dropped my precious tears onto... found clarity, peace, hope, light when no one else could speak to my pain.

I haven't read it as much as I should. I haven't drank in the words - God's poetry - nearly as often as I should. I already miss the caress of the love-story, written with me in mind. I miss the fatherly, heart-felt discipline that it spoke to me whenever I was floundering.

How often to we overlook the precious? How often do we miss the treasure, sitting right in front of our eyes?

I'm sobered with the reality of that which I have taken for granted. Blessings are the things which we acknowledge gratefully - our eyes wide open with clear vision; not clouded by the mundane. Whether it is our children, family, homes, the sunshine and the trees - or, a favorite book - count each blessing!

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you got till it's gone
-Joni Mitchell

Trying, Failing, and Needing Grace

2011-09-01T15:48:00.003-07:00

They know how to push my buttons.

What starts as a minor sense of disgruntlement, quickly shifts to intensely frustrated, reactive behavior.

And sometimes I wonder how on earth someone so much younger, less wise, and so small - can manage to control me so easily!

So I walk away from another fruitless, ineffective lecture; flustered and worn down - and I retreat, hiding in my room; face-down on the bed, begging God to help me, change me...

I can't do this "mothering" thing. I don't say the right things and I am overcome by my selfishness and pride when I should be the one teaching and leading and guiding my kids into maturity.

I'm immature and I overreact. I feel like I need to have a tantrum! and really, I just need to disperse of the yucky, sinful, me-focused person that wants to rule my emotions and behavior.

On Sunday, it was explained that the purpose of Christianity is primarily 'dying to self'. The whole point of serving Jesus, is not that we get whatever we want, and that we get to be immune from this mucked up, sin-diseased world, but we are now fully His (our lives belong to Him) by a choice to believe and SURRENDER.

I was reading 1 John 2, and was drawn to verses 3-5 which say:

Now by this we know that we know Him, if we keep His commandments. He who says, "I know Him," and does not keep His commandments, is a liar, and the truth is not in him. But whoever keeps His word, truly the love of God is perfected in him. By this we know that we are in Him.

Often, I've read this passage and told myself: I must not love Jesus enough... I'm so far from being like Him and His character just isn't evident in my life! This seems even more obvious when I think of how often I lack grace in my reaction to my kids and my spouse.

So I press into the idea that I MUST become more obedient. That's the ticket, isn't it? Even non-believers can agree that Jesus taught principles for living that can benefit all of mankind. Selflessness, sacrifice, giving to those in need, and laying down my life... if I could just follow all of the guidelines, then I would be better!

This just isn't how it works, though. What I saw in these couple of verses was not an accusation and demand for more obedience. What I am dealing with isn't an obedience issue! In actuality, my issue is concerning love.

If the love of God was truly within me, then I would treat others respectfully, be patient and kind and I would raise my kids with an abundance of grace. When I attempt to "do" all the right things, and tell myself to act a certain way, to "obey" all the New Testament guidelines, I am, as they say "putting the cart before the horse".

Love is what must dictate my actions.

This leaves me exposed, naked and helplessly human - for I know that I simply can not do this (be a mother, friend, lover) by stubbornness, will and determination. I am parched soil, desperately yearning for the gift of God's love and grace to be poured out upon me.

As I cried out my frustration this morning, instead of asking God to change my children and stop them from being "brats", I asked God to just LOVE me. It's me who needs a revolution. I'm the problem! I'm insecure - and out of my brokenness, I lash out at others when I should be leaking out the love and grace that was freely given to me through the cross.

Additionally, I turned to gratitude. Part of knowing His love is seeing the blessing that surrounds me. It's seeing those loud, healthy, lively children with their keen minds and quick wit and even when I feel at the end of my rope, they are still a blessing. By gratitude, I begin to see God clearly, seeing all that He Is and has given to me, and I will be settled and made secure in His love.

The biggest issue of all, is my belief in His love.

This song "The Love Of God" played by Ascend The Hill, seems to encapsulate the message I'm wrestling with today. Sometimes we just need to steep ourselves in the very idea of God's love, accepting it and allowing it to wash over our worn-out emotions. I recommend that you close your eyes, listen, and allow the words to penetrate your heart... that you might glimpse and retain the reality of God's love for you.

"As the Father loved Me, I also have loved you; abide in My love." (Jesus, John 15:9)

But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8)

...that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the width and length and depth and height-- to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Eph. 3:17-19)

Do I, and will I believe?

Desperately driven by my desire to change, I must believe. It's my only hope!

Goodbye to Summer?

2011-08-31T15:05:00.002-07:00

It's gloomy and dark outside. Some would say "Welcome!" to the cooler, fall-like weather, but I am dissapointed as summer's kiss seems to have just tickled my skin for a moment before the clouds once again took over the sky.

I haven't the heart to confine my kids to the dining-room table for schoolwork, and binders lay scattered about, books sit unopened, undone, unread and indoors is uncommonly quiet and still.

They chatter and squeal outside, building blanket forts in the still-soft grass, under the trees. For a moment, there is a bustling and tumbling indoors, and cheeks are pink and cool (is it really the last day of August?) and I offer them a left-over bag of chips to take to their castle in the yard.

A sweet daughter hands me a miniature bouquet of tiny white flowers; pretty yet with an unpleasant scent, and I thank her for her generosity as she bounds away to play - carefree and content.

In my heart, I wish that I could have forever summer... the endless non-routine playtime, basking in sunshine, laziness and memory-making moments with my family. Each day is carelessly packed with discovery, adventure and a grateful appreciation for the world around us.

However, part of me longs, in quiet expectation, for the sense of accomplishment and contentment that fall will bring. As the air turns crisp like the leaves on the trees, and they fall crunchy and mulchy onto the sidewalk, we will turn our hearts to home; family times on the couch, reading by the fire, snuggling with hot cocoa (and perhaps a pumpkin spice latte!).

Seasons come and go - summer is a gentle reminder to relax, let go, "don't worry, be happy" while autumn seeps an urgency and prods us to regain our footing; become productive and re-enter the normal hustle and bustle of society's schedule.

I won't let myself forget the warm, lazy days. I will engrave them upon my memory, revisiting the moments with urgency when winter's cold grip comes to take over and threaten me. Even now, I remember the frost, the snow, the icicles hanging from the eves - the bone-chilling cold; the hibernation never-want-to-leave-home feeling that takes over... I'll close my eyes tight and find the sights and sounds of summer within - those moments that etched a wondrous tranquility and fulfillment in my soul.

The Summer Sun Shone Round Me
THE summer sun shone round me,
The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.

The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
"The winter comes apace."
Robert Louis Stevenson

Over-Protective Parenting

2011-08-30T16:35:00.002-07:00

When my first baby was born, nearly 12 years ago, I was an uncommonly calm and relaxed mother. Certainly, I did my duty and took prenatal vitamins faithfully, read all the important baby books, took my newborn to her routine check-ups and vaccinated her and I paid close attention to all the developmental milestones. Frankly, I've strayed far off the path of "normal" and now my parenting looks a far cry from what it did in it's early years - not that I neglect my children in any way, but I'm not as "protective" and cautious as I once was.

Even so, I never took protectiveness to the extreme. I've know such parents, who ascribe to rigid schedules of feedings, bathing and educational stimulation. They sterilize, organize and continually verbalize (in at least 2 languages) in order to guarantee their child's healthy, successful development and growth. This is the parent who painstakingly follows his/her child around with disinfectant and antibacterial spray, guarding precious little Suzie or Johnny from germs, dirt and other harmful objects. If a toy drops from the baby's hand onto the floor, it is quickly whisked away, to be dutifully sterilized before being returned to the toy shelf. To be honest, I became so lax that my baby's soother could be on the floor for a day or two and I'd have no problem popping it into their mouth! (Hey, don't be shocked... doesn't that promote their natural immunity?)

As little Suzie grows up, it becomes apparent that she is the victim of an over-protective parent. Never allowed to play outside alone, never allowed to talk to the mailman, grocery store clerk or even the zit-faced teen at the McDonald's counter, Suzie is sheltered and cloistered away from the "big, bad, scary world". This is the child who must wear full-body protective gear when bicycling or riding on his scooter. When all the other boys are wearing cut-off jeans and just their helmets as they bike up and down the street on a hot, sunny day, poor Johnny has elbow pads, knee pads, shin guards, and a full-face helmet. Oh... and Mom is on the porch with her eagle eyes to keep watch for bad guys who might show up in the neighborhood. And when Johnny stops by the house, she jumps up, wipes his nose with a tissue that she pulls out of her pocket and asks: "Are you sure you're not over-exerting yourself, sweetheart?"

Sure, as parents, we desire to shield our kids from harm. In fact, on a daily basis I make choices to safeguard my kids and to prevent them from suffering the consequences of inappropriate situations. Yet there came a time when I had to "let go" a little, and show some trust and confidence in my kids. I even have learned to let my kids make the occasional mistake... so they can then learn from the consequences. I let my toddler run around with wobbly exuberance even though I know he will occasionally fall and end up with a few bumps and bruises. I even let him climb onto things, to a certain degree, knowing that when he gets himself into a position that is "scary" for him - like on top of our big, king-sized bed, he'll have to ask for help to get down, and perhaps learn his limitations!

I've even found that homeschooling brings it's own challenges regarding protectiveness, in that I decide how to grade and score my children's work. For a while, I felt badly about marking an "X" on my children's work, as if it would damage their emotional well-being... Over time, I've learned that making mistakes is a part of life, and recognizing that you have done wrong is the first step in improvement! My kids have to own up to their behavior, and if they have incomplete work, I don't shield them from it - but I try to patiently guide them to amend their work so they can learn and better themselves.

Extreme cases of over-protectiveness result in children who never fully mature. These are the kids (adults, actually) whose parents bail them out, time and time again, despite their age and capability to care for themselves. I'm talking about an able-bodied human being who lives with his parents and can't hold down a steady job; sleeps-in every day and stays up late, playing video games - and I would argue that this is not entirely his fault. Somehow, this behavior has been continually enabled and supported. This is an extreme case, of course, and obviously is unhealthy for both the parent and the grown-up child. The problem is, it's not for lack of love that an adult turns out this way. In most cases, the mother (and sometimes father) are exceptionally loving towards their child. In fact, they care SO MUCH that they just don't want anything bad to happen to their child. They don't want them to know the hurts and pains of reality - they don't want them to know humiliation, rejection or for their child to experience the pain of lack. (Like lacking designer jeans..., or the latest video game... or 'spending money' for pizza and beer...) If you argued with this parent and told them that "if you really loved your child, you wouldn't enable them.." it may take a while for this concept to actually sink in because they feel they have done nothing but love their child!

I think we can all agree that healthy parenting involves a certain measure of restraint when it comes to allowing our children to experience the consequences of their behavior. Consequences make excellent teachers. As parents, we ought to allow our children to learn valuable lessons from their actions.

Something I realized recently was how my idea of God really doesn't line up with this simple parenting principle. I think we often expect and desire for God to act like an over-protective parent. We want Him to shield us from EVERY painful consequence, no matter how responsible we are for our individual actions. We blame Him when things don't go the way we want, even though the results line up with our behavior. We get mad or become hard-hearted, thinking that God doesn't really love us, and that He's actually a cold-hearted monster in the sky for allowing hardship into our lives. Now, I'm not trying to address tragedy and the horrible atrocities that this sinful world contains. So don't get the idea that I'm saying "God wanted your brother to die in a car accident so you could learn a lesson" or something ridiculous like that. I'm talking more along the lines of dealing with your personal finances, or troubles with relationships or even personal issues which you have allowed to slide over time, and now you're feeling like you've been dealt an unfair hand in life. Often we look up at God with accusation and think: "Why don't you change this problem!?" We question the struggle, and don't see the lesson and opportunity for development that is knocking at our door.

My thought is this: If God made our lives easy and perfect (which couldn't happen anyway due to our imperfections..) then how would we ever learn, grow, develop and mature? Sure, there are times when I feel overwhelmed and frustrated and hurt. But if God were to treat me in the manner of an overprotective parent, cushioning me in a bubble of cotton fluff to prevent me from ever being poked, stretched, challenged or hurt - who would I become? I'd be that spoiled, over-grown child; bloated with a sense of entitlement and selfishness.

Realistically, I believe that God does shelter us from our actions a lot more than we could ever think or comprehend. Having children, I know for certain that my kids really do use up the work-hours of their guardian angels... considering how many almost-poked-out-eyes and should-have-been-broken bones we've encountered as a family. Even more so, I'm certain that God has prevented some horrible situations in my life. I sense His leading and protection on a continual basis and I know that what I've received is far better than I deserve!

The thought I really wanted to express, was the idea of God as a parent. Whatever it is that you expect from God, and whatever attributes you have ascribed to Him, must be filtered through the idea of a wise, loving, perfect parent who desires to see us mature and grow and develop. I believe it hurts him when He sees us make mistakes - in the same way that I hurt when my children make poor choices. That doesn't mean I stop them from all of their mistakes, though. I understand the importance of growth by accountability. I hold my kids accountable when appropriate, and bail them out when appropriate. It may seem a bit lame, but there is plenty of truth in the saying: No pain, no gain! Like it or not, there are times in my life where I will be challenged - it doesn't mean God doesn't like me and isn't watching out for me; in fact it actually is a sign that He LOVES me and is cheering me on, as I journey towards maturity.

Home Alone: A Sign of Growing Up

2011-08-19T15:18:00.003-07:00

Don't leave the house.
Don't answer the phone. (Unless you recognize the caller id...)
Don't turn on the stove or oven.
Stay out of the cupboards.
Don't give your little brother a bath.
Don't go on the internet.
Don't turn on the fireplace.
Don't fight!
Don't make a mess. (Or you will most certainly clean it up.)
Don't do any experiments with electrical appliances, water, fire, the freezer, food, paint, scissors, yourself or (most especially) your siblings while I am gone!

Do be good.
Be quiet.
And BE RESPONSIBLE!

This is just a sample of the tangent of concerns I race through before leaving one of my older kids in charge of things when I have to step out for a quick errand. I've embarked upon a stage of new freedoms, as my oldest kids cruise into further maturity and the ability to babysit. Yet there are so many considerations and areas of constraint which I need to impress upon my kids, especially considering the fact that they are not just responsible for themselves, but are helping to care for their younger siblings as well, including a very energetic, explorative toddler. That is why the majority of times I leave the toddler in one of my older children's care, it is during one of his naps so the likelihood of mishap is greatly reduced.

At some point in time, my children will grow in wisdom, and instead of following a precise, clearly defined, over-explanatory set of rules and regulations, they instead will be governed by the knowledge they possess and the reasoning that comes from internalizing a situation and thinking with their hearts. Isn't that what maturity is about? We say that a person is mature if they can think before they speak, make sound decisions and not act based on their emotions and just "living for the moment". A mature person has the ability to foresee the results and future consequences of their actions. (Unfortunately our society is populated by a rather large number of immature adults, judging from this definition.)

So, until my oldest children posses a great deal more maturity, I will continue to spell out with extreme clarity, the "Do's" and "Don'ts" of being left home alone. The last thing I want to come home to is some sort of odd science experiment gone wrong, with the firemen at my doorstep, blue smoke pluming out the doors and windows, half-naked children crying on the grass (because who doesn't love to run around the house in your underwear?) and my eldest son, Ethan, saying "I know I'm in big trouble, but that was really COOL!"
No thank you. I'll do my best to prevent that sort of unfortunate event.

This got me thinking about our growth as believers. In a state of immaturity, we long for rules and regulations, and think "If I can just follow this teaching, that prayer or this new revelation, my Christian walk will be dandy!" However, the fact is, what matters the most is what is going on inside of our hearts. The more we truly know the Lord, the more it becomes fixed in our hearts how He would like us to act. We've all seen or heard of stories where the "book knowledge" or "head knowledge" person goes up against the "life-experience" person, and just can't compete with the depth of wisdom that comes from living in the real world. How much more so with our Christian walk? We will become the type of people whom God wants to use and work through, not when we have read enough material and attained a Bible College degree, but when we have proven ourselves to be committed to a deep relationship with Him.

My daughter would like to take a babysitter's course so that she can be a "certified sitter" but does that really mean that she will be fully equipped to handle whatever situation that arises? Of course not! It takes experience and maturity to successfully and safely care for children for extended periods of time, and even I've goofed up every now and then! ....Like the time my first born was playing with a penny when she was a toddler, and I thought: "What's the big deal? She wouldn't put it in her mouth..." Moments later, she was gagging and choking, and ended up swallowing the penny. (I felt like a pretty rotten mother at that point!) Then there is the time that this same child was downstairs "helping" me do laundry. She took an empty box of powdered detergent, lifted it upside-down to peer into the "empty" bottom of the box and several granules of leftover soap powder fell directly into her eyes. Oh the screaming!!! ...and the terror that I felt as I frantically called my husband, wondering what to do. From work, he called Poison Control on his other line and instructed me to hold my screaming toddler, face up, and pour water into her eyes for 10 minutes, to rinse them out. For the first 5 minutes, she was screaming a blood-curdling "Mommmeeeey.... Mommmeeeey!!!" Until eventually, she lost hope in me ceasing this horrible activity, and she began a heart-rending plea for "Daddy...", hoping he might come and save her. Yes. That was one of the most horrific parenting moments of my life. (Just so you know, today her eyes are perfectly fine; so rinsing them and enduring the heartbreaking experience of terrorizing my poor child was worth it. Mostly.)

While I can't expect perfection from my kids as they grow up and are left home alone more and more, and likely there will be stains on the carpet, broken dishes and magic-marker war paint on the baby's face when left in the care of the older kids, this can't stop me from allowing them to walk this journey to maturity (with a reasonable amount of guidance). Over time, my rules will become less detailed, and I will simply entrust them to the care for their siblings and the home, and to uphold our family values when they are "in charge".

I think a sign of growing maturity in a Christian is the ability to walk along with less sense of the rules and regulations which "should" govern a believer's life, and instead to have more of a heart-knowledge that beats in tune with the God we love and serve. The more we love and know Him, the better we can serve Him and do His will. I can't always be explicit with my children, but if I instruct them and, most importantly, train them to think with their hearts, and perhaps even say to themselves: "Would Mom want me to do this?" then I can expect that, apart from the occasional mistake, my kids will do fine on their own.

The whole WWJD? "What Would Jesus Do?" craze was a great idea, but frankly, I think most people haven't a clue of what Jesus would do. If you wear the bracelet and then look to it before you make a decision, you might be able to come up with some random scriptures that will help direct you, but if you don't actually KNOW Jesus, and have a relationship with Him, you probably will flounder. I guess what I'm saying here is, my heart is to see Christians (and myself) holding a deeper understanding of "how to live" not based on words written on a page, but by the grace, love, hope and faith that is stamped upon our hearts. And that only comes by knowing God, and growing in your relationship with Him. That takes time and commitment. It can't be obtained by reading another book or listening to another sermon. Those things help, but as I've stressed in the past, it's all about relationship.

It may be helpful, as a Christian, to have clear guidelines and signposts, as it were, to govern your daily living. However, my challenge lies in the idea that to truly live for Christ, you must be transformed from the inside; developing a maturity that comes from a heart in tune with the Savior.
It's all part of growing up.

Summer Thunder

2011-08-17T15:55:00.001-07:00

We have enjoyed an abundance of spectacular summer thunderstorms this year. Many nights have found me staring up into the sky, nose pressed against the window pane as I attempt to absorb the majesty and splendor that flashes chaotically, followed by a tremendous drum roll of thunder.

To bring us all up to speed, I will give a simple, elementary-level definition of what creates the perfect summer storm. "Thunderstorms result from the rapid upward movement of warm, moist air." (Wikipedia) A perfect summer storm will often occur on a humid summer night, after the ground has spent the day absorbing the sun's heat.

Something inside me has always loved the power displayed in a violent, noisy thunderstorm. Perhaps it is the unleashing of "nature's fury" that serves to release my own tensions with each burst of lightning, and the ominous booming of thunder. When a "good storm" is completed, I am calmed by the sound of millions of droplets of rain; the water that seems to wash away bad feelings and leaves me still, quiet and small.

Some of you may have wondered at my lack of postings for the past couple of weeks. The laze of summer days has imposed a silence upon me as I catch up with my troubled thoughts, my stormy feelings and seek to restore a turbulent, hurried life to a place of rest and surrender.

In many ways, I feel like a thunderstorm has been brewing; as my life, so full and heavy, has heated up over time. I've been running hard and fast - in overdrive, with my engine close to overheating. I even came close to zapping a few people with the frustration and frenetic energy which churned inside of me - but the storm remained, contained (barely) inside my heart.

It is no wonder, and no surprise that this decline to my emotions, and this challenge to calm my anger has come directly on the heels of reading about gratitude. It seems that with each new revelation, we are immediately bombarded with something contrary - an attack, as it were, on the new-found knowledge and inspiration.

For the past couple of mornings, I have been waking early and studying scripture relating to thanksgiving. (Not until after I have had a few sips of freshly brewed coffee, that is!) I flipped my Bible open to Psalm 34, and was intrigued by the title above the chapter: The Happiness Of Those Who Trust In God. Yes, please! I am always in line for some extra happiness - especially lately, when I've been feeling drained and burnt out - and I'm already foreseeing and dreading the coming busyness of Fall.

Everything that I previously wrote about, concerning gratefulness and thanksgiving being directly related to joy, was once again reinforced in the first few verses of this psalm. To put it simply, a soul that is focused on the greatness of our God (not on our own, sometimes crappy existence), along with having a heart that lifts up thanksgiving (I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth) results in a HAPPY, contented person.

I've been steaming, and brewing up the perfect summer storm by concentrating on myself. I've been distracted and overwhelmed by the negative, instead of offering gratitude for the many blessings that surround me.

Since I am a mom, various songs from cartoons end up running through my head from time to time, and I wanted to share one on my blog today because it seems quite fitting. I couldn't find the original song, but instead found an acapella version of the Veggietales song "Thankful Heart" from the film Madame Blueberry.

It's not easy to be thankful when you feel stuck in the muck; whether you are overwhelmed by bills, sickness, bad attitudes, work, a struggling marriage, or all of the above. In the end, I believe that there is always something to be thankful for: Sunshine, fresh air, apple pie, sleeping in, baby giggles, family, a good book, summer storms, and most of all, a Heavenly Father who loves us! No matter what is going on, thankfulness can lift your heart above your circumstances and give you the boost you need to get through the day.

A thankful heart is a happy heart.
-Veggietales

Keeping Up Appearances

2011-08-04T10:42:00.003-07:00

I screwed up. I just caught myself in the middle of a lecture trying to pressure my child to change his behavior, using motivation that I have to admit was fundamentally wrong. It's scary, really, how we can shape a child's perception of themselves and the world around them with just a few words.

Let me rewind... This is the second day of VBS (Vacation Bible School) for my kids this summer - and I have to admit, I've been quite giddy with the opportunity to drop my children off at the doorstep of a neighborhood church where they can spend the morning happily playing games, singing songs, and learning about Jesus. (They even give them a snack!) VBS was a part of my childhood, and I well remember the exciting mornings of music, games, drama and crafts... a pleasant distraction from the lull of summer! So I was eagerly anticipating this first week in August which would provide me with my own mini-vacation - a rare chance to have a week of mornings to myself (once my youngest is down for his nap). As a homeschooling mom, I am almost never alone, and I'm not complaining, but I sure do appreciate VBS week!!!!

This morning I promptly arrived at the church, signed in my children and let the elementary-aged children race off, while I walked the preschool kids to their classroom. Within minutes, I was freed (temporarily) of my kids, and walked with happy, lightened steps to my van. Suddenly, I heard my eldest child's voice calling to me, to tell me that her brother was fooling around and trying to run away from his teacher. My nostrils flared and my eyes bugged out a little. All I ask is a quiet couple of hours... is it too much to ask for??? I fumed silently.

The skip in my step deflated to a businesslike stomp as I charged into the building, adorned with the "you-better-shape-up-or-else" expression on my face. The defendant was sitting guiltily on a chair on the side of the room, seemingly confined to a time-out.

Quickly, methodically and expertly I cross-examined him, finding that indeed his behavior was erroneous. Then began the manipulative 'mother-speak' in which I chided him to consider the following: "What will people think of you when you act like a 'crazy' kid?"

To be brutally honest, I was thinking more along the lines of: What will people think of us, the parents? Because like it or not, my kids' behavior creates an impression and reflects on my parenting abilities. Not only that, but my kids have the habit of dropping the line: "I'm a pastor's kid..." as if it is an exclusive V.I.P. pass that will get them special treatment. (Apparently they haven't come to the same revelation that I have regarding titles... the title we hold is far more about responsibility than it is about privilege!)

It was in the middle of this rant about what others would think of him, when I felt conviction prick my heart and I hearkened to the ominous warning I felt in my gut. Suddenly I heard what I was saying; heard how I was trying to motivate my child and pressure him on the basis of appearances, not what really matters. Basically, I was trying to motivate my kid with a form of peer-pressure and fitting in, with concern solely focused on the expectations of those he "should" try to impress.

I can remember growing up with an immense respect for my father and his status in our community, church and his workplace. He was (and still is) a man who people knew to be honest and a hard worker. He was dependable. And he had good kids. That was part of the package. I didn't want to soil his reputation. I liked the kind of man my father was, and I liked that people esteemed him. However, there is a downside to all of this. When appearances become the icon of success, it is possible for the heart to be ignored and neglected.

How then, do I motivate my children to obey? How do I encourage good behavior; respectable, likable behavior? It comes back to the issue of the moral fabric I weave into my family and the simple truth that Jesus used in response to the Pharisees when they tried to stump him by asking their hard-hearted, legalistic question - What is the most important commandment? Jesus said: "Love the Lord your God...and love your neighbor as yourself."

This is not an issue of "acting good" so that people will think well of my child and subsequently think well of me. If all that matters is "fitting in", then what about when negative peer pressure comes down the path? Will my child care more about what his friends think about him than about doing the right thing? I want my children to learn to think with their hearts, drawing their motivation from what they know in their heart is the right thing to do. What really matters today is that my kid was being a pain in the butt to his teacher, and that was both unkind and selfish. I changed my whole lecturing process in that instant of revelation, and asked my son: "Are you being kind to your teacher by being a crazy kid?"

With that question, I'm hoping that my son was able to put himself in his leader's shoes. Suddenly it was about caring for someone else - it was about showing love and respect. Having dealt with the underlying motive, I asked my son what he should "do about it" and how he should make things right. He admitted that he should apologize and sat quietly for a few moments before remorsefully walking over to his teacher and saying "sorry". In that moment, I knew a lesson was learned. It wasn't easy for him to walk over and "make things right" with the cool, teenage guy who was his leader. I could tell that he looked up to him, and that admitting he was wrong was a humbling act. Yet, I felt it was entirely necessary.

The real problem was my son's selfish behavior, and trying to curb my child's actions on the basis of appearance would only justify further selfishness. Simply being concerned about "my appearance, my reputation and my standing" shows a firm grasp on what matters the most: ME! With the focus turned outward onto how the behavior affected his leader, the emphasis was placed on the value of consideration and kindness.

It's not always easy to determine how to best teach and motivate our kids. More often than not, we just want to make the bad behavior stop and will use whatever means necessary. Repetition, bribing, threatening and lecturing are common tools in a parent's behavior modification strategy, and I'll be the first to admit that I don't always do the right thing regarding kids. My initial response is usually based out of a sense of urgency - I just want it to stop! My perspective, however, should be the long-term and should consider the state of my child's heart; equipping them with character and a healthy attitude.

There was a surprise for me when I returned to pick up my kids at lunchtime. I went to sign out my son, and one of his teachers said to him "Are you going to tell your mom everything you did today?"

He looked up, startled and definitely worried and said slowly "What do you mean?"

She smiled, a look of puzzlement on her face and exclaimed: "Tell her how you were sharing!"

A look of relief crossed over my son's face and he shrugged his shoulders, "I was helping in class, and giving out the crafts..."

My concern immediately lifted, and my heart was overjoyed to know that my child was doing what mattered - he was being kind and loving to others; he was putting others first! "That's great!" I told him sincerely, with a smile on my face. "It sounds like you were being very kind."

It's amazing how over the course of a couple hours we came full circle... Life's lessons seem to move in fast-forward when it comes to our kids. I'm so thankful for my children's tender, teachable hearts and the joy that they bring to me as a parent. I'm also thankful for how much they teach me, and I know I'll be more aware of what motivates me when I relate to others. It's not about keeping up appearances. It's what's inside that counts - it's all about relationship and what comes from the heart.

Runaway

2011-07-29T16:20:00.001-07:00

I have always wanted to run away from home.

I'm serious! Almost as far back as I can remember, there were plans made, partially carried out, but never totally completed as I sought to run away.

I remember when I was about 8 or 9 years old, and I was fed up with living in a city and seeing my dad work long, hard hours all the time. I didn't have the freedom to run wild in wide open spaces, and I figured I should run away and live in the woods somewhere. I believe I had just finished reading "My Side Of The Mountain" by Jean Craighead George, in which a young boy leaves his city life, runs away and "lives off the land" by himself for many months. At any rate, I was convinced that my life would be so much better, and that I wouldn't have to deal with people who didn't like me or didn't understand me, if I could just be one with nature. I packed a backpack, stuffing in a blanket and pillow and a few articles of clothing, and started the trek down to the corner of my block.

Once I reached the crossroads (at the end of my block) - the place where I would have to decide North or South; left or right, I paused and began to consider my "running away idea" a bit further. For one thing, the weather wasn't the greatest at the time. Also, supper was in an hour, and I was hungry. I made some halting steps forward, attempting to plunge into my new life of "wilderness girl", then I would reconsider and turn back towards home - until, finally my appetite and reasoning took over and I sheepishly sneaked my things back into the house and gave up on the idea altogether - for the time being.

By the time I was 12 or 13, and filled with teenage angst, feeling that my parents "sucked" and didn't understand anything (ha ha... now I'm the parent, and I see things a little more clearly!) I began to plot my escape from home once again. This time, a friend and I planned to run away together. We made our elaborate escape plan, talking of how we'd jump onto a Greyhound bus, and go to Vancouver, where her dad lived. Everything would be better there - we could have brand new lives and be whoever we wanted to be. Life would be one big party. Time and time again, we devised our perfect get-a-way; how I would tell my parents that I was sleeping over at her house, and she would tell her parents that she was at mine- then we would escape! Somehow, we (thankfully) never had the guts nor the money to go through with the plan, and although something in me desperately yet foolishly desired to run away, I didn't follow through.

A couple years later, when I was 15, the plot thickened. I was on a church youth mission trip to England and Scotland, and I was still a mixed up, misunderstood teenager who just wanted to get away. While it was a relief to be so far from home, in a foreign land where everyone spoke with charming accents, I dreaded returning to my life back in Canada.

We were waiting for a train - piles of baggage spread out in the terminal, with tired teens stretched out; some snoozing with their heads resting on their backpacks. I remember eating a delicious peanut butter-chocolate ice cream bar, and gazing out at the enormous trees in the distance and the gorgeous brick and stone buildings. And I thought to myself: I could just walk away right now. I'll just take my backpack, pretend to head towards the loo (bathroom) and I'll disappear.

Really, one of the only things that held me back was the idea of just how much trouble my youth leaders would be in once it was found out that I was gone. I wasn't so self-centered to think that my actions wouldn't result in consequences beyond myself, and I didn't relish the thought of these innocent youth leaders being torn apart by my dad (with his bare hands). So I couldn't go through with the escape. After another few days of adventure, I was homeward bound - back to my world, my life... back to me.

Somehow, I grew up a little, matured a little and adjusted to my life. Instead of running away from home, I began to go for jogs and would run away - even just for an hour or so.

Eventually, I was "grown up" and in my first year of Bible College and I met a guy. Well, I didn't meet him there - in fact, I'd already known him for a few years, but I suddenly saw him with new eyes. So the dating began, and the intimate conversations and opening up my heart - learning to trust. One weekend, he took me home to meet his family. By this point we were quite "serious" and knew that this was no ordinary friendship, but one destined to be life-long. Amid the noise and laughter and chaotic abundance of family, I felt small and intimidated. His family was larger than mine, and having 3 boys in the family (and one older sister) caused plenty of ruckus and activity. After a rather loud family dinner, we sought to get away and have some time to ourselves, and I think my sweet boyfriend wondered what had made me so moody. We went for a walk on the quiet streets of his sleepy home-town, and I told him how overwhelmed and intimidated I felt. Something inside me felt scared - scared of this bursting forth of emotions and conversation that flowed easily, without hesitation. My family wasn't really like that. We were quiet, civilized, reserved. We didn't have yelling matches (camouflaged as friendly debates) at our dinner table.

And then, I played the "immature girl" card and I ran. I took off from my befuddled boyfriend, legs stretching and feet rhythmically pounding on the bumpy, semi-rural road as I tried to escape something... attempting to run from the feeling of vulnerability that accused and intimidated me.

The very one who I should have trusted the most, said that my actions scared him - suddenly I was like a skittish colt - wild, terrified and on the run. When I finally settled my tumultuous emotions, I turned around and headed back to the one who wanted to understand me and care for me. I found him: walking the streets searching for me, and praying for me. He held me close and made me promise to never run away from him again.

When I married my best friend, 10 months later, I promised to stay with him forever, and I put my running shoes away (for a while).

Still, occasionally I have the fleeting thought to run away from my life. I might be simply headed out on a grocery trip, the kids left at home with their dad, and me - alone for the moment; away from the needy, away from the weight of responsibilities. Something will pop into my head and say: Just take off! Grab some cash from the ATM and disappear! RUN!!!

But I don't. I know better. I know that I can run as far and as long as I want, but I will always have myself to contend with. I now know that this "runaway" tendency comes from within and not from my circumstances.

This runaway heart has been seeking contentment for a long time. I've learned that contentment isn't found in the car you drive, the neighborhood you live in, the body-type you struggle to maintain (or attain) and it isn't even found within any human relationship - because people just can't meet all your needs; they can't be your savior no matter how badly you may want them to be that in your life.

Who can whisper calm and quiet into my racing heart? Who can vanquish the whirlwind of fear and discontent that threatens to drown me time and time again? Who can stop me from thinking that the only answer is to run away?

Ironically, I have been finding the answers when I run. No, I'm not running away anymore, rather I'm running to: I run to escape my worries, and to find the calm of Almighty God's presence. I run to find quiet in my soul. I run to simply be set apart from my thoughts, my selfishness and my puny perspective - to find peace, sanctity and refuge.

I run for dear life to God, I'll never live to regret it. Do what you do so well: get me out of this mess and up on my feet. Put your ear to the ground and listen, give me space for salvation. Be a guest room where I can retreat; you said your door was always open! You're my salvation - my vast, granite fortress -Psalm 71:1-3 The Message

Something inside me will always be a runaway. But now I run with purpose; I always return home, and I never come back feeling the same as when I left.

How To Yield

2011-07-28T17:16:00.003-07:00

I like "yield" signs.

The purpose of a yield sign, is that you slow down at an intersection, take note of what is or is not coming your way, and proceed accordingly. Stop signs don't let you do that. Four way stop signs are even worse - especially when it appears that two of you have arrived at opposing intersections at the same time, and you scramble to remember the rule of who gets to go first. Then it gets awkward because the elderly lady has the right of way, but she's gesturing with her thumb for you to get going; get out of the way... and the guy behind you honks, and you sheepishly drive through, thinking "whatever..." So, ya, I'd rather deal with a yield.

Yield, as defined by the World English Dictionary, in the form that I am referring to means:

	to give way, submit, or surrender, as through force or persuasion: she yielded to his superior knowledge

When I think of the idea of yielding, I find that I am cautioned to slow down, take stock of what is around and THEN proceed. In the same way we apply this idea to driving, I can apply this to my daily routine and how I interact with my world.

I've been reading about "slowing down" in my new book One Thousand Gifts (Ann Voskamp), and I have to admit, it's an idea that I've been frightfully needful of for the past couple of years. Suddenly life overtakes you - and you're no longer waiting:

waiting to grow up,
waiting to meet SOMEONE,
waiting for marriage,
waiting to have kids and to build a home and family,
waiting for the kids to grow up...

and you realize, in a camera flash, that you are THERE. And it's like you've been steamrolled by all the daily trappings, all the requirements, and all the responsibilities.

It's not that I don't like my life - but if all your time is spent 'trying to catch up' and it feels like your life is a galloping mustang; a wild ride, but quite out of control - then it is really hard to NOTICE what you have right in front of you. I've often been guilty of that sin - the "always thinking of what is coming up and not noticing today" sin. Even when I should be relaxed, rested, and enjoying special time with my kids or hubby, my mind races ahead and thinks... in a few hours I'll have to do this... in a couple days I have an appointment... next week will be especially busy because of that.... Then I am back in the present, fretting and wanting to get up and I do not notice the wonder and the blessing that I have RIGHT NOW.

If only I would yield to the present. As I "drive along" my life, in all the activities and interactions, I must learn to slow down, take notice of my surroundings and proceed accordingly. Busy, hurried people generally have trouble being grateful. Busied, hurried people often lack joy. Again, these are two of the issues I've pinpointed recently which I want to change.

When I was at the dentist last week, and I was wide-eyed, frightfully open-mouthed, waiting for the work to be done on my tooth (and wishing that it would be over), the dentist told me to concentrate on breathing through my nose. I wondered what that was all about, yet I went ahead and did it, thinking that maybe it wouldn't be good for me to inhale some of the compounds they were using on my tooth. Whatever the reasoning, it occurred to me a bit later that I was MUCH calmer. The agony has lessened a great degree and I wasn't feeling nearly as panicked as before. The next day, it popped into my head that he may have told me to breathe through my nose simply as a calming exercise to prevent patients from hyperventilating and freaking out in such a vulnerable position as you hear the sounds of drilling and feel the vibrations gyrating into your brain.

It is only when we slow down enough to take a deep breath, that it seems we can truly SEE the world around us. Deep breaths also serve to calm us, preventing us from saying things we shouldn't say and from doing things we shouldn't do.

Slowing down to observe the blessings of NOW, and being thankful for today, also serves to circumvent the issue of worry in our lives. If I live in a place of wide-eyed wonder, pausing long enough to fully observe the beauty of each moment - whether it is the way my toddler belly-laughs with his whole being; or the glorious sight of coffee beans dancing in the grinder, letting off an intoxicating scent; or the fantastic sight of the sky lit up with lightning streaks... if I would just take the time to notice these things and not be so preoccupied with tomorrow or even today's problems, life would seem a lot more precious and merry.

I feel it worthwhile to add that this, the idea of counting or observing your blessings, isn't always easy to do. Sometimes life is truly clouded by circumstances, hurts and questions that leave us despairing, faithless and frustrated. This is what makes the following words spoken by Paul so interesting to me, from Philippians 4:6,7 (The Message):

Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.

He says to "let petitions AND praises shape your worries into prayers" (emphasis mine). It seems that our problems, spoken out to God will transform into an effective prayer when we are able to take our eyes off of ourselves, and notice God's power. When we lift our heads up out of the dust, looking up at who He is, peace will unfold in our hearts.

Yielding means that I don't just careen through life, taking the chance that I may plow through an intersection and cause damage to myself and others along the way because of my RUSHING and HURRYING. It means I may look a little more like a "Sunday driver"; driving slowly down the road (well under the speed limit) as I observe the neighbor's yard, see who is out on the town, and enjoy the breeze on my face with the windows rolled down.

The "Yield" sign reminds me to slow down and take a deep breath. Is there something I'm missing? Is there a conversation waiting to start? Do I just need to calm down enough to really see the blessings around me, instead of blindly accelerating through my life?

Yield. Give way. Surrender. Capture every moment and see the blessings.

My New Book (and My New Revelation)

2011-07-26T10:45:00.001-07:00

IT CAME!

The brown cardboard package encapsulating a book that I was sure to treasure was hand delivered to my bedroom by one of the kids yesterday. I tore it open, wondering for a second if it was actually a book that my husband had ordered, but it was indeed what I hoped for.

Ann Voskamp's "One Thousand Gifts" looked up at me, with crisp pages and a pretty nest of robin's eggs on the cover, and "a dare to LIVE FULLY right where you are".

Isn't that what I struggle with, day after day? It's no secret, and I'm sure my writing has occasionally hinted to this empty ache, this haunting desperation that I struggle with from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if I'm simply battling depression, like I did when I was a hormonal, off-balance teenager. Sometimes I just wonder if I'm crazy... having loaded myself up with a life that is so busy, so demanding and weighty with responsibility.

Yet, within the struggle, I know that my path has been God-ordained despite the many ups and downs; the tumultuous emotions, the mountainous treks that leave my feet sore and bleeding and my lungs gasping for another breath. And there are times where I actually SEE... I look across the vast landscape from a temporary high place, and I am amazed at the journey and I relish the glory of God that has been revealed in my simple, complicated life: babies born, a passionate but deeply rooted man for my husband, the gift of many companions, and the list goes on.

But most days, I admit, it's dry. I don't leap out of bed with joyous expectation for the treasures that the day will hold. I don't rejoice and declare "This is the day that the Lord has made" - in fact, I hardly acknowledge that the day even belongs to HIM.

So I've been eagerly waiting for this book - for someone with a kindred heart to speak to me, minister to me, nurse my wounds and lead me into a better viewpoint. The author is much like me: a blogger, and a homeschooling mother of six. Somehow she has grasped onto enough hope and learned to convey, with wisdom, the story of her journey to a joyful life.

I hungrily gobbled up the first couple of chapters last night, once the children were quietly tucked into bed. As her poetry and the gently rolling rhythm of her words washed over my soul, conviction pricked at the dark places in my heart.

I'm no dummy. Very quickly I saw the theme and the crux of her message as she painstakingly shared bits and pieces of her life-story, and the revelation that the Holy Spirit weaved into her searching heart.

This isn't actually a true book review, as I've only read the first three chapters, but I will touch on the lessons I've learned thus far.

The longing, searching and quest for "more" is as timeless as the Garden of Eden. By ingratitude, Eve forsook God's rule and reached for something "more". Turning her back on all the blessing, all the fellowship, she just HAD TO TASTE; had to question God's goodness and reach beyond her already abundant living. The cycle continues. We test limits, reaching out beyond our normal lives, perceiving that if we could just have MORE, we will be truly happy.

My life nods in agreement to this idea. I have so much, and yet everyday I catch myself whining and pining over what my life is not, and what I feel I lack. I think: "if only my house was bigger...", "if I had a nanny", "if we had more money", "if we lived in Hawai'i", "if only... if only..." And even when I receive unexpected blessings in my current existence, I still wonder what life would be like on the other side of the fence - and maybe we should be missionaries in a far away country, or better yet, we should just be rich and live somewhere foreign and beautiful; then... THEN I would be content. Then I would be happy.

And I know it's not true.

By Chapters 2 and 3, the answers are outlined and I regretfully must agree to the clear truths supported by scripture; supported by Jesus' life here on earth. I know I want joy. The truth is, joy goes hand in hand with GRATITUDE. You can't have one without the other.

I want a happy pill. I want everything to seem bright and shiny and wonderful - but I don't want to put the effort into my own behavior to become that joyful person. Sometimes I excuse myself, saying that it's merely a personality issue - some people are bubbly, and some are... flat... mellow... blah... That's who I am - I can't be responsible for my God-given personality, can I?

Still, the truth rings clear as Ann Voskamp weaves deliciously, exquisite prose that beckons the reader without condemnation, inviting you to embrace the truth in your heart. With a bird's eye view, I watch the transformation taking place in her life as she speaks of thanksgiving (eucharisteo) and explains it's necessity in our day to day living. Daily practice of thankfulness, expressed by the author in writing a list of one thousand gifts, develops the practice of praise; revealing and replenishing joy in one's heart.

If I was more thankful; if I could see the good in things and count my blessings instead of the "curses" - I'm certain my life would change.

Have you ever seen a happy person who complains all the time? A bitter person with an easy smile and bubbling laughter? It just doesn't exist. Yet I envy my joyous friends, thinking that they've been granted an attribute or perhaps a personality trait which I do not have.

I can't live there anymore. I'm packing up my camp, and ready to move on. It isn't likely that this will be an easy task, but the pursuit of grateful living beckons me with a promise of sunnier skies, rainbows after the rain and joy in the journey.

That, in essence is my response to the first 3 chapters of my newest book.
So, to get the ball rolling, I'll begin to practice (and chronicle) thankfulness right now:

Gift #1. Revelation of my need to be thankful.

Bad Golf and A Radio Interview

2011-07-22T16:04:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, my husband called me up from work and the first thing he said was: "Do you want to be famous?"

"NO!" I instantly replied.

I heard him chuckling on the other end of the line, and my mind was racing and fitting puzzle pieces together, trying to guess what sort of plight he had roped me into. Soon enough, he revealed that there was a last-minute cancellation for our local Christian radio station's morning show, and they would like to interview me and hear about the Cartons 4 Kids project I'm working on for India.

If it was anything else.... I may have just skipped the publicity all together. I'm not keen on having to talk cleverly and clearly in front of an audience (albeit an invisible one), especially first thing in the morning! However, this was for such a good cause; something so close to my heart - a project that I had birthed and wanted to see succeed. As they say "it's for the kids" and not just regular kids, but children who live in a slum! I agreed to do the interview, not without some fear and trepidation in my heart.

Fortunately for me, I had little time to worry and fret about my "moment of fame", since we had a house full of company last night and I hardly had time to sit until it was time for bed. Then, when everything was still, and I could hear my husband's gentle snores, and not a creature was stirring, not even one of the 8 children that live in our house.... I could not sleep.

I tossed and turned and my efforts to get comfortable were in vain. Every now and then, I'd roll over and, with disdain, note the time on my clock - the red numbers glaring at me accusingly as I evaded rest. I rehearsed my thoughts for the radio interview out loud, whispering to myself and trying to make everything sound clear and professional. Finally.... the nerves settled and I drifted off... to sleep...

Of course, I began to dream about my interview; and in my dream, I forgot my notes and was frantically wondering if we should drive home and get them - but then we'd be late and miss it entirely! Then I heard the whiny, half-hearted cry of my toddler, and I wondered why we had brought him to the radio station. How would I concentrate on the interview? There was no way he'd stay quiet! Then I was back in my bed, the sheet twisted around my legs, and one of my feet was cold, having slipped out from under the covers. I was in my room, it was 6 am, and my toddler really was crying.

I comforted him for a few minutes and climbed back into bed. This time sleep came easily, and I was mostly concerned about not being groggy in a couple hours when I did the interview for real!

Of course, Murphey's Law kicked in and I was woken up a half hour before my alarm was due to go off, thanks to my 3 year old. I got him re-settled, then crawled back into bed and tried to doze a little before "go-time".

The actual experience of doing a radio interview wasn't so bad. We made it on time, and I did remember to bring my notes. One friend advised that I merely talk to the announcer, not to my city. That made sense and I tried to ignore the big orange-muff covered mike in front of my face, and concentrate on the friendly gentleman in front of me, instead. Although I had been sipping on coffee, my mouth felt strangely dry, like it had been swabbed with cotton balls. Yet I managed to get my point across, and I don't' think I missed any important details. Ten minutes was over before I knew it, and suddenly I was picking up my notes, and walking out the door with my husband.

It's amazing how adaptable one becomes in a moment of necessity. I could have asked my husband (you know, the preacher who stands in front of a large crowd week after week, spouting revelation and wisdom to us with wit and conviction) to do most of the talking, but I knew that I was the one who had the facts and the passion to propel this mission. So I stretched out of my comfort zone, and rose up to the challenge.

What I think is weird, is how you almost feel like you're being a different person when you do something new and unexpected. In a way, it almost feels like you're being "fake" because your actions feel so out of character. Yet, if I always relied on my feelings about what I was going to do, then I probably wouldn't be married, wouldn't have kids, and wouldn't be very happy!

The other night, a group of us went mini-golfing. It was loads of fun, only I'm quite a terrible golfer. Try as he might, in the past my husband attempted to instruct me on a proper swing, but I just ended up getting frustrated and it didn't seem to work! This time, I noticed he didn't give any advice (maybe he'd given up on me) and I just tried to golf in my own crazy-misfit way. I found it awkward, however, to be doing something that I wasn't good at. I'm used to working hard, and seeing my efforts be rewarded with "being good at most anything". I am usually successful at what I do (although I admit there are a few things I choose not to do, because I know I would suck!).

In light of my clumsy golf skills, I spent the evening making a bit of a spectacle of myself, swinging wildly and landing the ball in the stream that ran through the course not once, but twice! The only way I could avoid being terribly frustrated and wallowing in self-pity about my inability, was to laugh. Laughter and all-around goofiness was a far better response than anger and embarrassment, I thought.

So, over the course of the last week, I've encountered situations that required me to tackle what could have been perceived as awkward situations. What is the secret? Well, to be honest, the only thing I recommend is that you perceive life as one big adventure and seek out the joy in that adventure. I dare not live a life of fear and regret. What is first considered a challenge can potentially become a skill or success. Although it may seem out of character, and feel uncomfortable at first, I feel it is better to look at life with a reasonable sense of logic. Many times we say "no" because we fear humiliation or failure. What we often don't realize is that firstly, it is important not to take yourself so seriously. Also, you must not forget that those who love you and are committed to you won't leave you forsaken! My husband sat in a chair beside me throughout my whole interview this morning - not because he felt I was incompetent to complete this task, but because he believed in me and wanted to support me.

I might not really improve my golf swing in the near future - but I'll keep laughing as I play. I'm also (sort of) looking forward to the next challenge that pops up - my knees might be knocking together, but I'm ready!

Eat Your Veggies, It's For Your Own Good!

2011-07-21T13:36:00.010-07:00

It's a familiar sight. There's almost always one child at my table who didn't like the evening's dinner selection and is agonizingly working at their little pile of veggies or potatoes... or whatever it is that they don't like!

Some of the older kids have become better at putting up with food they don't favor; learning to plug their nose, take a large bite and gulp it down with a swallow of milk. Thankfully, my children are not very picky eaters. We've always had a very eclectic dinner table, influenced by our fascination with other cultures and our traveling (past, and future travel plans). As a family we eat everything from Kim-Chi to Som Tum (unripe papaya salad) to spiced lentil stews, and if you want to eat, you must eat whatever you have been served.

The other night, one of my younger kids was stuck at the table, slowly working away at her mixed vegetables (what could be so bad about that?) when all the other kids were running around outside, enjoying their ice cream for dessert. The whole process seemed to exhaust her... and it's amazing how eating just a few peas, beans, carrots and corn can cause tears to flow and bad attitudes to flare!

Why must a child eat their veggies before consuming dessert? I believe most adults would agree with me that it is a reasonable conquest. We want our kids to firstly grow up healthy and strong and consume a variety of nutrients that are required to assist their immune system. Secondly, to me, it is important that my kids are exposed to a variety of flavors and "learn to like" the foods that are especially good for them. Lastly, I would prefer that my children can willingly gulp down whatever they are served - be it in my own home, or in the home of a friend!

So ultimately, what I ask of my child is for her benefit. I'm not trying to be mean and punish her. I don't give her unreasonable amounts of "healthy foods" which she doesn't like. I don't feed her turnips and rutabaga and collard greens all the time - but give her a variety of what I would consider some of the tastier veggies!

I can think of many other requirements which I place upon my children for their own good. Some would include: a reasonable bedtime, learning to read and write, learning manners and good communication skills, and even the occasional bath or shower. Speaking of showers, I also realized I have to make it a requirement to put on clean underwear afterwards, since having a 9 year old son has shown me that they just don't see that as a necessity. (Unbelievable, I know!!!)

So I expect I will live through another decade or so of grumbling, as I encourage my children in some basic skills and characteristics until they plunge into adulthood and are "on their own". I wish they could see it from my perspective; especially since it is frustrating and aggravating to have to constant beseech my children to do things that are for their own good.

I was spending some time reading the passage from our church service last Sunday, and found myself opening my eyes to a new burst of revelation concerning God's character towards his children. First, let's take a look at the verses:

Mark 2:23-28
One Sabbath Jesus was going through the grainfields, and as his disciples walked along, they began to pick some heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, "Look, why are they doing what is unlawful on the Sabbath?" He answered, "Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need? In the days of Abiathar the high priest, he entered the house of God and ate the consecrated bread, which is lawful only for priests to eat. And he also gave some to his companions." Then he said to them, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. So the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath."

One thing I think is so great, is that I love how Jesus always points out things to the stuffy, religious people with either questions or witty, puzzling remarks. It's as though He turns the issue back onto those who feel they are so "studied" and forces their hand, making it an issue of the heart and not of the head.

What really spoke to me though, was the idea that "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." I've pondered the idea of Rest and Sabbath in previous blogs, and discovered how a Sabbath Day, by design, is meant to replenish and give time for communion with God and each other. (Communion, being defined as: association; fellowship and an exchange of thoughts, emotions, etc)

Basically, Jesus was confirming the idea that Sabbath wasn't a day made up by God so that He could garner our worship and force us to grovel at His feet, with extra time and consideration because of the certain day of the week. He didn't make a Sabbath day so He could puff himself up and make us all feel guilty, like we should "act more holy" on this day, above all others.

Sabbath was made for our own good. It was made for us to slow down and focus on what really matters in life, setting aside our work and obligations. This got me really thinking: What are the obligations which we take upon ourselves that shouldn't be viewed as obligations, but something designed for us and intended to bless us?

It is so typical for us to take the wrong perspective, and in the same way that children react to their parent's expectations, we only see the work we have to do NOW, having little ability to visualize the future benefits of today's actions. I know that there is a lot of stuff that would be beneficial for me to do as a Christian, but I often feel grudging about it, and lack long-term perspective. Most of all, I lack the perspective that God is asking me, not because He's GOD and He "says so", but because He loves me, and what He asks is for my benefit.

Next time I figure that I "should" do something, I'm hoping to have a little more foresight to consider the "why" behind my tasks. It takes maturity to have the right attitude and perspective towards what could be construed as "more work", recognizing the meaning and benefits behind it all. It will take a lot more maturity on behalf of my kids to recognize the benefits of eating their vegetables. One day, I hope they will see it from my perspective though... and the cycle will continue as they wrestle with their own children!

Now, just for laughs, and a little nostalgia.... (you can skip the video forward to 1:30 to find the song I want to share).

Facing Fear

2011-07-20T13:07:00.001-07:00

My heart was pounding and my hands were clenched tightly together. I was terrified. I wanted to run away and I couldn't. I wanted to hide and there was nowhere to go.

All week long I knew this moment was approaching, and my stomach was tied up in knots. I felt nauseated at the thought of what was to come, and felt powerless to do anything about it. Worst of all, it felt like it was my own dumb fault that I was in this predicament.

I shut my eyes tightly and tried to calm my breathing as the long, sharp needle made it's way towards my face, and straight into my mouth. "Just a little pinch!" the young dentist warned me, cheerily.

I tried to think of other things and even resorted to counting the tiles on the ceiling as this young, 20-something, baby-faced dentist wielded sharp objects around my tender mouth. He must have just graduated from dentistry school and I think I even saw a zit on his cheek! What is this world coming to, where people younger than myself are considered "professionals" and able to preform intricate, invasive procedures on my sensitive mouth!

"I'm just going to use this instrument now, and it may wiggle a bit" he explained next, before drilling noisily into my back molars.

"Instrument!!!" I thought... "Well, that's a delicate way to put it.... when, in fact, you're about to scrape, scour, bore and jackhammer your way though my teeth!!!"

This whole procedure actually brought me back to my childhood, in a way. I remembered hanging out in my dad's garage while he worked on one of his numerous vehicles. He would often buy what others would consider a "junker" and fix it up; inside and out. I remembered how he would work away, sanding and blasting the rusted out areas of the car's body. The sound of metal being polished as the rusted areas were ground to bits was loud and almost terrifying. It gave a high, whiny sounding squeal as dust and metal particles flew through the air. My dad was always dressed in his blue coveralls, a baseball cap, protective goggles and one of those disposable painter's masks. He would intently concentrate on his work, sometimes working past midnight in order to get the job done. Sometimes my brother and I would watch him and "help", handing him tools from time to time, but mostly, I think he just wanted company. Occasionally, as a helper, we'd get to join him for a late-night treat at McDonald's or Tim Horton's for a snack.

Anyway, back to my teeth... the whole image of my dad doing auto body work did nothing but erode my confidence in the procedure. So I tried to concentrate on other things, but mostly, I was just anxious for it all to be over. I was also feeling panicked about just how much this would cost. My husband had told me that we no longer had any medical coverage, and I tried to prepare myself for the worst, thinking of the hundreds of dollars I'd likely have to lay down for this painful experience.

I was getting very tense again, so obviously, thinking about money was not the way to take my mind off of the situation. I vainly turned my thoughts to the fluffy blue clouds in the sky, and tried to imagine our future summer vacation (where we'd be eating cornflakes and KD because my dental work was going to cost us a fortune!).

Somehow, I got through the procedure with only a few moments of gagging and choking on the cotton they stuffed into my mouth, alongside my tongue. Next step: billing.

I sank into the seat, across from the perky administrator, and dejectedly pulled out my credit card.

Moments later, I was given a paper to sign, and told that since my plan covered 80% of my dental work, I only owed them forty dollars. "My plan???" I said, still mournful and yet quite puzzled. "We're not supposed to have any coverage anymore."

"Well," the receptionist said, "I already put it through the system and it was approved. Also, one of your fillings that we had to re-do was less than a year old, so it is under warranty and you don't have to pay for it."

I quickly signed my papers, paid the minuscule (compared to what I had expected) bill, and walked out to my vehicle, pleasantly stunned. It felt like a miracle - what were the chances that our "supposed to be terminated coverage" was still covering us!?! Obviously someone had delayed shutting down the account and we were still recipients of dental benefits! I was overjoyed, and all the worry and despair about money that I was previously dealing with, washed away.

Something about this whole experience reminded me of how we deal with and encounter painful issues in our hearts. First of all, the type of cavity I had was one that had perforated a hole in my tooth from the inside out. Basically, (due partly to my wretched craving for sweets) a cavity was forming inside my tooth, just under the weak, barely damaged surface. Eventually, the surface broke and a hole was revealed. This is why the whole issue seemed to spring on me suddenly - I had no idea what was lurking beneath the surface of my weakened tooth - it just suddenly became ultra-sensitive and had a gaping hole in it. The dentist had to work away at the grime and decay before filling it up, and making it look almost as good as new. Thank goodness for freezing that made the entire left side of my mouth, including my tongue, numb and feeling slightly swollen. I hate to think of how back "in the olden days" people would just suffer a cavity until it finally was yanked out with pliers!

This made me think of how we sometimes have painful issues buried deep in our hearts. We can avoid the pain and even exist for a long time without letting it really bother us or affect us in our daily lives. Given enough time, however, these problems tend to fester and grow and eventually cause lasting damage that needs a solution and repair. I began to think about some of the areas in my heart that I tend to gloss over, protect and even ignore. What I really need to do, and what will cause me greater blessing (and far less pain) in the long run, is to expose these areas to the one who can truly fix them. As I ask God to work in the "rotten" and hurting areas of my life, I need to be prepared for a little bit of discomfort. It hurts to let go of regret, and it hurts to face your fears and pain. What is required, however, is to counter your instinct to run away and hide, and be willing to remain open and soft. Given the choice between having it all together, and a hardened heart - or, falling apart a little bit and being soft-hearted, I'd pick the latter. Those who are soft and open may be more susceptible to hurt, but they also are more compassionate and far more open to love.

Not everything about your relationship with God is meant to be mushy and gushy and pleasant. He is in the business of restoration, and like any tooth - or automobile, a certain amount of pain is required to clear the area out before it is reconditioned and rebuilt.

Hosea 6:1 says:

Come, and let us return to the Lord; For He has torn, but He will heal us; He has stricken, but He will bind us up.

You can be sure that what you surrender to God's hands will be well taken care of. He is Comforter, Healer, Savior and the most compassionate Father. He truly cares for his creation and although, at times, He seems to administer "tough love", it is all with the desire to see us whole, complete and lacking no good thing.

For the Lord God is a sun and shield; The Lord will give grace and glory; No good thing will He withhold From those who walk uprightly. O Lord of hosts, Blessed is the man who trusts in You! -Psalm 84:11

Worms, Ice Cream, Sleeping In... It's Summer!

2011-07-19T10:30:00.003-07:00

For probably four days in a row, I've sat down and typed a few paragraphs only to find that my thoughts were incomplete and I didn't have the heart to finish a blog posting. It may have something to do with the warm embrace of summer that calls for me to slow down, take it easy and throw the restraints of schedules and obligations out the window. Of course, it might also have something to do with the fact that I seem to cycle through emotions like a beach toy floating on the open sea - waves toss me up then down and occasionally I feel myself paddling frantically for some sense of solid, secure grounding. Those are thoughts for another day, however.

Summer is a time for homemade ice cream, digging for worms and drinking lemonade on the new deck (that my awesome husband built for me)!

Summer is a time for sleeping in after long days playing in the sun.

Summer means eating lots of fresh fruit and having picnics in the backyard.

Summer is a time for my naked baby to waddle around and splash excitedly in the kiddie pool, in our backyard.

Hot, humid summer nights are perfect for watching the dark night sky light up with streaks of white that come in rapid succession and make you feel like the paparazzi is outside your window!

Summer is a time for answering machines that say:

"I'm sorry, but I'm having far too much fun relaxing and resting to answer the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep, and I might get back to you... on a rainy day... or when the season changes..."

Although I do have some deep thoughts rolling around in my head these days, I have a feeling they won't be posted today. Instead, I'll dwell on the light, airy, happy summer thoughts... all which happen to be thankful thoughts:

I'm thankful for kids who tenderly care for each other, as a tiny hand holds onto one that is even tiny-er... and they explore the beautiful world together with wonder...

I'm especially thankful for how my children teach me JOY. The world is wonderful and unspoiled to them, and they appreciate simple things. Every moment is made to be savoured. I could do well to learn from their prompt inclination to humor and delight.

I'm thankful for clean water.... As I prepare to go on a mission trip later this year to India, specifically to visit children who live in slums, I can't help but feel gratitude for the bounty we experience here in North America. My kids play freely with water from the hose, spilling it on the ground - and others die for lack of clean drinking water. I don't mean to put a damper on this cheery, thankful post, yet I must acknowledge the marvelous blessing of health, food, water, safety, a home and a happy, loving family.

This brings me to my last grateful thought. I'm thankful for beauty... I am the proud parent of 3 beautiful girls, although one of my girls is well on her way to being a young lady. And I think she's gorgeous. The best part is that she is beautiful both inside and out. She's generous, polite, caring and considerate to those around her. Did I mention how beautiful she is? Thank goodness Daddy has his Firearms license and can own a gun! Ha ha!

It's a good time to be thankful. If anything, we can be grateful that we're not shoveling a foot of snow off of the sidewalk... Well, just wait another 5 months and I'll have to figure out a way to be thankful for winter.

What are you thankful for today?

My Fairy Tale Life

2011-07-15T16:10:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I was scrubbing gummy, dried out cereal mush off of the floor on my hands and knees, under the dining room table. I was still in my pj's; a tank top and comfy black capri-sweatpants, and although it was already 3:30 in the afternoon, I felt like I hadn't stopped moving since waking up. Actually, I felt remarkably like Cinderella, scrubbing the floor with soap bubbles flying all around; over-worked and unappreciated for my finer qualities; only, I didn't have chubby, little singing mice and sweetly chirping birds to ease my work load.

Other days, I can compare myself to Hansel and Gretal as I chase the trail of Rice Crispies that scatter on the floor, falling from 3 year old's pockets and chubby hands as he skips away from the breakfast table in search of adventure. With my eyes on the ground, I follow the tiny cereal bits all around the house - over the couch, up the stairs, into the bathroom; until the culprit is found, nibbling away at his contraband snack, under a blanket fort in his big sister's room.

It seems that we often desire a fairy tale life for ourselves. Only mine has somehow become twisted and far more boorish than the ideals I daydreamed about as a little girl. When I was 11, picking out my perfect children's names: Christopher, Charlotte, Daisy and Stuart, and dreaming of my tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armor, I never would have imagined the predicaments I would be dealing with "in real life".

I was supposed to have grown into a lovely lady, poised and gentle, with long, flowing locks that were never tangled or (heaven forbid) in a ponytail. My children would play happily together, showing utmost concern for eachother's well being; always speaking considerately to one another. We would lay on a perfect (mosquito and bug-free) grassy knoll, on one of those perfectly quaint patchwork quilts, reading Tennyson and discussing music.

Instead... my fairy tale looks a whole lot more like the Shrek versions of the classics. Loud, obnoxious bodily noises are extolled and praised by my perfect little ladies and gentlemen. Nearly every day on the trampoline, a shoving match ensues as the children endeavor to bend my rule about rough play, instead insisting that they are merely having "tickling matches" which inevitably end in a child or two crying and yelling "Mommmy!!!"

Another startling reality: You know those vintage cookbooks, from the 70's that I inherited from my mother, that show a serene housewife in a perfectly pressed apron and cute flowery dress, holding out a tray of hors d'oeurvres to her pipe-smoking husband as he reads the newspaper in a lazy-boy with his feet up...? Well, all the claims of those cookbooks and promises that "your husband will adore you when you serve him this easy- to- make Croque Monsouir" are highly overrated and unattainable! The audacious idea that I would be both dressed in clean clothes and have my hair and make-up done, along with having the house in order (and the children quiet), while making a gourmet three-course-dinner for my husband is a far cry from the stacks of pots and pans, finger-painted pictures drying on every available flat surface and me, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a pony-tail and the only decorative accessory to be found is a 1 1/2 year old that is hanging off my hip!

'Gee Whiz... Now I've burned the pot roast and my husband will think I'm such a square!'

All this brings me to the following conclusion. My life is not meant to be a fairy tale, and frankly it will never look like a fairy tale. Therefore, my expectations need an adjustment if I am to accept and enjoy my existence. Guess what? The biggest enemy that I have in regards to contentment and joyfully embracing life is: ME!

My husband doesn't care about seeing a perfectly made-up wife, with the house all in order, the children clean and pressed and mini meatballs with little umbrellas decorating them prepared for his pre-dinner appetizer. (Although, I'm sure he would appreciate some sort of delicious snack awaiting him when he steps in the door!) Anyway... this is NOT likely to happen in this complicated, messy life of mine - as long as I have small children in the house. What does my husband care about? A big smile! A warm greeting as he opens the door. He wants a haven of peace and acceptance in our home that can't be found anywhere else. Accomplish this; and I'll be well on my way to living a fairy tale marriage.

Furthermore, and I've discussed this idea numerous times in my blog: what do my children crave and need from me? Not more toys, activities, the 'latest styles' of clothing and the most recently released Wii game. They just want ME! Freely dispersing hugs and kisses, snuggling in bed and listening to my children's corny jokes and peculiar stories is what makes for a fairy tale childhood.

So as I adjust my mindset, and once again remind myself of what makes a successful family and marriage (not more stuff and NOT looking perfect all the time), I am left wondering what would hold me back from being content with my lot in life. Once again, the answer is: "me". So instead of comparing and complaining and convincing myself that I don't do enough, I must take an honest look around me at the wonderful gifts I've attained.

I have a husband who loves me, even when I'm grumpy, messy and frustrated.

I have six children who depend on me, love and adore me; even when I don't mop the floor and I feed them PB & Jelly for the third time in a week.

If we're counting the things that really matter... I'd say my childhood prediction of "happily ever after" was correct. It just ended up a whole lot louder and messier than I had counted on!

Not-So-Happy Half-Marathon (the sordid details)

2011-07-13T15:22:00.001-07:00

I was sweaty, my feet had blisters and my legs felt tired, but didn't want to stop moving. I was so exhausted that felt like I was going throw up, and my stomach was sending me all sorts of painful mixed signals, forcing me to run to the bathroom.

Bittersweet success... I completed a half-marathon. The culmination of many months of dedicated training had paid off in a reasonable finish time (that would have been "perfect" for me, had I not taken a potty break). My smiling husband and children showed their pride in my completion, but for now the world was blurry and surreal as I walked back and forth in between the finish line and the bathrooms, waiting for my muscles to relax somewhat, and for my body to cool down.

I had expected a sense of elation... I mean, this was an event that I had envisioned and planned for since the spring, knowing that it would take a great measure of dedication in order to complete. Weirdly, I wasn't thrilled, I was just "done".

Running this race was probably one of the most physically grueling things I've ever done in my life. I pushed myself harder than I ever have before. What's difficult with running such a long race, is that you MUST pace yourself, or you will fall apart before you even reach the half-way point! I started up a bit faster than I normally would on a long run, but in the excitement of a race, with athletic bodies swiftly moving around me on every side, it was difficult to not become totally caught up in the wave of runners. It's hard to remember to breath and find your rhythm and pace.

Thank God for pace bunnies! These are experienced runners, who have numerous races under their belt and can comfortably run at a consistent pace, knowing within a minute or two when they will arrive at the finish line! At the start line, you are typically expected to line up according to how fast you anticipate you will be running. I parked myself close to the 1:50 pace bunny (meaning, that he would complete the 22 km in 1 hour and 50 minutes), thinking that perhaps by being in a race, I'd be more likely to have the gusto to complete this distance faster than ever before. It was such a comfort to follow the lead of a steady runner.

As the miles passed, I became less concerned about keeping up with the pack, and less interested in the competitors beside me. Instead, I tried to focus on the beauty of the run, as we circled the Glenmore Reservior and weaved through treed areas, up and down hills and through the occasional clearing. I pictured the distance in my mind, and for the first half of the race, eagerly approached each kilometer marker with vigor and spring in my step. Slowly but surely, the zippy pace which I had started out with began to take it's toll on me. Not only that, but my bladder felt as though it was going to burst. I kept thinking - should I jump into the bushes, and hope no one sees me? But no, I'd continue on for another km or two, hoping that I'd soon see a bathroom.

At one point, after taking a quick stop at a drink station (I can never drink and run at the same time!), I lost sight of my pace bunny. Panic filled my being, and I attempted to quicken my pace and hopefully catch up. That tall, lean, athletic man with the white baseball cap and black shirt labelled "1:50" on the back was my knight in shining armor! He was the one who kept me going and prevented me from giving up. If I could just keep his skinny runner legs and Nike shoes in my sight, I knew I wouldn't fail! This time, I managed to catch up enough to see him after some little hills, but eventually, around the 14km mark, I lost him!

Now I was intent upon staying in front of the next pace bunny... "Mr. 1:55". He was a stalky little guy, and I didn't have as much faith in him because he started out so quickly, racing ahead of the 1:50 pace bunny. About a quarter of the way through the race, he had slowed down, and all of the 1:50's had overtaken him. I figured that his strategy might be to start out strong, then settle into a steady, slower pace, and once near the finish line, pick up the pace again.

Everything was going great, except my mind became quite unstable. As the blisters on my feet began to swell, I was asking myself "What the heck am I doing out here?" I'm so competitive, though, and quite stubborn as well. I LOVE challenge. Maybe that's why I embrace the whole "natural childbirth" idea, and even it's more extreme expression of "unassisted childbirth". So on one hand, here I was doing the most difficult thing of my life (next to having a baby), yet... it was 100% my choice and supposed to be something that I enjoyed!

For a while, my spirits sank to new lows and I didn't even want to check the GPS on my phone to confirm my pace, distance and time. I still had to pee really bad, too. Then came an enormous climb out of the valley, and I was passed by numerous runners. I started to make excuses for myself so I wouldn't feel bad - thinking that the majority of these people had probably run a lot more races than me, and many of them were probably in running groups. As for me... it was just lil' ol' me. I had picked my race alone, planned my training alone and ran alone. This thought process actually made me feel a little more justified in my weariness and I began to contemplate not having a great finish time, but merely finishing the race! (And I still had to pee!)

Something wonderful and beautiful happened around the 16km marker. There, parked on the side of the road, was a green mini-van with a crowd of my fans standing beside it. It was my family!!! They were jumping and cheering and raising their hands in the air. I quickly picked up my pace, with a spring in my step and new vigor infusing me from their encouragement. It was the best thing ever... and so timely. (But I still had to pee.)

Finally, another km or so later, I saw a "washroom" sign pointing across a patch of grass. At this point, I couldn't deny my bladder any longer. I sprinted across the grass, only to see a lock on the door. I guess I'd be using a tree after all! Dismay and anger quickly fizzled out when I realized that it wasn't locked, but that they stored the lock on the door bolting mechanism. I burst inside the door and fumbled to shut it securely. Thank God, I made it!

This was one of those times where it was a great inconvenience to be a girl. Sitting down was the last thing my legs needed to do, and they were shaking and my muscles were twitching. As soon as I jumped out of the bathroom, I lurched forward across the field and back onto the path. I was determined to find my place back in the human chain of racers. It was then that I noticed the 2:00 (2 hour) pace bunny ahead of me, and thought to myself: It's alright. I'll follow her lead, and then pull forward in the last km or so.

Unfortunately, it was extremely challenging to keep up. My breath was uneven and I was all messed up from stopping to use the bathroom. I knew I had to take it easy for a little bit, or I'd end up passed out on the side of the road! "Well..." I thought, "as long as the 2:05 pace bunny doesn't catch me..." (and at least I didn't have to pee anymore!)

Running for such an extended period of time leaves you with a lot of space to think. I thought about how this race was like my life - filled with effort and challenges. Sometimes all you can do is keep your eyes on someone who is farther ahead of you, and think: "I can keep up. I won't quit." I've had many of these times in my life - where things were so tough, and I was exhausted - but I was encouraged by the progress of others in front of me. Likewise, when it came to the drink stations, these reminded me of times in my life where people have provided much needed refreshment, giving me strength to continue my journey. Also, a lot of this refreshment comes to me by seeking the Lord, and prayer.

Anyway, we were nearing the finish line and I felt myself drooping. I kept losing track of how many kilometers were left, and then would try to lie to myself whenever I did see a marker along the road, and I'd pretend that the distance remaining was shorter than it really was! When the athletic centre and track where the finish line was set up was finally within sight, I though "Yay! I can do this, I'm gonna make it." Then I realized that we were taking the long way around, and that we'd have to complete three quarters of a lap around the track to actually cross the finish line. At this point, all I could do was put one foot in front of the other. I so wanted to walk. No, what I really wanted to do was collapse on the side of the road and cry. But still, I plodded on. Sometimes, the face of one of my athletic friends (a personal trainer) would come into my mind, and I thought of how tough and fit she was, and how I wanted to be like that! So I kept running... and running... and running.

Crossing the finish line - 2:02:32

Along the track, my husband caught up with me (although, I'm sure I wasn't going very fast at that point) and took a few snapshots with his phone. Then, around the curve and I could see the finish line! I managed to pick up my feet and gave it everything I had, sprinting on through, my electronic chip registering and recording my time as I stepped over the finish mat.

And it's over.

After logging hours and hours and miles and miles of running in my training log, I finished the race.

Would I do it again? Ya.

Relationship Rescue

2011-07-12T15:35:00.001-07:00

One day, while sitting in the emergency waiting room with my unhappy, crying preschooler who had a terrible earache, I witnessed a parade of newbie med students walking through the ward. The majority of them were women, most with a professional, intelligent demeanor as they visually scanned the waiting room and were given a tour of the surrounding area. I happened to be the only parent with a hurting child waiting to see a doctor, and my little girl is definitely a precious, heart-melting sight on any given day - but this time, she appeared even more endearing with her pouty lip sticking out sadly, mussed up wavy hair and crocodile tears occasionally dripping down a cheek as she whimpered with her head against my chest. As I observed the med students, one in particular made eye contact and noticed my unhappy little girl. I immediately saw the heart-felt empathy on her face and could sense the desire within her to help as compassion practically radiated from her, across the room.

After the group passed through the room on their introduction to the world of hands-on-medicine, I shook my head slightly in disbelief, finding myself thinking of how naive this young intern was to actually think that being a doctor would be all about helping the precious, hurting little children. Even as I looked around the waiting room, it was quite obvious to me that the greatest proportion of people waiting to see a doctor could by no means be described as "cute". In fact, some of them looked downright ugly and belligerent. I guess what I saw in that waiting room represented long, grueling hours of work that may not always be very rewarding. It was a duty that needed to be preformed by some intelligent and sympathetic human being, but being exposed to the continual suffering of others (and trying to heal the damages caused by the wrongful actions of others) - well, that would be enough to toughen or harden anyone's heart! This young intern was so sweet... but she'd have to wise up - that was my initial analysis.

Admittedly, my thoughts were rather pessimistic in this situation. It is actually kind of sad that such harsh judgement rose up in my mind, with little provocation. I know however, that as the Bible says in Luke 6:45, "out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks" or in this case: "the mind thinks". So I was left to wonder what sort of beliefs and attitudes are inside me that would cause me to think in such a manner.

My role as a wife and parent have often become worn down with the seemingly never-ending sacrifices and all-around hard work involved in these relationships. Ideally, like the young med student, we look at marriage and think of all the pleasantries - breakfast in bed, strolling around the park hand-in-hand and staring longingly into each others eyes. We don't consider the times of balancing the bankbook and tightening the budget, picking up the balled-up socks off of the floor every day, and the times when all your spouse does is annoy you. We can also look at parenthood with similar optimism; thinking of cuddles and coos, tender-moments and heart-felt talks, while dismissing the idea of broken dishes, loud and obnoxious noises, rude behavior and all-around ungratefulness.

Imagine living in a home where you spend all your time working: in the kitchen cooking and washing dishes, in the laundry room cleaning endless piles of clothes, and your time spent in all the other rooms is pretty much work related, unless you happen to be sleeping. Day after day, you pass by the comfy couches with their fluffy pillows, ignoring the family members that may be lounging there - except to inform them to lift their feet when you are trying to maneuver the broom or mop past them. Living in a house while never taking advantage of the place of rest and relaxation would be quite ridiculous, yet many of us are so busy in life that we can probably relate in some part. I'd like to take this analogy, however, and compare it to how we can treat our relationships with God.

I've spent the last few years stuck in a rut of duty and service. I'm not saying that I've lost my love for the Lord in any way, but I seem to have come to a place where I engage in more of a business relationship with Him. Come to think of it, this is similar to the frustrations I feel as I relate to my family members as well - I'm apt to focus on all the stuff I must do, and forget about the relationship part. When I mentioned living in a house, where you never take advantage of the "living room" - the place of rest - I was originally thinking of how this relates to our experience with God. We can become so busy, serving Him, and working hard to do His will, yet never find ourselves in that place of restful communion with Him.

I communicate with God on a regular basis; lifting up prayer requests whenever something crosses my mind - but I've found that there is a lot less true worship coming from my lips. When you drift from a close relationship, I think one of the first things to go is typically praise, adoration and affection. You just don't feel like it any longer because you are either frustrated, hurt or simply too busy and preoccupied. Taking a look at my own relationship with the Lord, I'm being honest when I say I've become quite preoccupied. My heart has desired to do the right thing - and it's not that I've been running from Him - but all that "stuff" that has to be done, although good and worthwhile, is really good at getting in the way of my worship and prayer life. I think it is no coincidence that Psalm 91:1 coins the term "secret place of the Most High" when referring to being in God's presence. Anyone can come to the house of the Lord, and enter into salvation. Not everyone learns to seek Him and find Him in his secret place.

Back to the idea of the young intern at the hospital. What she really wants to do is practice medicine, and focus on the people whom she needs to treat. She looks at the hurting individual, and wants to show care and concern, while providing healing. My pessimism was focused on the long, grueling hours; crowded emergency rooms and lack of qualified professionals to spend "quality", personal time with each patient. This is the unfortunate reality of our over-stressed medical system.

Thankfully, our relationships don't quite have to work that way. I know that regarding my relationship with God, there are specific answers to dealing with all the "stuff" and busyness of this life. Matthew 11:28-30 depicts what life should be like if we are truly following Jesus.

Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.

When we make Him our priority, and refrain from making all the tasks and duties our priority, we will find true rest for our souls. Is it hard to be a Christian and follow all the teachings of the Bible? Unequivocally, "YES!". However, it shouldn't be hard to simply come to Jesus and learn from Him. Out of the relationship springs obedience. Additionally, out of real relationship, we learn what is actually important, and what we should be laying down.

To the same degree, this concept is quite verifiable in our family relationships. The reason you marry someone is not so you can be "great roommates" and help each other with the menial tasks and split the rent bill. We get married because of the relationship... because we love to commune with that person and tell them our hopes and fears. The same goes for children. Although to some it may appear that I had lots of kids so they could do all the housework for me, and take care of me when I become old and weary... well, the truth is, I had lots of kids because I look forward to the wonderful years ahead of us as we grow our relationship from merely parent and child to friends.

This has become another one of those posts where I show you the ugliness inside my heart. I guess that's what happens when you're human... I'm working on it though, and I hope that I've encouraged all the other "hard working, duty-driven, task-focused individuals" to take a long, honest look at what drives you.

Sometimes, we're better off deleting our un-ending "To Do" lists, and just learn to BE... It means you spend a lot more time sitting and listening. It means you take the time to remember what drew you to the relationship in the first place. Whether your struggle is in your marriage, with your kids or with God (or...all three), I think the healing begins when you're willing to sink into the comfy couch and just STOP.

Mayhem in Montana - July 4, 2011

2011-07-08T12:44:00.003-07:00

I can now add "stunt-double" to my list of accomplishments when asked to provide a resume for any future employer. Seriously... I believe I have earned for myself a badge of accomplishment as far as being involved in a crazy (though fairly unnecessary) stunt and remaining mostly intact and, most importantly, alive!

I must admit, all my life I've been a stickler for pain and punishment. As I've mentioned in other posts, I've been quite a tom-boy most of my life; the type of girl to pick at my scabs, run in the rain despite having pneumonia, hunt in sub-zero temperatures, and, more recently, live in an extremely unfinished home with my newborn and 5 other kids! Give me a challenge, and I'm apt to face it head on and try to make it more challenging, somehow. Case in point, I'm racing in my first half-marathon (22 km or 13 miles) on Sunday, after just about a year of getting into running.

Something seems to draw me into difficult situations, like wasps are drawn to a spilt slurpee on the sidewalk. I don't like being told "you can't do that" and I do enjoy being seen as someone who can do almost anything. Yes, I admit there is a measure of pridefulness that I should be more repentant of, and if it wasn't for my stubbornness and trying to prove my point, I might not do so many crazy things.

This recent "stunt", however, was not something I willingly submitted myself unto, and it revealed something within me that was surprising.

It was a notorious Fourth of July evening, on a beautiful, crystal clear mountain lake in Montana. The previous day, we had stopped in a nearby city to purchase food and fireworks to compliment our celebratory days at the lake. Every couple of miles, we'd see another trailer (or two) full of fireworks for sale, set up alongside the main roads of the city. After shopping for food we stopped at a "wholesale fireworks supplier" amid all the other patriotic Americans who were stocking up for the big day. I don't think my husband would be embarrassed to admit this, but he was like a kid in a candy store. He strolled up and down the length of the trailer, scanning the shelves for the ideal explosives - the kind which are not available back on our tamer, more regulated Canadian soil; the kind which are responsible for emergency room visits from daring (and probably cocky) individuals who derive great pleasure from blasting and burning and blowing up things. To give even more perspective on this wonderful, tantalizing yet calamitous event, I found the following statistic on the University of Rochester Medical Center website:

It’s a daunting statistic: More than half of the 11,000 annual injuries associated with fireworks and grill fires occur within the first week of July, according to the National Fire Data Center.

Yay! What fun! This wonderful holiday season in July was the most fantastic excuse ever for my pyromaniac husband to get himself into a competitive atmosphere of destructive, explosive spectacles involving gunpowder and FIRE!

In all honesty, I quite enjoyed the sparklers and pretty colors of the smoke bombs and various smaller fireworks. I didn't care quite so much for the noisy firecrackers that blasted loudly and repetitively and succeeded in making our toddler cry in fright. Later on in the evening, however, I tucked our youngest (18 month old baby) into bed, hoping that the cabin walls would be enough to deaden the sounds of our raucous celebration. (Thankfully, he slept soundly through the night!)

As the dusk covered the mountain sky, the displays of fireworks became greater, louder and longer all along the homes of those who lived and vacationed at the lake. We happened to be celebrating with a fairly young crowd, including a group of guys with obviously dangerously high levels of testosterone; as testified by their daring behavior. One of the 'coolest', yet clearly audacious things they would do, was to light a smaller firework in their hand, then, at the right moment, throw it out over the lake so it would explode mid-air, shining and sparkling over the water! Of course, right among that crowd was my wily husband - although for most of the evening he was occupied with lighting smaller, tamer fireworks for the kids - firecrackers, smoke-bombs, "bees", and "UFOs" to name a few.

I was happily toasting myself near the bonfire with a bunch of the children and the 'more sane' of the adults, when a commotion drew my attention to the dock. I heard my husband yelling "Oh shoot!" and could vaguely see several of the guys scrambling frantically away from the dock. There was a sparkling, newly lit firework in progress where the guys were, and suddenly the sound of booming explosions began.

"Ruuuuuuunnnnn......" yelled one of the guys - and a stampede of onlookers, in a state of panic, began to turn from the glorious sight of bursting fireballs, and run towards safety. In that instant, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong, as the fireworks were blasting not up into the sky, but parallel to the ground, towards the spectators!

My adrenaline surged and I had but one thought: escape! Amid the noise and chaos, I ran a couple of feet towards the cabin, only to stumble headlong into a Powerwheels jeep - slamming my knees into the frame and landing across the metal roll-bar with my ribcage while jarring my already sore wrist (which I had hurt the previous week while learning to rip-stick). At that moment, this could have been mistaken for a Hollywood set - only the colorful fireworks should have been plain white; emulating the blasts from grenades and bombs as the soldiers and innocent civilians (me) dove for cover from enemy fire! I literally had the air knocked out of me, and felt lightheaded as I untangled myself from the jeep and crouched on the ground. There were a few more blasts as the final explosions took place, and then, when it became apparent that the crisis was over, there were loud guffaws and nervous laughter as the guys reveled in their survival of a potentially perilous extravaganza of masculine entertainment.

I sat in a bit of a daze, feeling slightly miffed at the event and wondering who was the brains behind such a obstinate act of disregard for the safety of innocent bystanders. Then my mind suddenly cleared as I heard the voice of my 3 year old calling for me and I realized that I had plunged to cover with no regard for my darling children and the potential threat to their well being! What sort of mother was I? For those moments, I became purely instinctive, allowing the adrenaline to direct my body in panicked self-preservation.

My son came over to me and cuddled onto my lap as we sat on the grass. "That was loud, Mommy!" he proclaimed.

I slowly caught my breath and found myself strangely tired and feeling weary at the idea of more fireworks and festivities. My husband came jogging over to me, and with a gleam in his eye, exclaimed: "Did you see that!? I was in the middle of exploding fireworks!" He had a maniacal sort of grin on his face, and went on to profess excitedly: "That was crazy!"

Then he noticed that I was dull, quiet and seemingly shell-shocked. "What's wrong?" he asked, puzzled at my lack of jubilation.

I sighed... not entirely wanting to be a spoil-sport, but needing to be honest about the situation. "I ran for cover and fell and hurt myself" I explained, lamely.

"Oh...I'm sorry" he apologized. He went off to join the guys as they searched for the rest of the surviving fireworks available to explode, completing the evening's show.

I felt a growing sense of disdain for the careless young guys who foolishly caused terror and mayhem (resulting in me getting hurt)! As much of a daredevil that I am, this situation had been out of my control and I was left feeling guilty for my lack of care and concern to my children in a time of danger.

Not too much later, everything that could have been exploded had been lit up and there were no more noisy combustibles left to deploy. I herded the children off to the cabin, to tumble in contented exhaustion into bed after a long, exciting day and evening outdoors. I was more than willing to tuck myself in as well; easing my battered and bruised body onto the soft mattress, and tentatively resting my sore, swollen wrist on some bunched up blankets beside me. We survived the fourth of July...

The next day, after counting my bruises and deciding that they made decent war-wounds to commemorate our active vacation, my husband and I were discussing the previous evening's events. As I listened to his colorful description of the "disastrously amazing explosion", I suddenly came to the realization that it was my husband, not one of the juvenile hooligans who had been the cause of my suffering and near-heart-attack! With a sigh, and a sense of resignation to our lifestyle of adventure and danger, I found myself slightly proud at his antics, while maintaining a hint of anger, considering the wounds which I had suffered. Apparently, he had innocently tried to light one firework, when some sparks flew and lit some of the other fireworks next to it. In an attempt to stop a disastrous situation, he tried to push the sizzling, sparking tube off of the dock and into the water, but only succeeded in knocking it sideways so it was aimed at the crowd on shore. This was when the explosions began, and the only option left for the guys was to run (and scream at the crowd to run for their lives)!

"Well, I'm glad you had fun." I consented to him, trying not to encourage this sort of behavior, yet not wanting him to feel guilty, either.

That concludes the story of our Mayhem in Montana. I'm not sure if I learned much of a lesson from our short stint of celebrating with patriotic Americans. As I said before, what surprised me the most, was realizing that in the face of panic and danger, concern for my well-being outweighed concern for my children. I've often engaged in that sort of "every man for himself" attitude when it comes to sports, and it's no surprise that I prefer solitary, endurance-related activities. Perhaps I need to work more on a sense of partnership and team-spirit - especially when it comes to my family! Anyway, I guess not everything I write about needs to teach a life-changing lesson. At least I'm left with a life-long memory...

The Positives of Negative (and Feeling Patriotic)

2011-07-07T15:28:00.000-07:00

A cute little family sat around a Christmas tree, children huddled on the floor at their father's knee while the mother in her dapper apron, stood demurely behind her husband with a hand resting upon his shoulder. It was the 1940's, during World War II, and the movie I was watching was a sappy kids show, but it was choking me up! All was well with this family, once again, after a dramatic sequence involving the father being declared M.I.A., then found injured and hospitalized until he could be shipped home.

It amazed me, how, in the movie, the entire town was focused upon and dedicated toward supporting their troops and the war effort. People grew "victory gardens", collected all manner of scrap metal to be made into artillery, and would roll bandages and prepare care packages for the troops overseas. This was all taking place on American soil (and similarly, in Canada as well). The war was raging overseas, decimating European cities and leaving millions dead, injured, homeless and irrevocably scarred with the horrors they faced. While our continent, for the most part, did not manifest itself in the form of a battlefield, our cities, towns, and farmlands were actively and fully engaged in the support of our troops and the liberty being fought for by our Allies.

There have been a few times where I've encountered extreme disgust expressed by a war veteran towards today's youth. My generation (and the ones that follow me), are often known to be ungrateful, disrespectful and ignorant of the freedoms paid for with the blood of our ancestors.

Now I know this is starting to sound like a Remembrance Day post, and doesn't really fit in with the whole July 1, Canada Day (and the fourth of July, which I also celebrated) weekend, but I'm feeling patriotic, so hear me out!

One of the reasons for a lack of gratefulness and awareness, I see as a result of parents, who (like myself) prefer to avoid unpleasantness and painful topics with their children. I've found myself, over the years, sugar-coating the world and not wanting to acknowledge the bad people and bad history of our civilization. I prevent my kids from watching violent cartoons, and don't watch the news in their presence. I tend to avoid conflict and confrontation, and prefer that my children are not exposed to angry people or hurtful topics. Unfortunately, my cause appears to hopeless since even the Bible we read (as we seek to be a loving, Christan family), is laden with stories of violence and bloodshed! Within the very first chapters, Cain kills Abel in a fit of jealousy and sibling rivalry, and I hope this doesn't give my children any ideas...

Keeping all this in mind, and knowing that it is impossible to shield our children from the negative actions of others (whether current or historical), I'm left wondering when it is appropriate to share, which details to share, and most of all how do I embark upon the grim task of explaining and sharing the failings of humanity? I can't avoid it entirely, and it would be a disservice to the heroes of our nation to not repeat their stories because of the darkness they faced in their fight for freedom. I guess this is fairly similar to the idea of telling one's testimony or the story of what they have overcome in life. We can't learn from the past if we aren't willing to at least mention it, and recognize the place from which we've grown or been lifted from.

I've been learning to be honest with my children over the years, including the idea that I should be real with my children when I'm having a bad day or feeling sad. A certain level of discretion is required, based on age-appropriate information, but my kids are essentially going to learn how to deal with their emotions based on the example which I give to them. This leads me to the social and historical events which are filled with pain and suffering: As I lead my children in an example of compassion and care when addressing these issues, I am teaching them empathy and giving them a respect for those who endure suffering.

When Thailand had it's major Tsunami, just after Christmas in 2004, the intense suffering and horror of this event was plastered on every newspaper and TV station in sight. Not only that, but this was the country we would be traveling to in less than 9 months, in order to live and work as missionaries. My eldest daughter was just 5 years old at the time, but we shared the story of this horrible storm and how it had hurt many people so that we could pray as a family for the nation we would be calling home for a season.

If anything, the knowledge of others' suffering works in us a propensity to become very grateful. If we do not acknowledge the work and suffering of others, ignorance is bred and can lead to arrogance if adopted with a sense of entitlement. Those who feel that they "deserve" nice things and nice treatment all the time, lose their sense of thankfulness. Just think of how a "spoiled" child rarely expresses gratefulness, but is quick to make demands upon their parents, grandparents and others around them when something isn't quite right.

As adults, it is important for us to hold in reverence that which we've received and been blessed with. I would like my example to be one that shows humility and gratitude. I have found that there is nothing more pleasant than a gracious person who is quick to speak words of thankfulness. A thankful person is not only aware of what they "have", but also what they "have-not". This is where the negative can be addressed, and turned into a positive by culturing respect and sensitivity in our attitudes.

While I am not advocating a regular diet of learning about the pains and sufferings of others as part of a "healthy" childhood, I am however suggesting that we will encounter much tragedy in this world - some far away, some in the past, and some of it far too close to home. As we speak honestly to our children, and practice respect and compassion, we are doing them a great service in their ability to be sensitive and to handle the hurts of this world. Put very simply, the "Golden Rule" from Matthew 7 tells us: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I see that concept playing out very practically in our daily lives as we consider others; respecting and caring for their hurts when it is our ability to do so. This awareness and acknowledgement also gives us the tools necessary to handle grief and work through hardship. Most of all, it draws us together - not unlike the war-time efforts that I described earlier. When we share in our brother's suffering, it makes the load lighter and it will make a difference.

Ending with that thought, I found this season of celebrating our nations (Canada and the U.S.A. - since my husband is half-American) a lot more exciting than I have in years past. It was as though I had a new sense of my country's worth. I felt truly thankful and appreciative of what others had endured and fought for, allowing me to have great freedom and blessing as I raise my family.

Half-Year Assesment Day

2011-07-01T16:53:00.001-07:00

"Why is my toothbrush outside on the porch?" I asked no-one in particular, as I was wrapping up the extension cord after mowing the lawn.

Angry feelings simmered, percolating and bubbling up inside my chest until I sighed and decided to "let it go".

It's Canada Day... a time when I should be joyously celebrating our fantastic country, but in reality, it has me thinking "Oh my... the year is half-over!" I'm left in a melancholy, introspective mood this afternoon as children nap in hopes of staying up late to watch the fireworks tonight.

How is it that I've reached the middle of the year, and I feel like I'm still penning my resolutions, working on my expectations and planning my changes for the future as if it's New Year's Day?

How does one measure change when that which is desired and longed for can be described primarily as internal transformation, making it difficult to quantify?

There are a great many things which I hope to become, but in the same way a doctor doesn't just write one exam and is then granted his license to practice, the process of becoming more gracious, loving, and sensitive is multi-faceted and proceeds little by little, inch by inch. Minute adjustments are being performed in my heart and slowly filter out into my actions.

Unfortunately, we humans can only measure what we can see and experience. I am left to continually assess my behavior, in hopes of seeing progress. Take for example today: After running around with my children and hearing them complain and whine and fight for what felt like the millionth time, I loaded everyone up into the van, and quietly sat myself in the drivers seat, staring blindly though the windshield. After a few more minutes of scrapping among siblings, the kids suddenly noticed that Mommy was acting weird and asked what was going on.

"I'm tired of the fighting." I said plainly, with no anger or accusation in my voice.

"Oh" said one of my kids, and they continued with their chatter and whining at each other for another couple minutes.

I gave no indication of starting the van or leaving our parking space, and for a moment I considered picking up a newspaper from the floor beside me and reading it, but I thought my statement would be louder and clearer to the kids if I remained silent and motionless. Inside my head, a calming, quiet feeling overrode the fact that I was engaged in a "stand-off" with my kids. I didn't need to shout, lecture, spank, threaten or bribe. My kids (especially the oldest ones) know how it works. They've been told multiple times what is required when they've been fighting and misbehaving.

Finally a child clued in and I heard this melodramatic, half sighed - half exclaimed "I'm sorry!"

Another child chimed in with their apology and, finally sensing that an adjustment had been made in the atmosphere (at least for the time being), I turned the key in the ignition and drove away from our parking spot.

If I wanted to assess my parenting, and my overall attitude towards my children, then this situation gives me a great starting point. My kids didn't require rudeness, sarcastic and annoyed comments or frustrated yelling to cause them to resolve the issues at hand. For once, I was a "good mom" who kept her cool, trusting in the power of my influence, and the fact that my children have rooted within them the tools necessary to resolve conflict.

Maybe I really am changing. I see a little more grace in my behavior. I'm a little less angry and frustrated when the people around me do annoying things, invade my space and trample my "rights". I can wait quietly for the kids to work things out and I can buy another toothbrush. Adversely, I can't take back harsh words, and if provoked, I may have to live with the regret of angry actions. Little by little though, the sharp corners are being polished away.

There is an interesting scene in the movie "Date Night" where Tina Fey, playing the part of the female lead "Claire", is talking about her feelings as a mom and wife. Her husband Phil (played by Steve Carell), asks her if she has ever thought about cheating on him. Surprisingly (for a Hollywood movie) they portray a "decent couple" and Claire is quick to say "No", but that instead of cheating, she sometimes fantasizes about being alone. She goes on to say:

I don’t know. Just, there are times when I’ve just thought about, on my worst day, just, you know, leaving our house and going some place. Like checking into a hotel and just being in a quiet room by myself. Just sitting in a quiet air-conditioned room, sitting down, eating my lunch with no one touching me, drinking a Diet Sprite, by myself.

Sadly, I can relate. I've had theses moments in time where I think of how easy it would be to just disappear - just walk away and hide for a few hours, a few days; without any explanation. This is where internal change is tricky... it seems to be instigated and expedited by interaction with others.

With all of the "issues" I see within myself, and all of the change I wish to embark upon, most will be worked out primarily by living out my role as wife and mother, and as a human being who interacts with other imperfect people.

So I'm left to conclude one thing and one thing alone. I'm a work in progress. I can assess my half-year status, and try to pat myself on the back based upon my success thus far in my resolutions - but... I think we'll just leave it with the idea that at least there appears to be forward movement. I haven't arrived by any means, but I've had a few successes (amid numerous blunders).

Just for that, I'll give myself a gold star!

Resisting A Rest

2011-06-30T12:23:00.002-07:00

I can hear that high pitched, whiny cry again; coming from the darkened room where my toddler is supposed to be sleeping. In between washing dishes and preparing pizza dough for supper tonight, I wipe my hands dry on my cotton shorts and open the door to his room. He squints into the light, looking at me, and reaching his arms up.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" I question him in a sing-songy voice. These morning naps are still a necessity to me, both for his well-being and my ability to get things done around the house.

I don't smell a dirty diaper, and he doesn't appear overly upset. Then I see the reason for his lack of slumber. His soother, usually clipped onto his shirt where it can easily be found, has been tossed out of the playpen and onto the floor.

"Oh Ezra!" I groan with exasperation.

This has become a habit as of late; him pulling with all his might until the soother detatches from his clothes. Then he purposefully tosses it out of the playpen, as if to say "Nope! Not gonna sleep... I'm done napping!" He even does this first thing in the morning when I get him out of bed. Even if I take the soother and hang it onto the side of the playpen, he'll grab it and forcefully toss it AWAY from the playpen.

I nursed my little one, hoping to soothe him into a state of calm and I put him back to bed, the soother, once again firmly attached.

Sometimes I wonder why tired little ones work so hard to resist rest. As adults, we are well aware of the benefits and blessings of "down-time" and any day where I actually get to lay down for a quick cat-nap is a rare, well-appreciated treat! Yet, here's my little active boy, whom, if given the opportunity would rather wander around the house whining and making messes than have a nap when he needs one.

I have to admit, in some ways I can relate to the idea of resisting rest. I find myself rushing about, cleaning things that could left for a while, engaging in activities that don't serve to bring peace into my life and hurrying myself and my family all over the place, as if life can't wait for us.

While it is good to establish a sense of physical rest (and this is something I explored in my posting about Sabbath) God offers a deeper kind of rest to us, as seen in Hebrews chapter 4. Sadly, we often live our lives being too busy, too distracted or we are simply living in disobedience and do not enter into the rest that He gives. To break it down very simply, rest that you attain in God is acquired merely by belief (or faith) in Him, as you accept His grace for your life. Hebrews 4:16 so beautifully instructs us in this process, saying "Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." We can approach with confidence because grace isn't based on what we do and who we are. Grace is based upon a loving God who paved the way for us, through Jesus.

It feels so natural to resist asking for help. I'm the kind of person who likes be the martyr and get things done on my own, even if the task looks too great and too difficult. This tendency in normal, everyday situations lends to my resistance of God, causing me to carry the emotional weight and responsibility of things I shouldn't have to bear. Not only that, but when I resist His rest, I end up spending far more time worrying, afraid and unhappy because I'm not trusting Him.

My little guy fell asleep - perhaps he recognized the wisdom in choosing to take this time to nap peacefully. Or maybe he just gave up, realizing that for now, Mommy is smarter and stronger and he shouldn't resist me. Either way, I can concede that there is a little bit of my toddler's tendencies in myself. I am aware that I have an inclination to resisting rest. Will I continue to be stubborn, making life more miserable for myself and others - or will I enter into the rest that is freely offered?

My Gnarly Family Tree

2011-06-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself on a surreal journey to the other side of Canada. In a sense, I felt like I was re-winding my own life as I left behind my husband and kids, to travel with my parents and brother. (How weird is that?) We attended a family reunion with relatives I've rarely seen in my lifetime, and met up with other relatives who, as a result of a dysfunctional family, had minimal connection with my dad (some of the last contact being 25 years ago).

In a world that is so "connected", it's no surprise that we seem to have developed a lure and fascination with our ancestry as of late. People scour the internet for their long-lost relatives, looking to fill in the missing gaps on their family trees. We long to know our roots - where did we come from, who do we look like, what is our family history??? We want to know what sort of people we belong to, and whom we have grown from.

During my trip, I met all sorts of family members. My mom's side of the family is pretty normal - it's just that growing up, I didn't see them very often as we have been scattered across a vast country, thousands of miles separating us. My last family trip to Ontario had been in 1984, as we attended a funeral. On the flip side, visits to our part of the country from my mom's relatives were scattered and few due to busy lives and the expense of cross-country travel. Yet, despite the distance and lack of real "relationship", I found an instant connection and bond with my aunts and uncles and cousins. I found myself mentally acknowledging family resemblances - and with amusement, noted: "Now I know where I got my small hips from!" We laughed and shared memories and caught up on life and children, and talked of how we should make an effort to connect more in the future.

Then I began to meet my dad's family. All my life, I had the understanding that my dad was the youngest in a large family (at least 10 kids) and that his mom had walked out when he was a baby, leaving all the kids to be divided up into foster care. It isn't something we discussed very much as a family, considering that my dad prefers to leave the past, in the past. So now, I had a natural curiosity about these random people - my aunts and uncles - whom I would be meeting. I'd like to say that we instantly felt a deep affinity for one another and the conversation flowed easily and steadily. However, there was a sort of awkward caution - a knowing that the family's history had left a strong, indelible stain on so many lives, and would not be forgotten. Even so, as we gathered in my aunt's log home in the Ontario woods, I sensed the same longing and hunger for family and belonging that is evident in all families - whether weird, normal, healthy or unhealthy.

All my life, I've wondered about this "other branch" of my family tree. I wondered if my aunts were pretty, and if I'd inherited some of my features from them. Were they overweight or skinny, tall or short, with curly hair or straight, big noses or small??? Who did I get all of my crazy freckles and moles from? Not only that, but I wondered what sort of people they had become. With wounds as deep as their haunting past had created, did they grow up to have normal families or were they still victims and "walking wounded"? My oldest uncle had apparently snubbed any attempts at meeting with us. Perhaps the thought of his younger siblings was too strong a reminder of pain buried deep in the past.

I found a few answers, and still many questions. As the humid afternoon of picture-taking and halting conversation drew on, a tiny thread of connection began to weave throughout our lives. Address books and slips of paper were passed around as names and contact information were jotted down. "I've never been much of a Christmas card person," I told my aunts and uncle, "but I'd like to make an effort to stay in touch with all of you." Realistically, I never had much reason before to send cards to relatives far away... Now there was a smidgen of hope for a semblance of relationship with my distant relatives. What was most odd, however, was the constant scramble to remember names - was this Aunt Josephine or Aunt Geraldine? (all the similar old-fashioned names didn't help, either!)

At one point during the weekend, I stole away from the suffocation of chatter and awkward conversation with people I barely know, to go for a long run. I found myself hidden away, running through wooded trails, passing through sunlight and shadows. As a prairie girl, I'm accustomed to endless expanses of nearly flat grassland with few trees, apart from the ones growing down in the river bottom. I found myself inexplicitly drawn to the quiet and calm of the rugged, hilly, densely wooded terrain. Deeper and deeper I was lured into the hush of wooded trails; twisting and turning past ponds and fallen logs and through the occasional bright patch of a clearing in the woods; a hidden meadow, nestled among the forest.

I kept track of my direction and progress with the GPS on my phone, knowing that at any point in time, I could simply backtrack and find my way back to my aunt and uncle's home where we were staying. After an hour and a half of solid, hard-core, yet surprisingly refreshing running, I was heartened by the fact that all my twists and turns on unfamiliar, unmarked trails had led me in a loop, and I was, seemingly heading back in the right direction.

I was within a couple miles of my destination when I made a wrong turn. Although I found myself out of the woods, and on a main road, the map on my phone showed me unexpectedly off-course, having headed a mile or so in the wrong direction. I found myself frustrated and keenly aware of my inexperience with GPS mapping, and my predisposition to having logic become severely clouded by frustration and panic. At first, I thought I would simply retrace my steps and head back to a point which I recognized, and could then proceed in the "right" direction. Easier said than done. What followed, was a miserable few miles... (Yes! I continued to run in circles and covered a few more MILES) before I resigned myself to being too tired, and too lost to figure out my misdirection. Thank God for cell phones - and a big brother who was all too amused to come and rescue his poor, lost sister.

I have to say, that what started out as a lovely, solitary run, left me longing for companionship near the end. When you find yourself lost and exhausted, in unfamiliar territory, the last thing you desire is to be alone. I knew that if my husband was with me, he'd have no trouble navigating the map. While I certainly enjoy being alone, I couldn't deny the fact that every journey, struggle, frustration and trial is definitively lessened by companionship.

Family tends to be the people whom you belong to, who are supposed to stand by you and love you "no matter what". Sometimes, your family just happens to be people whom you are related to, sharing the same last name and physical features. Sometimes you can feel entirely alone, although surrounded by relations. At the root of our frail existence, I believe that (despite how vehemently some of us choose to appear strong and independent), we all long for connection and we all long to belong.

As my trip wrapped up, and the lack of sleep began to override my sensibility, I yearned for my own precious family and for the sanctuary which my home represents. I recently came across a quote that well expresses my feelings regarding travel and discontent with one's life:

"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it." -George Moore

In the same manner, I believe humanity searches and commits to all manner of relationships, in hopes of finding deeper meaning and contentment. I don't know about you, but no matter how awesome my relationships are, when I become honest with myself, and I face the ugliness of my pride and selfishness, there remains a struggle with emptiness and feeling alone. Many of us are inclined to dig up our family roots, hoping to find something... meaning or significance to hold onto.

I search and I seek and run as far and fast as my legs can carry me...

I've run full circle. I'm inclined to make a call for help because I'm too tired, too worked up and too emotional to figure things out and find my way "home". My ancestry is muddled with best-forgotten details and people whom I'll never know. I'll never find all that I'm looking for in the back woods of Ontario, and I may not even find everything I need here in my comfortable, happy home.

All that I truly need and desire is a just prayer away. What I hunger for is freely given through Christ. I can belong; eternally adopted into God's family. This is an obvious truth for most believers, still... I need to be reminded of this fact. I need to remember where my real home is, and how I've been grafted into a new family tree.

I belong.


God looks after us all, makes us robust with life (Ps 41:2)