Some See Super-Mom. Others See Super-Fail.

Motherhood is a wily creature. She’s tough to pin down, and can be awfully sneaky about how she brings you down. Although sleep deprivation seems to be her weapon of choice, I have also seen her utilize tantrums, lots and lots and lots of germs, and food fights (and I don’t mean the fun kind).

The thing is that Motherhood often involves tasks that require more than two hands, and most women were, unfortunately, only given the two.

If Motherhood were a person, I doubt it would ever take responsibility for the many, many, many young women who have lost all sense of time, space, and overall sanity due to her countless intolerable demands.

For instance, I am always in a hurry.

No. That is not an exaggeration. I really mean it. I am literally never not in a hurry.

This is how Motherhood has chosen to pluck away at my sanity…

I am either running around like a lunatic, trying to get one single chore complete before my son decides to find me and torture me with one of his numerous and unrealistic requests.

I often find myself racing up and down the stairs in a vain attempt to accomplish even a small load of laundry before my infant’s grunts and snorts evolve into full blown wails, as if in the two minutes I have not been at his beckon call, I have completely abandoned him.

Or even worse yet, I can never even pay a bill online at a normal pace since it takes my toddler 2.3 seconds to see that I have the computer open and everything goes right to the crapper once he is aware of this.

When it is finally quiet in my home and I have achieved the impossible: both children asleep simultaneously, I must frantically choose, wasting as little time as possible, how I will spend these precious minutes. Do I choose to clean my home, therefore reestablishing my sanity? Do I choose to sleep, therefore reestablishing my sanity? Do I choose to eat, therefore reestablishing my sanity? Since each of these things is impossible to get done during the few minutes of peace I get each day, it is a safe bet that insanity is a much more common facet of my personality.

Today, I actually got to grocery shop in the absence of the two mini humans I created. I thought it would be peaceful, but alas I still found myself rushing through the aisles and scurrying to my car, thinking that if I hurried, I might still be able to clean the basement before my oldest awoke from his nap.

Many veteran mothers will recognize this as an amateur mistake.

Unfortunately, in my two years of motherhood, I have still yet to learn that one should never, ever, not even if all the stars have aligned, make plans when children are involved in any capacity. My plans for my afternoon came to a screeching halt, when I flew out of my parking spot, suburban loaded down with 3 weeks’ worth of groceries, and slammed into a Buick Equinox…Oops.

I hope you all noticed that I still managed to blame Motherhood for an event that happened in the total absence of my kiddos. I am confident I have a strong case against her.

Now, veteran and amateur mothers everywhere know that Motherhood is extremely two-faced. In the many moments that she makes you feel like a total failure, like you can’t possibly carry on in such a frazzled state, she busts out one of those moments where you manage to arise triumphant, from the tears, vomit, and broken toys, with your held high knowing that you just defeated an impending catastrophe with your rapid thinking and cat-like reflexes.

I had such a moment recently. I had been supermom-ing it all day, cleaning my house like a maniac and dealing with each son’s needs effortlessly. However, at 6 pm my boys and I found ourselves surrounded by an immaculate home, yet completely without supper. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to load my starving toddler and crabby infant into the car to drive ten minutes to get a Little Caesar’s pizza, but even the best moms make bad judgment calls occasionally.

So, there I stood: in the middle of an extremely crowded pizza joint, holding my son’s hand and my other son’s car seat. I was completely aware that most eyes were on me as I ordered, and attempted to keep my toddler from running into the street, since this particular pizza joint decided to leave their door wide open in the middle of January.

I managed to maintain control of my situation until I was handed a box of pizza, a bag of breadsticks, and a 2-liter of Pepsi… Yep… I didn’t think this through. As my eyes wandered over the pile of food, the car seat, and my oldest son, I tried to fake an air of complete confidence, as if I had suddenly sprouted two additional hands and would just seamlessly whisk up everything in front of me and float to my car.

I continued this facade as I somehow managed to shove all my belongings out the door and toward my car, but I most certainly did not float; I lugged, hauled, and balanced, but I did not float. As I strapped my last son into his seat and climbed into the driver’s seat, I released a victorious sigh.

Take that, Motherhood. I, a mere mortal, managed to avoid a complete disaster brought on entirely by the bewilderment and woes of one of your impossible demands. My house got cleaned; my family got fed; And I avoided a panic attack.

Some of you may be asking what I learned from this experience: Sometimes you’ve just got to smile, or grit your teeth, and come at Motherhood with both fists swinging, and remember that tomorrow is another day and it is all a tremendous gift—even the real bad days.

A Moment of Rescue

Feeling lonely and forsaken,

and so desperate for you to awaken.

For you are my reminder of good things

when only evil the world brings.

Finally, I hear you cry out in the night,

pleading for me to hold you tight.

Tossing and turning in disbelief

that you would wake to such grief,

I take you in my arms so tight

and sing until your breathing is light

I whisper, “It will be okay,”

although I did not believe it that day.

With a war being fought,

you are the blessing I nearly forgot.

Now with your face so close to mine

I begin to study every line.

Surely, your Father knit you in the sky,

even that funny mole above your eye.

He gifted me with your perfect laugh,

as if sent on the wings of a seraph.

Surprised again by your perfect form,

my faith may actually weather this storm.

Surely your Creator is my Father too

and has the strength to carry me through.

As the troubles grapple for my attention,

you and I refuse to let the cold in

As your warmth settles around my pain,

God’s peace slowly returns once again.

He begins to whisper, “It will be okay.

My sweet child with Me you must stay.”

Without you, things would seem so bleak,

as I trace my finger along your cheek.

In this world you will have trials,

my dear, sweet, innocent child.

Yet you need not fear, I promise.

For when all the world seems amiss,

your Father will be there beckoning you

to a moment created for your rescue.

My Husband, the Onion

My husband and I are not compatible.

Oops! Did I actually just write that?

Alright, don’t freak out, everyone. I love my husband with all my heart and I actually think he’s pretty much the coolest guy ever.  He also gave me his full permission to publish this blog post, as he struggled to regain control of his incredibly loud and obnoxious laughter after reading it. Are we all satisfied now? If not, I will repeat: My husband is awesome!

For all who know me, and you don’t even really need to know me that well, you know that I am brutally honest. When I say brutal, I don’t mean I walk around calling people fat. I’m honest, not rude. If you know me, you know where you stand, and if you’re unsure, then you really are not paying attention. Most can read the emotions on my face like a full-out encyclopedia. I hide nothing and secret keeping is not a strength. You can probably even tell that from the information I reveal on this blog.

I am not necessarily saying this is a good characteristic, but I’m also not ready to label it as a bad thing. Being a painfully honest person has gotten me into trouble in the past, but it also has allowed me to build amazing, lifelong friendships with people I can trust, and in turn, they trust me.

My husband is not a brutally honest person, farthest thing from it. He’s not a liar either. The existence of his opinions is questionable most of the time, simply because he chooses not to reveal them. He would much rather stay silent than speak at all, a phenomenon I am still trying figure out. Sometimes, I wish I possessed even a minuscule amount of his self-control. Even when asked, he will rarely reveal the truth to you, until you’ve asked about 99 more times. This is not because my husband has no opinions, does not care, and hates to tell the truth. This is because he generally has not developed an opinion the first time you ask him. He does not spend time thinking about things that don’t concern him, and it usually takes him a couple conversations before he feels confident enough in his opinion to reveal it.

I, on the other hand, do not need to feel confident in my opinion before I reveal it. It is my opinion. Take it or leave it. I may change it or I may keep it, but if you ask me how I’m feeling I will tell you with little to no hesitation.

A good portion of these differences between myself and the man I married could probably be blamed upon the fact that I am a woman and my husband is a man. This is no longer a guarantee amid out society, so thank goodness for that. However, we seem to take the opposite way in which we choose to communicate to a whole new level, a height that would terrify most. In fact, it terrifies me a little bit.

I will tell you now that my husband and I do not have it all figured out. We even, dare I say, fight about this very thing on occasion. There are times when his silence becomes so deafening that my opinion cannot be kept to myself any longer, which usually results in me exploding all over him. Poor guy. Through three years of marriage, we have found that brutal honesty and silent resignation are a dangerous combination—a very dangerous combination indeed.

As a wife who strongly desires to serve and honor her Father by serving and honoring her husband, I have found that a certain amount of patience must be employed when I set out to unpack my husband. When I wish to know what he is thinking, which is mostly always, I must peel him away layer by layer, like an onion.

I absolutely should not expect any results for the first few weeks. I must be the one to resign, and I must resign myself to the fact that I will not get any answers until a proper amount of effort has been instituted. If my patience becomes frayed, and my loud mouth takes the driver’s seat, all of my hard work will be for not as I watch my husband shut down all of his emotions, opinions, and even his ability to express basic words. In a man who is hard to read, it is painfully obvious when I click his power button—he pretty much goes blacker than a television set and I am left to wait it out until the power returns. When I choose not to wait, and force the issue, a dreaded fight ensues.

God has taught me some extraordinary lessons in my first years of marriage. The confusion with which I view my husband at times has put me through some torturous moments:

Is he going to talk?Is he going to talk?

Is he going to talk?!?!?!?

 OMG is he EVER going to talk!??!?!?!?

This is roughly the progression of my thoughts as I stare into the face of my husband, after speaking for several minutes, wondering if I would have received more feedback had I been talking to the wall instead.
Alas, I must admit, with much indignation, that being married to a silent human has, in turn, made me a better human. There. I said it. I don’t know that I will ever learn to entirely rely upon my patience as I wait my husband out: it is just so much easier to allow my smooth talk and extremely large mouth to monopolize a conversation, somehow hoping that the more I speak, the more likely he will speak—Obviously no logic is employed with this technique and it never fails to further exasperate my original dilemma.

So in those moments that my husband does not offer me the truth and conversation I desire, I will depend upon God to not only provide me with what my husband cannot, but also to teach me how to control my tongue. After all, anyone who has ever opened the book of Proverbs knows that one’s tongue can be one’s folly.

Marriage is hard. Oh, it is so hard. However, the Lord created it and fully intends for it to glorify Him while setting an example in a world that so easily gives up on it.  That is why us wives (this is me hoping I’m not alone), as we stare into the face of our onions, must remember that despite his shortcomings and his imperfections, we are called to be his helpmate, his support, his encouragement—and more than that, we are to submit to him. If that means that we must guess what it is he needs instead of hearing it from his lips, then so be it. A little challenge never killed anyone, and everyone knows that peeling an onion takes some patience, and sometimes a few tears.

And finally, if after much effort, the skin refuses to release from the onion, just grab the knife and start chopping… 😉

To the Media: Shut Up.

Yesterday as I did dishes, my son spent an entire five minutes standing at a wide open garage door, looking out into the dark garage, considering the option of taking a step, stumbling down three flights of stairs, and landing on a cement floor. Yep, didn’t see that coming.

 

Today he was visiting with an 8-month old in a wagon at the park. I was watching from afar, making sure he did not poke her in the face, when suddenly the wagon handle that he was leaning on moved and slammed right into the poor girl’s head. Yep, didn’t see that coming.

 

I should really delete Facebook off my phone. I don’t even think about it. One second I am waiting for my son to get done eating or for my car to get done filling up and the next second, I am cruising through my Newsfeed. It is like I have some sort of constant thumb twitch that can only be satisfied by clicking on the little blue app stamped with an F. It calls to me.

 

I have seriously considered getting rid of my account, and if it weren’t for my blog, I would.

 

Some of you probably think that would be a great idea, as you also have a love-hate relationship with this stalk-anyone-you-want-stimulation. However, others probably wonder how I could possibly live without it. I feel sorry for those people.

 

Social media is important to us. It also serves many incredible purposes. I use Facebook to spread the word about a ministry I am trying to start; I use it to spread the word of a new blog post; I use it to sell items and make some extra money; I use it to advertise my new idea for a book club for middle-schoolers.

 

However, many of the articles posted on my Newsfeed only serve one purpose: worrying me. And trust me: I do not need any help worrying; I am pretty skilled at that all on my own.

 

I used to joke with my dad about worrying. I would tell him that he just wasn’t complete unless he has something to worry about. Little did I know, someday, I would adopt this torturous trait.

This is a bit off topic, but worrying literally is the most useless human activity. Probably even more useless than snuggling up with your cell phone and your Newsfeed.

 

Anyway, to prove my point about Facebook and its indomitable, worry-laden information, I just logged on and cruised through status updates, pregnancy announcements, and quick speed recipe videos. I was looking for articles shared by my friends. These were the first five articles I came across:

1. Stevenson Funeral Home – Obituary for Cadence – This is a funeral happening on Thursday for an 18-month old niece of my co-worker. She had cerebral palsy.
2. 19 Year Old Stroke Survivor says ‘Just live for now’
3. Customer with Concealed Carry Permit Fatally Shoots Ax-Wielding Attacker at 7-Eleven
4. University of North Carolina: Saying ‘Christmas Vacation’ a Microaggression
5. Exclusive: Ikea to Halt Sale of Deadly Dressers, Offer Refunds to Millions

 

This is what my anxious, and perhaps pessimistic, mind gathered from the above articles.

1. Children get sick and pass away.
2. People can have strokes at terrifyingly young ages.
3. Soon, if our government has their way, all of us will be at the mercy of a psycho with an ax or gun or knife.
4. Colleges and public schools alike are continually trying to shove God out of their hallways.
5. Something as insignificant as a dresser has killed three, yes three, children.

 

Wow, ya know after logging onto my Facebook account to waste a little time while my kiddo sleeps, I feel so much better…….I am so glad I did that.

 

It has become even worse since becoming a parent. Even without Facebook, parents are constantly bombarded by warnings and “helpful” tips meant to keep our children safe.

THE HIDDEN DANGER IN YOUR BACKYARD!

THE FIVE MOST COMMON CHOKING HAZARDS!

CHEETOS CAUSE CANCER! M&Ms CAUSE CANCER! FRUIT SNACKS CAUSE CANCER!

SWIMMING POOLS AND WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW!

TRAMPOLINES ARE A DEATH TRAP!

YOUR CARSEAT IS ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NOT INSTALLED CORRECTLY!

DON’T MAKE YOUR CHILD HUG ANYONE!

SEX-TRAFFICKERS ARE CRAWLING ALL OVER THE COUNTY, LOOKING TO POUNCE! TRUST NO ONE!

 

It truly is a phenomenon that any child, anywhere has managed to survive until adolescence.

 

If the constant warnings aren’t enough to keep you up at night. The terrifying, disturbing, skin-crawling stories of sickness, injuries, and deaths of children around the world surely will. I am not one to deny that accidents happen, even freak accidents. However, I hardly think anyone needs to inform me of the one child who contracted a frightful flesh-eating bacteria from a bouncy house… This is certainly tragic, but I do not think 1 out of the 1,000,000,000,000 children who have played in bouncy houses is really a cause for alarm.

It gets even worse if you’re pregnant. Watch out for Zika, CMV, lunch meat, unpasteurized cheeses, and don’t even think about eating raw cookie dough…Bacterias, insects, and diseases are lurking around every corner, waiting to attack your vulnerable, unborn child.

 

Again, I am not denying, nor would I ever belittle, the tragedies that do occur with children and unborn babies. However, scaring the living daylights out of moms and dads is just not accomplishing a whole lot.

 

I don’t think anyone out there is going to argue that Facebook, as well as all types of media, is responsible for spreading these ridiculous, extremely unlikely to actually occur, warnings.

 

I truly do think the media wants all of us to live in fear, buy a lot of bubble wrap, and refrain from indulging in anything even remotely close to enjoyable.

 

According to Facebook, every activity, food, or device is likely to kill my son. It probably would be best if I just put him in a bubble and only exit the house when it is deemed absolutely necessary. If he is smiling, he is surely in danger.

Even though we tend to gobble up these frightful lies faster than a Thanksgiving feast, it is not the media’s fault that parents worry too much. It’s ours. It is our lack of confidence in our own common sense and in our own ability to keep our children safe.

 

More importantly, it is a lack of confidence or perhaps a denial of our Heavenly Father. We are not responsible to keep our children alive until adulthood. Our responsibility is to serve our Lord by raising our kids to the best of our ability, after that, we leave them with God. Every parent in this entire country is aware that bad things can happen. This fact is biologically programmed into parents. We do not need help coming up with ridiculous and unlikely situations that could harm our kids.

 

This makes me think of the many nights I have lied awake entirely convinced that my son’s bedroom was filling with carbon monoxide. Or, even more embarrassing, when I snuck into his room at 3:00 am and removed a picture hanging above his crib: I was so sure it was going to fall on his head and kill him, I could not sleep until I removed it. Am I crazy? Nope. I am a mom. I am a mom who believes it is on her to protect her child in a dangerous, uninviting, sinful world.

 

We are not perfect. We make mistakes. Accidents happen. Kids get sick. Kids get hurt. This is hard for me to type, but kids also die. We cannot foresee everything, nor should we expect this from ourselves or the parents around us. God would never expect this from any of his children. We are only harming our children by spreading useless and terrifying media that won’t do any good to anyone.

 
My advice to every Facebook cruising, media gobbling parent out there is this: tell Facebook to shut up and listen to your God when He tells you He will protect your family. He will.

Stop Waiting 12 Weeks to Reveal your Pregnancy

I had a baby. His name was Jess. He died.

 

Alright, so now that is out of the way. I’m a little nervous about this one because it deals in some very painful experiences for many. However, I think it needs to be said.

 

In March of 2014, my husband and I were surprised to find out that we were pregnant. In April of 2014 we had a miscarriage, and two weeks later, a DNC.

 

Before I experienced this very common and silent suffering, I had little compassion for those who had. I did not understand the pain that could possibly be associated with a baby who was the size of a pea. I did not understand how one could become attached to a life so fleeting, it hardly made an imprint on anything. Now that I have experienced this, I have the deepest, most heartfelt compassion for any woman who loses a child. Whether she is one week pregnant or nine months pregnant, there was life. Period.

I am radically pro-life. A baby deserves to see sunlight no matter how small, how he was conceived, or the harm he may cause to his mother: none of this is his fault. A baby becomes a person the moment he is conceived, and no one ever, should question that irrevocable, God-sanctioned truth.

 

My husband and I did something that many would consider a mistake when we were pregnant with our first. We did not wait 12 weeks to share our happy news with the world. We told our family. We told our friends. We told our colleagues. I told my students. How stupid are we? Two weeks after we shared the news, we had to share that the baby was gone. It was awful. It was hard. It was torture.

For our next pregnancy, which has now become a 12-month old ball of mischief, we waited 12 weeks. Many would say we learned our lesson. However, I felt guilty the entire time. It felt wrong to hide my child from the world. I constantly wondered, if we were to lose him too, would we really never tell anyone that he existed? I am so thankful to God that I never had to answer this question.

 

I have thought a lot about this, and have come to the realization that many couples choose to wait 12 weeks before revealing a pregnancy because of self-preservation. There is no self-preservation involved in sharing a pregnancy too early and then having the dreaded task of sharing the story of your miscarriage over and over and over. However, the life that you are preserving when you share your pregnancy prior to the 12-week mark is your baby’s. You are openly admitting and joyously celebrating the life inside you. Whether that life will reach full term or not, it was there and it should be celebrated. Most of all, people should know about it. This baby lived.

 

No matter how far along a woman is in her pregnancy, the baby has life. Those that are pro-life would agree with this statement. So, why on earth, are we waiting 12 weeks to accept, share, and admit a life? The couple who chooses to wait 12 weeks and then suffers a miscarriage is forced to muddle through the mourning alone. They experience the same grief, the same anger, and the same questions as anyone who has lost a loved one, but they pick up the pieces alone. The part that really bothers me about this couple’s sad story, however, is that no one will ever know they had a child. Besides the couple, no one will mourn their child, pray for their child, or acknowledge their child. It is as if he/she never existed. That, my friends, is not right.

 

I have no intention of lessening the immense pain associated with a miscarriage. I also pray for the families that experience multiple miscarriages and their struggles. I do not understand what this would be like and pray I never find out. However, if God grants us with another child, my husband and I do have every intention of sharing his/her life with the world. If we were to lose him, the benefits of sharing it with others would outweigh the disadvantages. Of course, it would be excruciatingly difficult to share our loss with others. However, we would not have to suffer and mourn our child alone, nor would we be the only ones who knew we had lost a life in our family.

We will see our son or daughter again someday, and we will call him/her Jess. My children will know they had another sibling, and his/her name was Jess. The world will know my child had life, and his/her name was Jess. God created Jess. Jess mattered. Jess lived.

Why Nurseries are Harmful to Churches

10 churches, 45 hymns, 10 sermons, 13 awkward conversations, 233 bible verses, 38 handshakes–these are the stats my husband and I have acquired in our search for a church that suits both our needs. What we did not see coming, however, is the difficulty we would face in finding a church that suits the needs of our son. In nearly every church we have visited, something has both surprised and disturbed us equally. It causes us to leave each sanctuary with the same question tormenting us: Where are all the kids? For 10 places of worship, I have turned down an offer to be shown the nursery 13 times.

 

Out of the ten churches my husband and I have visited, one of these welcomed our son and did not make us feel as though he only belonged in the nursery. That church is currently first on our list. We will absolutely not attend a church that makes us feel as though our son is not welcome. Now, don’t worry–A parent who has a screaming and disruptive child during a service bothers me just as much as the next guy, maybe more. There is, of course, an appropriate time for a parent to remove a child from a service; however, if a baby or toddler is behaving, he belongs in the sanctuary with his parents. A church that encourages, and even obliges, its parishioners to utilize the nursery for children between the ages of infant to 3 years, and continues to keep the older children out of the service with kids’ church, is sending a painful and unhealthy message to its visitors: children are not welcome here.

esbbc.org

We have attended countless churches where we are not even sure any children exist in the building, because they are never seen. We have attended countless churches where my 11-month old is the only child in the sanctuary. We have attended countless churches where there are not even any adolescents or teenagers present, no doubt because of the way they were ill-received as children. We have attended countless churches where I am convinced if my son makes even a small, joyful sound, they will surely stone us. This, my friends, is not only deleterious to these places of worship, but also to the little ones.

 

If I want to bring my son to the nursery, I will ask someone. I promise you he will get fussy during the service, and I will respectfully remove him from the sanctuary, but I will be responsible for him for the entirety of the service. Stop asking me if I want to know where the nursery is located; stop making me feel like my son can’t shake his rattle or pound on the pew without driving the Lord from the room; stop reminding me that there is a nursery available. I understand that there is a need for a nursery in a church; however, a church should leave that decision to the parents, and parents should certainly use it in moderation. My husband and I seem to be pretty isolated in this opinion, but we made a decision early in our son’s life: he will stay with us in church. There are, of course, many disadvantages to wrestling an 11-month old through an hour of Bible reading, sermon giving, and song singing. 1. The mom literally never gets to hear the sermon. 2. Both the mom and dad are on edge, shoving the pacifier in the child’s mouth, praying he keeps his rambling to a reasonable decibel. 3. The pew gets a bit messy with toys soaring through the air as the mom tries desperately to keep the child’s interest. 4. Despite the best efforts of both mom and dad, the youngster and one of his parents (usually mom) always end up banished to the fellowship hall. These are no doubt struggles that any parent who does not utilize the available child care must face.

 

However, it is my belief, that keeping your little one in church with you, no matter the age, has benefits that far outweigh the drawbacks. For instance, my son will learn from a young age that church is a place of silence, respect, and patience. He will also understand that church is not only for adults, but for him as well. Because of this, he will feel welcomed and included in a church service. Until he is roughly 9 or 10, he will no doubt gain most of his knowledge of the Lord from Sunday school and our home, since a sermon will be above his level of understanding; however, he will learn how to worship, pray, and devote an entire hour to the Lord long before he is able to pull information from a sermon. My son will not view a sanctuary as a land of adults which will surely cause him to feel unsure of where he belongs when he reaches the awkward stage of not-quite-a-kid and not-quite-an-adult. He will not associate church with a time of strictly play, but as a time of devotion and praise to God, and it is my hope, he will someday learn to enjoy this just as much as play. Most importantly, he will learn how to respect the building, the people, and his Father long before the children that spend their first 5-6 years inside a nursery or attending kids’ church.

http://www.morethings.com

I don’t know where churches developed the attitude that a church service is for adults. Church is to be a time of worship for an entire family, and it is a parent’s responsibility to make the experience beneficial to little ones. In Matthew 19:14 Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” When Jesus walked the earth, people were desperate to get their children as close to Him as possible. Just one touch of his robe–that is all these parents wanted. Nowadays, we keep our children at a distance. For what? Convenience? Peace? A break? Jesus would surely never encourage us to banish our children from a place of worship. The Bible also constantly reminds us that the faith of a child is what we should all strive for (Matthew 18:3). In Matthew 21, the chief priests were furious with Jesus because of the marvels He was displaying to his followers. These miracles created something beautiful in the children of Jerusalem, causing them to shout in the temple courts, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” It should be any parents’ greatest joy to witness their child worshipping Christ. Parents who allow their youngsters to spend most of their time outside a church service are sure to hinder children’s worship and prayer. The youth belong in church. In Colossians 3:16 Paul explains the purpose of a church to the people of Colosse, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.” Children are fully capable of engaging in many of these: Christ can surely dwell inside them; they can sing songs; they can thank God. There is no reason they should not gain abundantly from a church service, just as the adults do.

 

My son does not sit still; he absolutely never sits still. Keeping him engaged in a church service is similar to wrestling a wild boar with both arms tied behind my back. I have spent the past 12 Sunday sermons standing with my son in the fellowship hall, desperately trying to quiet him while he yammers on, as if he believes it is his responsibility to deliver the sermon each Sunday. It is exhausting, frustrating, and demanding, but Romans 10:17 says, “So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” How will my son hear unless I allow him inside the sanctuary as much as his behavior allows? I have hope that someday my labors will pay off and I will see its fruits in a faithful and devoted child. Until then, I will give my son every opportunity to hear the words of Christ, and I will do this by keeping him in church, no matter how inconvenient or grueling.

Cupid Book-Lover’s Tag

Copy and Past the following in your blog to participate in this tag.

Cupid’s Book-Lover Tag

The Rules:

1. Tag the creator (AbbieLu @ Cafe Book Bean)
2. Have fun answering the questions.
3. Tag 5-10 people to join in the fun.
4. Thank & link those who tag you.
5. Don’t worry about the rules!

You don’t need to be tagged to participate.

Love is in the air!

1) Favorite Love-Story book?

Wuthering Heights

2) Share your best Valentines day memory?

My first Valentines Day with my husband.

3) Favorite fictional hero/heroine?

George from Of Mice and Men

4). What story has the best most memorable romantic moment; kiss, proposal, etc.?

I honestly can’t think of anything.. don’t read a huge amount of romance

5) What is your all time favorite Romantic movie?

Serendipity

6) You can go anywhere for a romantic getaway (fiction or non-fiction,) where do you go?

Tulfes, Austria

7) Who do you want to be your valentine?

Alexander

8) Chocolate or flowers?

Chocolate

9) Novels: Romance or Adventure?

Adventure

10) What fictional villain, do you secretly love?

Count Dracula

 

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A Divine Connection

Her breath is rapid and raspy. She is desperately trying to maintain calm and control, but when she reaches up to brush her finger against the child’s cheek, she notices that her hands are trembling. She touches him anyway, just barely, his flawless, unmarked skin, absent of anything worldly, works to quiet her frantic thoughts. The position of the moon tells her it is 4 am. The child’s watchful, serene gaze is fixed upon her; it makes her feel naked, his stare so intense, he must see her soul. She hopes he does not see her fear. He is my son. This idea, unanticipated and without warning, escapes the locked cask of choked thoughts she has not permitted these nine months. She allows it again. He is my son. She will say it many more times in the coming months, waiting for her heart to catch up to reality.

 

She has trouble taking her eyes off him. He is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen; however, she hasn’t seen much. She is still young. She had intended to travel. Now, she never will. He will be her life. She will watch him grow into a toddler, a teenager, and a man–but she will never see his hair gray. She knows this. From the moment she knew of his life, she has warred against the feeling that she is alone. She feels unbearably alone. She holds a knowledge that few are aware of, and even fewer understand. She wishes she could be angry; however, she knows that she is chosen–and it is a blessing. It is this thought that she has rested upon for these months. She is chosen for a reason. While he grew inside her, the nausea, doubt, and sleepless nights growing as well, she continually asked herself why. She is just a girl. I am just a girl. I am just a girl. I am just a girl. Sometimes Joseph had to remind her because it was so easy to forget. “God does not always reveal his reasons,” he would say as he wiped the tears from her cheeks, leaving a wet etch across her face.

 

Other times, the Lord would provide her with incredible moments of peace and clarity. She would breathe in the desert air deeply and smile, wonderfully thankful, knowing that she could do this. During these times, she did not remember the doubt and anxiety. Right now, cold and unsure, she grapples for any atom of peace the Lord will provide. The child in her arms shifts into her, forming his body to hers. His blinks are lengthening and soon he will submit to sleep. She will look back on this moment many times throughout his life. In the hectic years to come, she will regularly recall this terrifying, yet mysteriously peaceful moment. She will remember it as the first and last time that it was just her, and the Savior of the world.

 

I was rocking my son last night around 2 am. Nuzzled into the crook of my arm, his bright blue eyes, flecked by Christmas light color, gazed into mine. Instead of enjoying this moment, like I should have been, I was crossing my fingers that I would see his eyelids fall like bricks, only to be pried open by his powerful will to fight sleep. When his eyes did open, however, the blue would have become slightly murky. I depend on this indicator to inform me that sleep is at least imminent for my little man, meaning that I will get to crawl back into my bed shortly.

 

My thoughts drifted to the first time I held my son. This was only eight months ago, but it feels like much more. I often forget my fear as the realization that I was responsible for this child slowly uncovered itself. I often forget the smile that played across my face as I felt the warmth and softness of his skin for the first time. I often forget the questions that raced through my mind and the doubt that I even had the capacity to be a parent. I often forget the promises I made to him as he rested against my chest. As I enjoyed this memory, transfixed by the glimmer of the Christmas lights around my son’s window, I thought of my Savior’s mother. I thought about how she was just a girl, given an incredible responsibility. I thought about her fear, her doubt, and her panic as she held an 8 pound Jesus in her arms, enraptured by his flawless gaze. Then, with my son in my arms, I whispered to her, in the same way I whisper to my Grandma when I tell her I miss her, “Mary, I finally understand your story.”

Exhale. Squeeze. Pull.

View from a deer stand. Wilton, North Dakota. Courtesy of my father-in-law, Clark.

The worst part is, hands down, getting out of the pick-up. That is when the regret, tingling as it settles into my spine and creeps its way through my weary body, hits me. It is when I realize I could be in my cozy bed for two more hours, only to wake up, take a warm shower, hop in a heated car, and go shopping with my mom and sister — now that is luxury. However, here I am. Freezing. Exhausted. Blinking into the darkness.

“Alright, grab your gun.”

That was my husband. What a cruel thing to say: That statement indicates that he is actually expecting me to walk to the cabin. No one has been in that cabin all night. The fire is not started. It will be 20 degrees in there, whereas, here, in the pick-up, it is roughly 90 due to my complete unwillingness to turn down the heat — not under any circumstances. My poor husband has been sweating since we left the city. However, I am entirely satisfied with the temperature in the pick-up. Although, through the years I have learned that the hotter it is inside the vehicle during the commute, the more brutally cold it is outside the vehicle.

The sound the snow makes as we walk toward the cabin echos the loneliness of the woods that surround us. Inside the cabin, I mostly stare at the digital clock, attempting to calculate how many minutes I will need to clothe myself in roughly 16 layers, while my husband starts the fire. Once I figure the timing, I stare at the heap of clothes on the bed trying to determine how my flourescent orange will ever fit over long johns, long sleeves, two sweatshirts (one thin, one thick) and my winter coat. I panic when I realize I forgot to pack the hand warmers. That is when I see my husband pull them out of his bag. What a relief; that’s why I love him.

I have been a hunter for as long as I can remember. I guess my desperation to be just like my big brother got me started. I shot my first deer when I was 14. It was one of the biggest thrills of my life. I didn’t really think hunting would be my thing, until I shot that buck. Then, I was hooked. For life. My granddaddy was there, with his innumerable years of hunting experience. He, to me, was a relic of hunting stories and wisdom. As a first-time hunter, I was to listen to and immerse myself in every word he said.

We watched a 4×4 buck many minutes before dawn: pawing the ground, grunting, rubbing his horns. It was the first time I had observed an animal in his natural habitat for any length of time; he was beautiful. Ironic–since I would be responsible for taking him out of that habitat in a few short minutes. I was lucky enough to be able to lean on an archaic fence post to steady my rifle. This has been a nearly necessary crutch during my hunting career as I haven’t grown taller or wider since my first hunt. I am still a 100 pound 5’3” girl who hunts with a youth rifle, but don’t let that fool you, I rarely miss.

“Okay, it’s time. The sun is 30 minutes out; take your shot,” my dad says as he tries to control the eagerness in his voice.”

Granddaddy doesn’t have any problem steadying his voice, “Lift your gun. Get him in your crosshairs. It’s a lengthy, but easy shot; he is broadside to us. Don’t get excited. Just do what you know.”

The world halted for just a moment as my finger caused a deadly chain reaction. The shot echoed through the woods, and my body forgot how to breathe as I watched 8 points crumble to the brush below. He was down, and I was smiling.

Since meeting my husband, hunting looks differently than it did when I walked mile after mile, shelterbelt after shelterbelt, with my brother to my right and my dad to my left. They were the only two that mattered. Although, generally, we were hunting with a number of distant relatives that I never bothered to get to know. I downed many deer with my dad’s voice in my ear and my brother’s eyes causing me anxiety.

Now, they are 200 miles away, but the feeling is the same; the reluctance to dress and walk; the uncertainty that I even remember how to load my gun. As my husband and I walk quietly toward the woods in the blackness of the moments before the sun reveals itself for another day, the feeling between us of anticipation mixed with hesitation is almost tangible. My desire to impress my brother is still present, eleven years later, as is my dad’s voice.

As I sit in the first tree stand of the season, and take a deep breath of pure, untouched air, loaded gun in my stiff, cold fingers, I remember why it is I put myself through this year after year. It is because of the thrill that runs through my veins when I hear the slightest sound of a twig snap. It is because of the peace of being separate from the familiar, and yet entirely in the company of chirruping birds and chattering squirrels among the branches.

 
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by a sound that doesn’t quite belong. That crackle of snow could only be caused by one thing. My breathing turns rapid and shallow while I raise my rifle to my shoulder. As I zero in on my target, I stop breathing all together. Breathe. Be calm. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Squeeze… It is my dad’s voice, echoing through the memories of many similar moments like this one. Then, I pull the trigger.