Do not despise the season

This past week, a dear friend, her husband, and her sweet little boy came to spend the night with us. I have always felt a special kinship with Kristi; I so value the ability to laugh at oneself, and Kristi is kind and thoughtful and funny, and she is very careful to not take herself too seriously.

Kristi is passionate about a natural lifestyle; we were a stop on the way to their final destination, so she temporarily unloaded all her organic morsels from her cooler into my fridge for the night. She had thought of everything-- organic milk for her son, organic coffee creamer (hopefully not for her son, or I am totally judging her), organic kiwis (Evie ate 3), some kumbucha tea and homemade sprouted grain bread. I am not sure about the last two, but you know... probably.

She is an extremely gracious person, so be assured when you read this next part: I was TOTALLY putting this on myself, not her.

As she placed her groceries beside mine, I began to feel self-conscious and squirmy. I used to be somewhat passionate about natural food; I still definitely see the value in it, and try to feed my family relatively healthfully and purposefully. But budget and time and lack of energy intercepted my best intentions somewhere between kid #1 and kid #3. And as she nestled her hormone-free milk beside my cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, as she described her tv-free toddler, I started to feel guilty.

Because, you know...

My kids had watched Sid the Science Kid that morning practically until their eyes got red and pus-y.

I had an important meeting with someone a few nights ago, and my husband was working... so I totally told my kids that if they played nice in the other room and let me finish my meeting without interruption, we would take a bike ride to the local Turkey Hill and they could get a small cup of red dye #5 Cherry slushie.

And of course, it's not just TV and nutrition:

I see other stupid, annoying moms post pictures on pinterest of their alphabetized DVD collection (oh, wait, they don't watch TV), or their color-coordinated dry erase memo board that plans their meals for the next 37 months (and they only spent $1.73 on all those groceries because they COUPON!), or their list of 674 FUN, EDUCATIONAL, TV-FREE THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR KIDS THIS SUMMER... and I just want to cry. I am trying to get dinner on the table for tonight. Sure I would coupon, IF I COULD FIND WHERE I PUT THE EFFIN' SUNDAY CIRCULAR.

And we see all this amazing (good!) stuff, and we think--"This is what I have to do! This is what I have to be!!"

But here's the thing. I am just not in that season right now.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend several years ago. We were discussing another friend, one who buys raw milk from a local farm and uses the cream to churn her own butter. Self-contempt crept into my voice as I said, "Wow. I really need to be like that."

I will never forget what my friend said, "Melody... there's a difference between practice and principle. The Biblical principle is that you are to care for your family and your home. That is going to look different for everyone; everyone will have different practices to make that principle come to fruition in their lives. You have to decide what serves your family best." For one friend, serving her family best means churning butter. Another's family is best served by picking it up at the market: the end result is the same. Neither is more or less.

But oh, I can be so discontent in the here-and-now. I want my kids to be more self-sufficient, I want our home to be more orderly, I want life to be less chaotic and loud.

But that's not the season I am in.

God made me wife to Chris. He chose ME, with all my manic insecurities and sloppiness-- to be Mama to Evie, Cana, and Ruby.

He did this in His perfect wisdom.

He knew that they would be close in age, and in His kindness, He promised that He would equip me with sufficient grace for today.

AndohasmuchasIhateitsometimes, this is the season I am in. The season of Target brand non-organic milk and socks under couch cushions and playdoh ground into the carpet of the minivan (how did that happen?!).

God put me in this beautiful, terrifying, maddening, amazing season because it is the very best thing for my soul. He's teaching me to be like Him--one board book, one band-aid application, one wiped nose at a time.

Help me to roll with it, God. Help me to delight in it, God. In the spilled milk and the overdue library books and the piles of laundry. Help me to delight in it.

Help me to not despise this season.

Promises

This week, we received the stunning news that our dear friends had lost their son/grandson to suicide.

He was 12.

My brain shut off; it was too much to comprehend. Even now, a few days out, I keep remembering this sweet boy and thinking, "Surely not, Lord. Surely not."

Chris went up to be with our friends for a bit. I stayed home with the girls and struggled to come up with words to put in a card.

We Christians are full our our trite little tidbits, aren't we?

"He's in a better place now. He's not hurting anymore."

"He's an angel now..."

"We'll all be reunited one day."

"God works in mysterious ways."

Etc. Etc. Ad nauseum.

I am not begrudging Christians their religious trifles. Because really... what do you say? "Sorry about your kid. Here's some ziti; it freezes well"??

This situation 150% sucks. There is nothing that I can do or say, no amount of sympathy or ziti that will change the fact that this 150% sucks.

I was not close to this small man, but I still find my faith shaken, my mind whirring with thoughts about the sovereignty of God. About the kindness of God. About heaven. About the fall of man and the curse of death.

And here's what I have come up with:

Nothing.

I don't know why God allows tragedies like this to happen. I don't know how He will redeem this to glorify Himself. I don't know how a family can begin to move ahead after something like this. I don't know about free will and predestination and lights at the end of tunnels.

Here's what I do know to be true:

We are not forsaken. (Deut. 31v6)
We are not forgotten. (Isa. 49v15)
We are helped. (Isa. 41v10)
We are heard. (Psalms 86v7)
God is near. (Deut. 4v7)

For right now, I cling to this... as I cry out for mercy for this family.
For right now, I trust the one who stores our tears in a bottle.
For right now, it's enough. It's gonna have to be.

Rosey's Ice Cream

So for those of you who have been to to our house, you know that it has had many incarnations over the years. From repair shop, to screen printing business, and most recently, to crack house. But before all those various tenants had paraded their way through my little home, it was Rosey's Ice Cream, a small factory owned by the Rosenberg family. Originally, it was a home delivery service started in the 1920's, satisfying Lititz homeowners with their delicious concoctions conveniently dropped at their front doors (add home delivery diet coke, and this is my idea of heaven). Later, it became the Scoop Shop, and kids would run over after school and choose their favorite selection from the wooden sign on the wall.

Chris and I are both enchanted by this story. Mostly because we are obsessed with ice cream. Little Girl #3 was almost named Rosey, and I think Chris still regrets that she wasn't. Next time, babe. (Ha.) I love homes with history; it's fun to imagine what life was like for the various people who lived and worked and scooped cherry vanilla in our home. Since we bought the place two years ago, we have casually been searching for "Rosey's" memorabilia. We have even met some of the Rosenberg family, who kindly shared copies of some of their collection with us.

I found this ad from 1951 online:

We didn't want to go overboard or anything and install 5 gallon buckets into our kitchen counters (or maybe we did), but a healthy dose of kitsch never hurt anybody. So since the Rosenbergs didn't want to part with their original Rosey's signs, I felt like I had to make a little cheater until I could sweet talk them into changing their minds.

It was always on the back burner, and I even added it to my "Summer Projects" memo board in my cloffice (closet+office).

See that-- "train for 1/2"? I start officially training for the OBX 1/2 marathon next week. The thought both nauseates and exhilarates me. Mostly nauseates, if I am gonna be honest.

So I killed a couple of projects with one proverbial stone, and made my wee little Rosey's sign, and a few yarn ball book page thingamabobs. My house is where old books come to die. For reals.

It'll do until I pry the real one out of the Rosenberg's cold, dead hands I get the real one.

And then I had kids...

Pre-kid Sundays live in a place of charmed, idyllic memories for me. Chris and I would wake up on our own, snuggle in bed, maybe fall back asleep for awhile. I would make breakfast and then shower-- actually shower!-- and dress in moderately stylish clothes that (gasp!) actually fit me! Though our church at the time was 45 minutes away, we often still had time (and money) to swing through Starbucks and pick up a tall nonfat vanilla latte. We would casually stroll into church with 15 minutes to spare. We'd chat with friends, scope out the best seat, and settle in for the service. Afterwards, we'd often go out to lunch and then home to--ah! Nap!! I am getting teary-eyed just thinking about it.

And then I had kids.

This morning, Chris had to work. I was up around 7:30 or so... still plenty of time to get our little girls ready for the 10:30 service. I defrosted some strawberries that I had frozen from our garden earlier in the summer, threw them on top of some waffles, and prepared for a casual, relaxing beginning to our Sunday.

That's when the sh@# hit the fan. Well, not actually the fan. But there was actual sh@# involved, as Little Girl #2 announced that she had just crapped in her panties. (Feel free to judge me for the fact that my three year old still craps her pants.) Have you ever changed panties full of preschooler crap? Exponentially worse than the garden variety of baby crap in a diaper, its disgustingness compounded by the fact that there is no velcro or snaps to undo, and preschooler must step out of said crap-panties. I've probably said enough about this, but you can go ahead and assume the worst and, suffice it to say, there was a bath involved. A bath that wasn't planned for and wasn't a part of my casual, relaxing Sunday.

Out of the bath and we are doing hair. Little Girl #3 is still in her high chair and is now throwing bits of defrosted, smashed up strawberries into the rug and laughing. I corral a kid closer and admonish LG#3 to stop throwing her berries. LG#2 has something in her hair. Toothpaste? I can't venture a guess, but it's going to have to stay there for now.

I get the girls dressed with little mishap, except that I can't find any of LG#2's dresses. I put one of LG#1's dresses on her, but it's three sizes too big and drags on the floor. I briefly contemplate letting her wear it anyway, but eventually change her into a pair of sparkly capris and decide that it's gonna have to be godly enough.

Meanwhile, LG#1 is corralling shoes. Let me stop here for a moment to mention that-- among the girls, they probably own 344 pairs of shoes. Literally, 344 pairs. And.I.cannot.find.a.single.matching.pair. Zero. I frantically dig through piles. Nothing. I look through bins in closets. Where are the other shoes? Do my children eat them? Are they using them for nesting boxes for our chickens? I may never know. Eventually, I come up with 2 pairs for LGs#1&2, and decide that LG#3 is still sort of a baby, so she doesn't really need shoes. (I pause now to thank God that it isn't winter.)

I send LG#1&2 out to the playhouse where they amuse themselves by going down the slide on top of a boogie board. I have seven minutes until I have to be out the door, and I am not dressed. I dig through my closet and the pile of clean laundry that has been sitting in a basket on the floor of my bedroom for three weeks. Where are all my clothes? And when did I lose the ability to put together some sort of stylish-ish outfit? I find a skirt with an elastic waist (cause goodness knows I am not fitting into my pre-kid denim), throw on some flip flops, douse mist myself with Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea that I bought in 2002 (cause of course I haven't SHOWERED) and pronounce myself Good Enough. Out the door and I realize that both LGs #1&2 have removed their shoes. LG#2 can't find hers. We should have left 6 minutes ago. I locate the shoes, put them back on their wayward feet, and strap my LGs into their respective carseats, but not before I pick up a pile of change off of the pavement that was earmarked for children's church donations.

I crank up the air conditioning in the car because I am sweating at this point. I can't remember if I wore deodorant on or not. We are about 1/4 of a mile away from the house when I hear a rattle and a bang. And of course, it is the boogie board falling off the roof racks of my minivan. Because somehow my kids managed to get a boogie board on top of my van without me noticing. I would curse under my breath at this point, but it's Sunday and I don't do that on Sundays. "Sorry, girls. We are just going to have to look for it later." Many loud shrieks, crying, and gnashing of teeth ensues. I decide I'd rather be late to church than listen to this nonsense for the 10 more minutes it will take to get to church. I turn the van around, and the boogie board is nowhere to be seen. I have a terrifying vision of it flying off the car and impaling some poor bicyclist, but push it from my mind, try to console my kids, and head back toward church. It is 10:23.

I pull into a spot at church, and gather our bags. A bag for LG#3, a just-in-case bag for LG#2, and my purse. I can't get out of the car because I am minivan-parking-disabled and I have parked too close to the car beside me. I finally corral all my kids, and head inside. The greeters have abandoned their posts; they can't be bothered with tardy riffraff the likes of me. LG#3 Screams Bloody Murder and claws at my chest as I try to drop her off at nursery. The nursery worker frowns disapprovingly and hands me a child pager. I drop off LG #1, and am almost to LG #2's class when she announces that she has to go potty. I turn around and head back down the hall to the bathroom and wait patiently while she pees, (byherselfthankyouverymuch) washes her hands and wrangles her slightly ungodly sparkly capris on. I look in the mirror and notice that I have toothpaste all over my shirt.

I finally drop off LG #2, and sprint to the service (I most definitely am NOT wearing deodorant), just in time for the last 1/2 of the last worship song. I drop in my offering check (just so the Powers that Be know that I actually was here) and sit down to open to Daniel 2 just as my child pager starts to vibrate and light up like a Christmas tree.

Sigh. At least there's (usually) still naps on Sundays.

Fragrance of Christ

The power of scent is amazing to me.

To this day, I can catch a whiff of the slightly-bug-spray-esque Eternity for Men, and I am seventeen again... (sort of) dating this boy named Jonathan (for about a week). Riding in his big, ridiculous (awesome.sauce) jacked-up Dodge late at night. Don't get me wrong-- no regrets here. What I perceived to be heartbreak was actually the tender compassion of God. Last I heard, Jonathan has been married (and divorced) twice and is currently finalizing the paperwork to bring a mail-order bride home from Russia. And is still wearing Eternity for Men. So I am not sad. But I pass a man wearing this cologne, I smell it as I walk through the cosmetic department of Kohl's... and I remember.

It's tanning oil. I am laying out on the beach, my bathing suit straps pulled down so I don't have tan lines for prom. Remember?

It's Dream by the Gap. I am eighteen and achingly homesick at Fire School in Pensacola. I am wearing a lavender sweater. Remember?

It's Bounce fabric softener. I am chasing foxes on the moonlit beach with my friend Cameron. Remember?

Last night, I walked downtown with the girls, where they were having a block party and hosting an artist carving ice sculptures. Through the crushing throngs of people (and trying to keep track of three kids by myself), we saw very few ice sculptures. We did, however, manage to stop at one of the camp-fires, where the Boy Scouts were giving out free marshmallows to roast. The girls enjoyed their gooey treat, we wandered around a little more, saw some friends... headed home.

Later, after I put my little flock to bed, I turned my head and happened to get a whiff of my hair. It smelled like the boy scouts' campfire. And I was transported back to the Creation Festival, a Christian music event that I have been attending since I took up residence in my mom's belly.

I was three and roasting marshmallows on my mom's knee.

I was thirteen and had just met my future husband (but didn't know it yet).

I was sixteen, singing Indigo Girls songs while my sister played her guitar.

I was nineteen and had just smoked my first joint and lost my virginity in K-field.

(I'm kidding about that last part. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

Regardless, even after I showered the smoke out of my hair, I found my thoughts wandering back to Creation. It was bittersweet-- as we had, after many pain-staking decisions, cut ties with the ministry last year. But still, I remembered. I think that, until the day I die, every time I smell a campfire, I will think of Creation.

As I pondered this, I was reminded of the Scripture about the fragrance of Christ:

"...thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing." (2 Corinthians 2:14,15)

... through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him...

How beautiful. How terrifying.

I can see why society is largely disdainful of Christians and their Savior.

We stink of bigotry, self-righteousness, exclusion.

But oh, how I long for this to be different! In my life, in the small circle that God has given me, I want to spread the fragrance of the knowledge of Christ. When I am old and gray and my granddaughter pauses to think of me, I want her to remember that smell. The fragrance of Him. Remember?

When the waitress at the restaurant is flustered and weeded, I want to be the one with a kind word. A smile. A generous tip. I want her to remember that smell.

When my husband has had a long day at work, and is feeling discouraged and worn-down, I want to be ready with a timely word of encouragement. A kiss. A steadfast belief in my husband. I want him to remember that smell.

When my girls are naughty and bickering and making me crazy, I want to slow down. To love them. To cuddle them. To let them be kids. I want them to remember that smell. The fragrance of Him.

Remember?

Kid Funny

Alternate title: Why We Might All Be Going to Hell

I bought some new bras today. Which is actually a blog-worthy event. Really. I have been using the same ratty old nursing bras since Evie was born almost five years ago. It was time.

Of course, I brought my entourage with me. Also known as my three whining children. I bribed them with suckers to be good. Except the baby. I bribed her with breastmilk.

As we're rifling through the endless assortment of lady apparel, Evie pulls out a black, lacy, uber-padded bra.

"Hey, Mom! Look!!!! It's a MENNONITE BRA!!!!"

You know. Cause it was lacy and black, like their head coverings.

God bless those Mennonites. They are (apparently) into some kinky stuff underneath that modest denim. ;)

Getting it

This past December, I did Advent with the girls. Can I be honest? While there were some sweet moments of reflection, it was not something that I looked forward to every night. Now, I know that I should embrace the childishness of my children... but in my head, it was so much more solemn. Contemplative. Holy.

In reality, it was chaotic. The big girls fighting over who got to blow out the candles. Cana wanting to sing the ABC's instead of O Come, O Come Emanuel. Ruby, who I had just gotten to sleep in the other room, waking and crying for mama to come cuddle with her. I am embarrassed to admit that I lost my cool and snapped at my kids... more than once.

The Christmas season is over. We have packed up our Advent wreath for next year, me-- perhaps a little more cynical and world-wise about what to expect for Advent with three small children. And truly, it was a bit discouraging. We left the season without my girls having attained any Biblical truths, or any spiritual renewal. I left the season without gaining any Biblical truths, or any spiritual renewal. We didn't get it.

But God is merciful, and He showed me a glimpse of His kindness the other day.

Continuing a tradition that my parents began, every night at Advent we pray individually for the families who sent us cards and letters. This, too, usually dissolved into fits of tears (theirs and mine), as Evie and Cana fought over who got to hold the picture of the baby... and a cross reprimand from me, "Girls! We are PRAYING to JESUS! BE QUIET!!" (I know, I am an amazing mother. Don't hate.)

The cards, which were displayed on the post in our dining room, have long since been taken down and discarded. (Can I say that without offending? Yes, I throw them out recycle them eventually.) One must have slipped out of the trash pile recycling bin and wound up in some dark corner of the house which never sees a broom.

My sweet Cana found it. The other day, I stopped what I was doing and looked over at my wee girl. She was seated at her little art table, the card in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her little babyish brow furrowed deeply.

"Jesus," she prayed, "please keep them safe. Oh, Lord, please help them to love You more! Be close to them, Jesus."

What a tender mercy for me to hear this!!

I long for the salvation of my children. I long for them to love mercy and to seek justice and to be passionate about the things that Jesus is passionate about. I long for them to love each other, to serve each other. I long for them to have wisdom.

And I beat on Heaven's doors with these requests-- but I know, despite any kind of good parenting or bad parenting on my part-- it is only the Lord's mercy that can save my children. And so I beg for it.

But I also want to be diligent-- Oh, God! help me be diligent! To love these girls, to plant seeds of kindness and compassion and service-- seeds that only Jesus can make grow.

Jesus, I cast my children on You.

I cast myself on You, failures and cross words and impatience- You know them all.

Help us to get it.