Legos in the bathroom

Legos.  So many legos.  I find them in the carpet, I step on them in the closet. I spy them in the bathroom.

The bathroom?

Seriously, I am surrounded by legos.  And playdoh.  And cars and trucks and toys toys toys!  Just imagine a large army of tiny people invaded my house and took every play thing out of its container and stashed it away to be found later.  I pick everything up in one room, and in the meantime, my toddlers and older kids have created a war-zone down the hall.  It’s frustrating.  It’s maddening.  But it’s also sheer genius.  Think about it.  They make a mess and distract me…I spend all this time cleaning one area only to find another mess.  It’s a mind game that they are winning.  This is quite the warfare tactic.  Someone should hire my children to train our armed forces on these sneaky tactics of attack.  Hide the weapons in the most unlikely of places, ensuring that the enemy (me!!) will discover it at the most unlikely and most unwelcome of times.  Like finding legos in the bathroom.

This morning I was taking a moment in the bathroom.  And I literally do mean taking a moment.  Both toddlers were sleeping and my oldest was doing his math at the kitchen table.  I stole a moment in the bathroom to just breathe.  And refocus.  And find an appreciation for my crazy-hectic life.  Because if we’re honest, moms love our life but often just need a reminder of how much we love it every now and then.  So, yes, I was taking a moment.

And in that moment I was looking around the bathroom and noticed all that was wrong with it.  Like the dust on the baseboard heater.  And the toothpaste splatter on the mirror.  And the legos.  I have no idea why there are legos in the bathroom.  No one has been building spaceships or lego robots in there that I know of.  And I’m pretty sure legos are not necessary to perform the regular bathroom functions.  And yet there they were…a pile of legos in the bathroom.

There is nothing profound about having legos in the bathroom.  Nothing I am going to use as a sermon illustration or center around a series of self help books.  The only reason I am writing about it is because I want all the other mommas (and dads!) out there to know that I have legos in my bathroom.  And that’s ok.  Seriously, it’s ok that I have toys in the bathroom and trucks in the living room and schoolbooks on the table.  WE LIVE HERE.  So often I find myself upset that my house is under attack by this tiny army.  I stress about people coming over unannounced for fear of what they will think of my home.  I needed to see those legos because I needed the reminder.  It’s ok to live here.  This isn’t a museum.  It’s a home.  A home is where people live.  Things are to be touched and played with, not starred at from behind a glass wall.

I promise you, I will never not care about how clean my home is.  I will always obsess over clean floors.  And I will always hate toothpaste splatter on the mirror.  I don’t want to live in a dirty home.  I just want to live.in.a.home.

I took those legos and put them away.  I asked the kids to do their chores and put away toys and pick up dirty laundry.  Living is learning.  Learning to live neat and clean.  But the next time I step on a lego and am reminded of the tiny army that lives in my house, I want to remember that they LIVE in this HOME and that’s a miraculous wonderful thing.

Parenting is fighting

Disclaimer: the following is my brain after a long day…

Kids are hard. Really, really hard. I think I said no one thousand times today. I must have cleaned up messes at least two thousand times – why did I ever think cheesy chips were a good snack? Can you say orange fingers EVERYWHERE??!!?? Every time I turn around, there was a new problem. Or, maybe it was the same old problem repeated in a new way. I can’t really even keep track. And I don’t want to.

Sometimes parenting isn’t just hard. It’s gut wrenching. Am I doing this right? Will my kids turn out at least half way decent? Why won’t they just listen? Why do they repeat the same mistakes over and over AND OVER again? These are just a handful of the questions I ask myself regularly. Daily. Each minute.

My oldest is hard to parent right now. He is stubborn. Sensitive. Lots of high energy and low self esteem. And some days I just lose it. For example, I lost it when he refused to brush his teeth for more then 10 seconds. When I asked him to rebrush those teeth, he said no, and I went through the roof. I wanted to have a big ole temper tantrum in the middle of his meltdown. I wanted to snap. I wanted to yell. I wanted to hide. I wanted to…I don’t even know what I wanted.

But during the midst of this difficult time. During the midst of these gut wrenching days when I ask myself if I am getting ANYTHING right in this whole parenting thing, God reminds me of something. He says, “Don’t give up on your kids.” He reminds me that He is entrusting them to me. They are His gift, my blessing. And they are kids, scared vulnerable kids. tThey need me to not give up. They need me to stand up for them. They need me to fight for them. They need me to fight to keep parenting them.

And right now my oldest needs me. A lot. He needs me to correct. He needs me to discipline. AND he needs me to fight. Fight for him. Fight for the man he is becoming. Fight for who I know he is now. It is so easy to see what he is not or see what he gets wrong or see how he frustrates me. But he needs me to fight to see how great he is and how sweet he is and how many great choices he makes every day.

Because I believe parents are not just called to discipline, or correct, or love and correct at the same time. I’m not just helping my kids when I give them rules or chores. I’m helping them when I forgive them. I help them when I believe in them when others ignore them. I love them when I stand up for the very characteristics that others find unappealing.

Parenting is letting them know you’re right there with them. When my kids struggle, I am there. When they fail, I am there. When they have the best day ever, I am there. I refuse to let expectations dictate the few short moments I have with them. I want them to know I am here. Always here and I’m never giving up.

To be served…

To be of noble birth is something, isn’t it? It means entitlement, and a sense that everyone who encounters you is to respect you and pay you some type of homage. One of my favorite television shows it “Downton Abbey,” and that’s one of the classic themes of the show. People born into the family (or added via marriage) are automatically treated better, thought of first, served. SERVED.

That’s an interesting word, “serve.” It makes me think of servant, a person who willingly does for another. To be a slave means that you have no freedom, no choice in the matter. But a servant – a servant makes the choice to serve, to do, to take action for another. In the show “Downton Abbey,” the servants are paid to do the work for the nobility of the house. They make the choice to work there, to act on behalf of the noble family, to use their actions to serve another. And the wealthy family? They think nothing of it. To be served is what they were born into. They deserve it just because of their title, their ranking in society. To be served is as natural to them as breathing.

I was reading in Mark 10 this morning, and verse 45 reads, “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve…” I have read this verse many times over the years, but it struck me in a new way today. Jesus, the Son of God, the Creator of All Things, the King of Kings, THE ONE WHO DESERVES TO BE SERVED. He didn’t desire to be served? He didn’t seek out others to do for him? WHAT? I know this truth because I have heard it many times, but if you think about the actual reality of it, it is pretty ridiculous. We think nothing of a Lord and Lady, a President, a Doctor, to be served. It just fits their title. Jesus, the one who has the greatest title of all, has no desire for self-service. It goes against everything we are taught about the way of the world.

Jesus came to serve others. Plain and simple. Not to BE served, but TO SERVE.

And then there is me. I have no title. No natural born place in the world where I deserve to be served and treated special. Yet, I, plain ole me, seem to think I am entitled to being served. Sure, I serve my family, my friends, but behind it all there still lies this desire for someone to SERVE ME. Seriously? How selfish of me! If Jesus didn’t want to be served, then who am I to want that? Mark 10 smacked me right in the face with that truth and question this morning.

Most of the time, being smacked in the face isn’t so great. But this morning – it felt refreshing. I am so thankful for the new stirrings in my heart (see yesterday’s post) and am excited for more truths to hit me like a holy 2×4.

Blessing who?

Blessing the blessed…this phrase won’t get out of my head.

I started reading the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker. This, in turn, led me to her earlier book, “Interrupted”. And while reading about her story of God moving her and her husband from a ministry of comfort to a ministry to the oppressed and least of these, my soul began to stir. She writes of blessing the blessed – having a ministry for those that already know of God’s love, already have the comforts of a warm house and full bellies, already have much and need little. She writes of how God asked her family to bless those who were not yet loved, not warm and full, and lacking much. It resonated with me. And I can’t shake it.

I know it’s the Holy Spirit. It was stirring in me before I opened the pages of the book, and just keeps growing. I recommended her husband’s book to Zack, and he is entranced. Staying up past midnight to read about God’s mission to the poorest, most downtrodden, most overlooked. And I know it’s the beginning of something. I just don’t know what.

God called us to our church over a year ago, and we love it. He continues to use us and work through us in this ministry setting. But it’s not enough to just serve those that come to church. I think God wants us to do more, be more, serve more. Not because following God means being overly busy with ministry…but because following God means that my life should look different, my priorities should be different, and my impact can make a difference.

A lot of people that write blogs have a “point” to their blog entry – and usually mine do too. But not today. Today I am just throwing this out there…more of an open prayer, an open quest for God’s Spirit to show me how He is going to use me…to move beyond myself and embrace His ministry. To not just bless the blessed but to bless the very least of these.

Oh, I’m not 23 anymore…

Country singer Brad Paisley sings a song about “if I could write a letter to me…when I was 17…”

Well, at 1am this morning, while I was rocking my sweet baby boy, that song popped into my head.  I have no idea why, but at 1am, who knows why we think what we do?  Those are the hours intended for dreams…

Anyway, I started to think of what I would say to myself if I could.  And not at 17…maybe when I was 23?  That’s the year I got married, got my first full-time job, and had a lot of other firsts.  So here are some of the things that came to mind.

To my 23 year-old self:

–Be proud of yourself – getting a full-time job right out of college is not a guarantee for graduates. Celebrate your accomplishment!

–Use those hour-long commutes to listen to a book on cd – 7 years from now, you’ll feel desperate for an hour with a good book.

–Don’t have a big wedding – keep the wedding simple and go on an elaborate honeymoon.  You won’t have the money or chance to go on a vacation like that for a long time.

–Don’t mock the idea of texting (“Why would anyone want to text?  Calling someone is so much easier.”) – you’ll be eating your words later.

–Apply that same rule to the iPad – please, just embrace the technology.

–Only a month after you get married, you’re gonna pee on a stick and see two VERY important lines…those will change your life forever!  Don’t be scared of what it means. Enjoy the life inside you.  I know it wasn’t planned, but that baby is a gift!  All children are gifts.  Too soon, you’ll be done having babies and your heart will ache in ways you never knew it could.  Ache for more children that will never be.  Remember each kick, each craving, each newborn cry, each sleepless night.  It’s a precious time.

–Your body after baby IS BEAUTIFUL.  Each new “feature” is a testimony of the blessing you have.

–Say sorry more.  Stop yourself from arguing when you don’t have to.

–Be grateful.  Not just “I’m thankful for my family” grateful, but a deep joy that sees God’s grace in all things.  ALL THINGS.

–And lastly, cleanliness is not next to godliness.  Purity of heart, that’s what counts.  Don’t push the devo time aside so you can vacuum first.  Seriously, dirt will be there tomorrow.  It will be there in an hour.  Your relationship with your Heavenly Father – that’s what matters RIGHT NOW.

——————————————-

Thanks, Brad, for the inspiration.  Who knows what thoughts I will have tonight when I’m rocking my baby to sleep?

 

Let it rise

So sometimes my brain starts with one thought and ends up in a completely, seemingly unrelated place just a few seconds later.  I had one of those moments today.  The two thoughts I connected?  Baking bread and parenting my children.

Fridays are usually our homemade pizza nights.  We have been doing Friday “pizza your way” nights since August 2013 on an almost weekly basis, so the process of making it is down to a science.  I know exactly when to start making the dough in order for it to have the proper rise time so we can have dinner during our normal dinner hour.  And when you have 4 little kids in the house, timing is extremely important when making dinner, especially when it comes to dough and yeast and getting a proper rise.

But today was different.  I switched pizza nights and we had pizza last night, which meant I needed to find something else to have for our Friday night dinner.  I decided on homemade bread and soup, two of my specialties.  My bread is not “Panera” worthy, but it’s homemade and yummy and always worth the effort.   The only problem is that I do not usually make bread on a school day, because it’s hard to plan the timing of the rise with the rest of the day’s schedule.

All of that long, probably more detail than needed, explanation to lead up to the point that today I decided to make bread, and that was probably not the wisest decision.  Each time I was at a critical “bread making” stage, something interrupted me.  First it was a cranky baby, then a phone call, then a run (literally) to the church, and the list just continued.  All in all, I just wasn’t able to attend to the bread the way I needed.  Maybe after I have more years of experience it won’t be an issue, but after 4 years of bread making, the most important lesson I have learned it that bread needs the attention of the cook.

And today, my poor bread just didn’t get my attention.

The proof of my lack of attentiveness was in the pudding, well, in the dough.  It still tasted good, but it was half as tall as it was supposed to be and just not right.  My bread didn’t rise to its full potential.

And that’s when, while I starred at my poor flat bread, that my thoughts connected from bread dough to parenting.  

See parenting is a lot like making bread – I generally feel like I am doing a decent job.  Not perfect, but not bad either.  But I don’t want to just do a decent job parenting.  I want to raise kids that thrive and become leaders for God and His servants.  And just like that bread, the less attention I give my kids, the less likely they are to rise up to their full potential.

I’m not saying they won’t make their own choices, or that every thing I do will forever effect their lives.  Children still have to take responsibility for their choices and actions.  But, let’s face it, parents are the  BIGGEST influence in a child’s life.  What I do today DOES make a difference.

And it’s not about giving them constant attention.  They need to learn to be independent of me, to be self entertaining and so on.  It’s about my attentiveness during critical stages of their day, their life.  My kids, like my bread dough, will give me opportunities to tend to their needs, which will help them rise to their potential.  If I miss those critical moments, I am limiting their potential.  I kept getting interrupted when I was making the bread.  And, if I am honest with myself, there is a lot that interrupts my time with my kids.  Interrupts my investment in my kids.

So I took a picture of that bread, hoping that I remember to be there – be present – when my kids need me to invest in them and give them the attention they need.  To let them rise.

 

Some mommy-and-me time

Onesies and a Hearse

Onesies and a funeral hearse.  It’s what’s on my mind.

Yesterday I found myself standing in line at a funeral home, waiting for my turn to hug the son and daughter of one of our church’s greatest men of faith.  He had passed away last week on Isaiah’s 2 month birthday.  I found myself thinking about that common date as  I watched friends and family embrace, grieving over the loss of such a wonderful man.  For my family, that two month mark meant we had survived the first two months of Isaiah’s life, survived the multiple feedings in the night, survived the reality of being outnumbered by our kids 2:1, and survived the regular exhaustion of having a newborn.  And although we at times felt like we were barely able to survive, we were celebrating as well.  Celebrating two months of life in our home.  Two months of cuddles and hours of rocking.  Two months of love.

For the other family, that date meant the end of life.  He was 84 and had lived to see and experience so much.  He loved his Heavenly Father, loved his wife and children, and loved his church.  When the family planned for the calling hours at the funeral home, they did not expect to see many people.  What a surprise blessing when there was a line out the door of all the individuals who had been blessed to know this man during this life.  It was such a sight – a reunion of people because of the impact of just one man.

Life and death – two words that came together on that one date.  Pretty much sums up our time here on earth, doesn’t it?

We are given this one chance at life.  Of course, during our life we get many chances, but we only live our life once.  Despite the beliefs of some, we do not get another “go” at it when we die.  This is it.  We live our one life, and then we spend eternity either with our Maker or forever separated from Him.

Pretty sobering thought, isn’t it?

But this morning, as I fight the beginnings of a cold and look at the never-ending pile of toys and laundry and a to-do list that is never finished, I am reminded of the gift of life.  A man doesn’t bless people in his lifetime unless he treats life as a gift.  And it was evident last night that he saw his one chance-of-a-life as a gift to share with others.

And I turn inward, and I think, “What kind of gift am I giving my children?  My husband?  My friends?”

Little Isaiah is two months old – what gift have I given him? How am I teaching him through my life how he can also be the gift for others?

Some days we just survive, and I think that’s pretty normal.  Because at times you can’t prepare enough for the events of the day, especially the surprise ones.

BUT…

As I look out my kitchen window, the one that faces the church, I can see the hearse in the parking lot.  And I am reminded again that I will never get another chance at today again.  Isaiah will never be this age again.  He’s already outgrown some of his clothes.  A hearse can be a reminder of the gift of life…and so can an outgrown onesie.

It’s time to embrace the gift.

Grace on the couch

Grace.

Grace on a couch.

I’m winding down from a great evening with an even greater friend.  She is an inspiration to me, constant encouragement, and a breath of fresh air.  I love her dearly.

Which is why saying goodbye in 4 days will be one of the hardest things I will have to do.

I sat in her living room tonight, after some fine dining at a local restaurant, a cup of tea in hand.  Conversation wasn’t forced or awkward – it was so natural it was almost art.  Words just continued to flow between us, and I kept thinking in the back of my mind that I am not ready to give up my spot on her couch.

Because, realistically, when you have a husband, 3 kids and one on the way, a church to serve and a life to live, driving 6 hours to have a long chat on her couch just isn’t possible.  I know there will be trips planned and time spent together, but it’s not the same as driving a mile down the road to make a quick visit.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not mad that we are moving.  God called us….we have peace that we are following His plan.  But, that does not make saying goodbye any easier.  My dear friend is only one of many faces that I am sad to say goodbye to.  Our house is not just a house, it’s a home that we are leaving.  We’re saying goodbye to an area we love – the beauty of this place is unprecedented.

I am leaving this place with a lot of memories, good friends, and new insight on life.  I have learned a lot about being a wife, mother, friend, and gained several new recipes in the kitchen.  But, tonight I keep thinking about what I have learned in her living room…her hospitality is something to be admired.  She never made my visits a big deal, but made me feel like a big deal during our visits.  She didn’t fuss about her home…she opened her heart.  It’s the kind of living room I want to have in our new home.  A place people don’t not just enter…but a place where people want to come.

A place to be a friend.

A place of grace.

My prayer tonight is that I am used in our new home to be a friend to someone in the same way that my dear friend was to me.  I want my living room to be a safe, comfortable place to drink a cup of tea and let the words flow.

I want it to be a place to find grace.

So thank you, my dear friend, for being an example to me.  I am so thankful that miles won’t end our friendship…you have left an imprint on my heart that will last a lifetime.  And, no matter how much time lapses between the visits, I know I will always feel love, acceptance, grace on your couch as we drink tea and let the words flow.

Lived In

A close friend of mine said my house was nice – it looks lived in.  No offense to my friend, but I hated that.  Lived in?  Isn’t that just a nice way of saying your house is a mess?  I cringed at the words and looked around.  This friend, of course, knows that I struggle with the messiness that continually lives in my house.  When I was 22 and a new bride, I took pride in how clean I kept my house.  Not one thing was out of place, dishes were never left in the sing, and I am pretty sure I even vacuumed my couch cushions on a regular basis.

Fast forward 7 years and 3 kids later.

Now nothing seems to be in it’s place or have a place at all.  So many toys with random pieces…and my kids seem to think they all belong on the livingroom bookshelf.  The dishes never end.  I do a sinkload, turn around to dry my hands, and magically, the dishes have reappeared, dirty and crusty in the sink.  And the couch cushions?  Now when I vacuum underneath them, it’s like a treasure hunt.  Stale snacks, pennies, lego pieces…who knows what I will find hidden in the depths of those cushions?

And the most  exasperating thing?  I swear that I do clean!  I sweep the floors every day.  I do the dishes every day, usually multiple times.  I pick up and put away again and again.  I wipe down the bathrooms once a week, if not more often.  But despite my constant cleaning, my house still looks “lived in.”

And then there’s those other mommies that blog and have pictures of their homes.  Perfect homes.  Books are straight, no toys found on the floors.  They talk about the business of being a mom, but where is the evidence?  Come on, momma’s, am I the only one whose house looks lived in?  I think if I were a paid housekeeper, I would probably get fired…it never looks like I did anything.

Some days this bothers me more than others.  Today it’s really getting to me.  Driving me bonkers.  And those are the days that I know I need some new perspective.  My house IS lived in.  There are children here, learning and growing.  There is cooking done here, which makes for a constantly messy kitchen.  We eat here, play here, sleep here…LIVE HERE.  Come on, Carla, I tell myself – the reality is that your home is lived in.  It’s the perfect description of life today.

This post doesn’t have some spectacular revelation.  It’s not really about a memory.  It’s about my “rememberer.” I need to remind myself that today, we live here.  This is our home.  And my constant cleaning does make a difference ( I cringe thinking about what it would look like if I didn’t).  And it’s not about the picture perfect home.  It’s about perfect love – endless love – raising kids and loving all those moments.  I am praying that this post serves as a reminder to me, as I scrub the plates and pick up yet another lego piece, that it’s a part of living.  And living is a beautiful mess.