The Day I Fired Toddler Jesus

From the instant you discover you're going to be a parent, you develop crazy ideas about your child. Ludacris expectations, really. If you've been on social media for 2 seconds you know this is true. One semester on the A/B honor roll and your kid is the next Rhodes Scholar. A touchdown scored and parents are negotiating with college scouts. Of course, there are some parents who would say "Oh, I'm not like that! I just want my kids to be themselves and to be happy." Maybe so, but way back in the deep recesses of their minds, even those parents are hoping that their happy, self aware children will be successful enough to not live on their couch forever. 

As parents we have the absolute right and privilege to insure they do well, encourage them in areas they enjoy or are good at, and promote them and their successes, but every so often even the best parenting goes slightly off the rails. 

For example...

A few months ago, the drama director at our church asked if we would allow Benjamin to be "toddler Jesus" in our church Christmas musical. Just to clarify the role...according to the Bible the Wise Men who followed the Star to see the Christ Child didn't arrive until He was, at minimum, two years old. Tradition, of course, has them at the manger, but that really couldn't be possible if the "East" that they travelled from was more than a few miles away. Therefore, our drama team needed someone in the 2-3 year old age range to receive the Magi in Act 2 of the musical. All he had to do was stand on a bench and look adorable while the gift bearing visitors and their entourages kneel in adoration. Easy peasy. 

I agreed in a heartbeat because who doesn't want their three year old to be the center of attention and generally adored by man and Christmas beast? (They might not have been at the manger, but they still had camels!) From the beginning Benjamin did not want the part. I believe his words were "I don't want to be toddler Jesus." I suppose I should have known we might have a problem, but, good gracious, he was supposed to be the Christ Child, for goodness sake, so HE WAS GOING TO DO IT.  

Before the first rehearsal, I had a little chat with him about obeying the director and doing what he was asked to do. Again he repeated, "I don't want to be toddler Jesus." Clearly he didn't understand how awesome this was going to be, so I had a little more emphatic chat about how he would be great and the play would be fun and how he was GOING TO DO IT. Pretty sure all my parenting neurosis were fully on display at this point. 

He did what he was asked, looking as miserable and angst ridden as possible. If he was trying to portray sullen, annoyed teenager Jesus, he nailed it.

After the rehearsal, the director asked if Benjamin wanted out. It was ok, she said, he doesn't have to do it. 

Oh no, I said, he'll be fine, he was just tired. 

Ahem.

I'm pretty sure the Bible frowns on bold faced lies even if your child was picked to play toddler Jesus....

At the next rehearsal when it was time for him to go on stage, he broke down in to full on sobs repeating "I don't want to be toddler Jesus!" I peeled him off my body and handed him to the director anyway, hoping that some distance from me would give him proper prospective on the whole matter. (Go ahead and feel superior about your own parenting at this point. You would be absolutely entitled and correct.) A few minutes later a slightly defeated director returned with him declaring it a bust. Apparently, he just stood on the stage steps crying and saying he was too scared. Oh. my. word. 

I came to my senses and went ahead and fired toddler Jesus. He was elated and my parental pride slowly deflated to a more rational size. There is something slightly horrifying about the realization that you've become a crazed stage mom. High expectations are one thing, but total disregard for your three year old feelings is pretty bad.

Sometimes it's so easy to forget that our kids are still figuring themselves out. They are small and the world is so big and full of so many possibilities. Just like us, they are wonderfully complex and God has

great things in store for them despite our crazy expectations.

He didn't want to be toddler Jesus but he was more than willing
to do somersaults and jump off the risers and say "ribbit"
as a cow in the preschool nativity play. Go figure.

The stage may not be Benjamin's thing now or ever, but it's my job to assess his desires, see his needs and understand his personality so that I can guide him to find something that it is his thing. 

Even if it's not toddler Jesus.

Cake Balls for a Cause: the Final Tally

When I threw out the Cake Balls for a Cause idea a couple of weeks ago, I had no idea what the response would be. Truthfully I hoped that a couple of people besides the grandmas would order some cake balls, but beyond that....

Well, it turns out a lot of people love Christmas and cake balls and especially love helping those who need to see what love looks like this Christmas. 

A. LOT. OF. PEOPLE.

So many people, in fact, that I had to cut off the orders or we would have been making cake balls until Valentine's Day! What a fantastic problem to have!!

How does all that love translate into numbers? Here you go!

814 Cake Balls Made & Delivered = $475 Worth of Items Purchased From

 the Bread of Life Catalog

What was purchased? Well.....

11 Bibles

7 Sets of Clothing

5 Nights at the New Life Center

4 Pairs of Glasses

3 Christmas Dinners

3 Egg Laying Hens
1 Beehive 

All of this proves what I already knew....my family is surrounded by an incredible community of people who love Jesus and want to share that love with as many people as possible (and who, apparently, really like cake balls). 

Thank you to everyone who participated and for helping my boys understand the power of community and how that power can be harnessed to bring light and love to a dark world. We are so very grateful.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Cake Balls for a Cause

Do you love Christmas? Do you love cake balls? Do you want to help three adorable little boys help the poor and the homeless? You do?? Fantastic! Here's how you can help..

These are our good friends Brooke and Richard. 

You may remember them because they are Max's parents. They are awesome. And brave. And amazing. On top of that, they run a ministry in Poland called Bread of Life that serves the destitute and homeless. It started twelve years ago with a thermos of tea and a handful of sandwiches and is now, not only in Poland, but also in Moldova and the Ivory Coast.  

This year Bread of Life published a Christmas catalog from which items can be purchased to help those they serve. My kids already chose a couple of things they wanted to buy with some money they earned, but wanted to do more. The problem is they are only 9, 5, and 3 years old and, until the child labor laws change, they are dependent on big people for their cash flow. So, together, we've concocted a plan: I will make oodles of cake balls with their help and, after you purchase them, all of the proceeds will go to Bread of Life. 

Here's the skinny:

$10 for 20 cake balls in a lovely bakery style box

OR

$8 for a dozen cake balls in a decorative mason jar with Christmas greeting (teacher's gift?)

The cake balls are hand rolled and dipped with love and Christmas cheer in your choice of flavor:

Vanilla Cake w/ Chocolate or Vanilla Covering

Chocolate Cake w/ Chocolate or Vanilla Covering

Red Velvet Cake w/ Vanilla Covering

Take them to a party! Give them to neighbors! Eat them all yourself (we don't judge)....

Questions? Orders? Contact me at monica_henry@hotmail.com or send me a FaceBook message

Learn More About Bread of Life at http://www.intouchmission.org/projects/poland/bread-of-life-homeless-ministry/

or 

Follow Brooke On Her Blog:

http://and2makescrazy.wordpress.com/

Merry Christmas!!

When More Than the Turkey was Dry

Thanksgiving was fantastic. The days leading up to it, however, were terrible. I was drained, weary, dry, and just done.

The holidays are rapidly approaching and so are the vast number of activities that accompany it. All of them are good and fun, but all of them require something from me: time, attention, energy, and/ or money, and by the week before Thanksgiving, I had nothing left to give. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was spiritually, emotionally, physically impoverished. Then, God drops this gem in my lap:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. -Matthew 5:3 (ESV)

I've never identified with the poor in spirit. Not sure who I identified with, but it wasn't them. That week, however, I was a card carrying member of broke spirit club. With pockets turned out and shoulders slumped, I sat before the throne. Jesus reminded me that only when I lack something, does He have an opportunity to give and He's never a cheapskate. 

Matthew records that the poor in spirit receive the kingdom. THE KINGDOM. Not an acre or a mile, but the whole shebang. They get the good stuff because they have the space to receive it. When all of the junk that occupies us and, seemingly keeps us going, drains away are we in a position to receive the abundance that He wants to give us to live a full life.

This doesn't mean that a check for a million dollars showed up in my mailbox or that the oatmeal cookies and corn for the Thanksgiving feast cooked themselves or even that schedule for the week magically thinned out, but the source of my strength to face all those things was reestablished. 

Bit by bit, my emaciated spirit came back to life and by that Thursday night I was feeling restored. (The brownie sundae I ate helped, but I'm pretty sure it was mostly Jesus.)

Lean in to Jesus during this season when the world around you demands so much. He never tires or sleeps and desperately wants to give you what you need to live your life more abundantly than you could ever imagine. 

Sometimes Crappy Parenting is the Best Parenting

I love words. Big words, small words, funny words, and stuffy words. Words that roll merrily off my tongue (historicity is my favorite) and words that I have to sound out syllable by syllable.

As you might expect, words, especially appropriate words, are a big deal in our house. Polite and kind words are lauded and praised while ugly words and words meant to hurt are chastised and redirected. Being the fantastic (and humble) parent that I am, I try and model the type of language I would like to hear in my home. Except for one little problem…I like the word crap.

I realize “crap” is not exactly R-Rated language. For most of the world, its right up there with “gee willikers” and “golly,” but for a lot of people we know it connotes just enough crassness to keep it on the “not preferred” list of expressions.

I know this. I really do. For the most part, I do a pretty decent job of not saying it. No need to cause my brother to stumble, so to speak. I’m especially careful to limit its usage around my kids. If I want them to use appropriate language, it has to start with me….

Well, imagine my surprise when my sweet, redheaded four year let out a resounding “holy crap!” on the way home from school one day. My first reaction was to applaud his outstanding usage of the expression. It was timed just right and with a profound use of genuine emotion, but, alas, I couldn’t let it go…

Micah! Where did you hear that? (Please, don’t let him say me. Please, please….)

School. One of the boys in class said it.

Ugh. School influence. Does it really have to start in Pre-K?!

Buddy, it’s not really the best language we can use. What else could you say?

Oh my goodness.

Sounds good. Let’s go with that.

A few days later, I heard it again: Crap!

Micah!

Sorry, mom!

And then, again, a couple of days later.

Micah!!

This was clearly becoming a problem. So we had a heart to heart talk about how important it is to use good language, how what comes out of our mouth is a reflection of us, etc., etc. I assure you it was brilliant parenting.

Well, a week or two later, we were driving home from picking up my oldest from school, when I rear ended a pick up truck who stopped suddenly to avoid hitting a car in front of him. The ironic thing was that I hit him because I was looking at a police officer who had pulled someone over. Genius.

Anyway, because I was distracted, I didn’t see him stop and I hit my brakes just a few seconds too late. Crash. His truck was fine. My van was…well… not.

CRAP!!

Out it came. Loud enough for all the kids to hear, especially the sweet redhead in the middle seat.

Mom!

I’m so sorry, Micah!

So, for all the reprimanding, heart to heart talks, and carefully applied Bible verses about speech, the first thing out of my mouth in the heat of the moment was the very thing I was trying to teach my kid not to do.

Sigh.

Here is the fantastically ironic and wonderful thing about the whole episode. In the aftermath of that lovely day, Micah and I were able to have a genuine talk about our struggles.

Yes, we shouldn’t say that word, but sometimes we make a mistake.

Even moms.

Especially moms.

When we do make mistakes, we ask for forgiveness and we move on. In those mistakes we create space for grace. Grace to know we are not perfect, that we struggle with things, that try and try as we might, there are areas of our life that only God can make right.

Big things and little things, but ultimately all things.

Things like using the word crap.

Waiting for Lunch

I had the "pleasure" of fasting from breakfast for the last forty days. I suppose for some people skipping breakfast is not a big deal. Super models, for example, or perhaps, people with a super-human ability to not care about being hungry. I, however, am closer to a hobbit when it comes to the issue of breakfast. Cereal, oatmeal, eggs, toast, pancakes, french toast, or casseroles, it doesn’t matter, I just really like it. In fact for most of my college career, my go to evening meal was Coco Puffs because they are awesome and delicious. So you can see why not eating breakfast would be a bit of a challenge for me. However, in a moment of lunacy great spiritual insight, when our pastor called for a churchwide time of prayer and fasting, I chose to forego breakfast. 

Here is what I learned…

1. Fasting is always less an exercise of the stomach than an indication of the heart. Fasting from food is hard. I understand that’s a slight understatement, but it is. It just plain is. Food, for the vast majority of humanity is very important and we get very grumpy when we don’t have it. And by “we” I mean “me.” 
God hard wired my brain to require nourishment to function properly and when food is found lacking, I get a leeettle testy. That testiness often leads to, well, an expression of said feeling, which is a no go when you are fasting for prayer purposes. Jesus was all over this…

"When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting...But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father…” -Matthew 6:16-18

If I decide to fast for the purposes of praying for something specific, then that is between me and God. Period. Jesus says the second I put on a show about how hungry I am and how, bless my heart, I’m doing it for Jesus (as if its some kind of favor to him) then it’s all for naught. Pride has no place in the throne room of the King.

2. Fasting is always less an exercise of the will than it is an act of obedience.  I’m a pretty good rule follower. In fact, I’m a great rule follower, which can make me really boring sometimes. It seems like, however, any time I’ve decided to fast from food or abstained from something for the purpose of prayer, I turn into a world class felon. Here’s the internal dialogue that started around day two or three of the forty days…

Hmmm… I’m hungry. It’s 9:30. No big deal. I can make it. Three more hours until lunch.

(10 min later)

Ok, now I’m really hungry. So, are juice and coffee ok on this fasting thing because I could really go for something wet...

(double checks fasting bulletin insert and drinks some oj then puts on a pot of coffee)

(30 min later)

I'm still hungry. Starving, in fact. Ok, self, that’s just dumb. What do you tell the kids? You’re not starving you’re just really, really hungry. You are NOT going to die because you didn’t eat breakfast. Think of all the women in the third world who eat rice cakes and hopelessness for breakfast. Get a grip.

(self admonishment works for 10 min or so)

Nope. Still starv….really, really hungry….so, when is lunch time technically? Micah eats lunch at school just before 11am, so do I really have to wait until noon? 

The whole thing is just embarrassing. Ludacris, really. No one, outside of my husband, knew what I had chosen to do, so I could have eaten away and no one would have been the wiser. Except for the teeny, tiny fact that I had told God I would not eat breakfast. Oops. What it comes down to, is that I am not capable of following through on a promise to the One who created me, loved me while I was still a dirty, rotten sinner, and sent His Son to earth to die for me so that I could experience abundant life here and with Him for eternity. 

In His omnipotence, God knows this. He knows we don’t do rules well. In fact, the Law was there to show us just how terrible we are at following the rules God has set up for our well being. With the Fall came rebellion, but with Jesus came grace and, ultimately, reconciliation. 

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.” -Romans 3:23-24 

Please don't think I'm advocating blatant disregard for our promises to God. On the contrary, Scripture is pretty clear that we need to do what we say we are going to do. However, as long as we are on this side of the dirt, we are going to fail. Guaranteed. The good news is that Jesus doesn't need us to be perfect (He's got that covered), He just needs us to be obedient.

3. Fasting, when done right, always yields results. In retrospect, I can see that the last forty days were a very spiritually productive time. I was far more diligent in my prayer time, an area I’ve always struggled with, and, not surprisingly, I was more attuned to God’s voice. The LORD provided me with verse after verse to help me through the loooong mornings (insert eyeroll), teaching me that He is, in fact, the One who sustains me. Areas of my life that were hidden by indifference and apathy have been exposed and the process of reconciliation to God's ideal has begun. And last but not least, the unity within our church community was incredible. Oddly enough, when the body of Christ gets serious about seeking God’s face, petty differences melt away and the Bride begins to radiate the love of her Beloved. 

It is a very good thing. 

Now, pass the pancakes....

Jesus Knows Its Scary to be Us

This blog was written two years ago when Katie was initially diagnosed. The tumor referred to below was eradicated with a very difficult, year long regimen of chemotherapy and radiation. Since that time, however, further tumors have surfaced in her lungs. As of this morning, she is fighting for her life. Please pray.

My mom and I were talking this morning when she told me about a young girl who is part of her church family. Katie is 15 and has stage 4 cancer. The mass is so large that it reaches from her pelvis to her sternum and is so imposing that in the ER they were unable to insert a catheter. She and her family are pursuing aggressive treatments to try and stop the spread of the disease but even that is proving difficult as her parents no longer have insurance. All of this seems ridiculously unfair. She's 15 for goodness sake and wants to be a missionary when she grows up.

As I was sorting laundry this afternoon and thinking through the unfairness of it all, God reminded me of something I heard this week in Bible Study: "Jesus knows its scary to be us." 
He reminded me that He knows this not in a omnipotent, theoretical way, but in an experiential way. He knows its scary to be us, because He created us, He loves us, but more than that, He was one of us.

Disease, poverty, hunger, pain are all common place here. Its painful to enter the world and, in most cases, its painful to leave it. We've never lived in a world without pain. Jesus, however, came from a place where none of that exists or will exist. He left the beauty of Heaven to live with us in the squalor of Earth. He chose that. He chose us.

The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel. -Isaiah 7:14  

The prophet Isaiah calls Jesus, Immanuel. God with us. Jesus, in all His divinity, walked on this soil as a man enduring all the crumminess that comes with that. He knows what it is to be hungry, thirsty, tired, tempted, sad, and to grieve. He knows injustice, fear, uncertainty, and unfairness. He knows it because He lived it. Jesus knows its scary to be us.  

In most ways, the fact that the Creator God became one of us, makes the difficult parts of life tolerable, slightly easier even. More importantly, though, it teaches us that we can trust Him.We can trust Him because He cared enough to send the best, the most precious, the most sacred part of Himself so that we don't have to do it alone. As a result, we can trust His timing, His purpose, His plans, even when they don't make any sense to us.

So, while its crazy unfair that Katie is facing a very uncertain future, she's not facing it alone. Immanuel is there.

Of Monster Trucks & Missionaries

The idea was a good one. They often are. The hitch is always in the execution....

See, the big plan was to buy this book, From Arapesh to Zuni and through colorful illustrations and delightful, nightly discussion, have my progeny fall so in love with these under-reached people groups that I would single handedly produce the next Hudson Taylor or William Carey. The problem is that my three boys are not the Von Trapp children or even the Duggars. By the end of the first page, two thirds of which is taken up by a picture, my three year old was off to find his Curious George book, the five year suddenly decided it was a good time to play monster trucks and my eight year old, while feigning interest in the pictures of the Arapesh I brought up on Google, was really biding his time until he could check Amazon for a Pokeman book he was hoping to buy. The second night the younger two didn’t even pretend to listen and the oldest listened only as a way to buy a few more minutes before the lights went out.

I don’t lay the blame for this failed experiment at the feet of my children...at least not entirely. Like most American pastor’s kids, my boys live a very privileged spiritual existence; even more so because they live in the South. They own approximately 400 Bibles and Bible story books, have access to the entire Veggie Tales library via Netflix, and have enough VBS t-shirts stored away to clothe a small orphanage. The problem isn’t their lack of knowledge of spiritual things, it’s their lack of experience in spiritual things. I can’t expect them to have a passion for missions just because we read a few pages out of a book every night. Its a good start, but its just more head knowledge. The only way my boys will catch a vision for seeing a dark world illuminated by the light of Jesus is to have them experience it.

Admittedly, my husband and I are limited by our kids’ ages and our one income budget, so extensive family mission trips are not necessarily in the picture at this season in our lives, but other things are. We have the privilege of being friends with several missionaries and their families whose ministries reach from Europe to Africa to India and most of them have children the same ages of our boys. My kids can know and identify with these missionary families, not just through their picture on our refrigerator, but through letters, emails, and Skype dates. As parents, we should be praying for these families regularly with our kids, encouraging them to think of ways they can be an encouragement to them. We can engage as a family in opportunities to serve our local community: taking old books and puzzles to the women’s shelter, participating in clean up days, collecting travel kits for the homeless shelter etc. In short, if we want our kids to understand and experience the importance of reaching their world, we have to do it too.

God reminds the Israelites in Deuteronomy to teach the things of God “as they go.” As parents, we can make the largest impact on our children’s spiritual lives by living out our calling as boldly as we can, including them in it day by day, moment by moment until they become passionate sharing the good news from Arapesh to Zuni.

This post was written for Brooke and Richard Nungesser's ministry newsletter, The Polish Nuns. Be sure to check out Brooke's blog: and2makescrazy.wordpress.com to find out about their family and their ministry in Poland!

A Salute to Middle Children

My older sister and I look a lot alike.

See? Our Sunglasses are even the same...

We also sound a lot alike. A LOT. We had the added bonus of having an extremely youthful sounding mom. So....if someone were to call our house in the late ‘80’s and a female voice were to answer the phone it would go something like this....

Hello?

Patty?

No.

Kim?

No.

Monica?

Yep.

I suppose I could have stopped them before they went down the roster of girl Thiss residents, but, well, I didn’t. Sorry people who called our house. Anyway, the point is, my voice was not distinguishable from those of my mom and my sister. I didn’t need therapy over it or anything, but it was weird not to be immediately identified as me. To be thought of as someone else first. I'm over it though...really.

Flash forward thirty years...

A few weeks ago, our middle kiddo started referring to himself in the third person when I would ask him and his brothers a question. For example...

What do you guys want for lunch?

Micah wants a peanut butter sandwich! No jelly, please!

Who wants a drink?

Micah isn’t thirsty.

Where are you guys?

Micah is in his room!

Wha??!!

I finally asked him why in the world he insists on referring to himself in such strange way. His response? I have to, mom. Sometimes you don’t recognize my voice.

Well, crap.

(Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. In fact, I have another Micah story about that very word, but I digress.)

It’s true. Sometimes I don’t know who is yelling out for me and its not totally uncommon for me to say so. But still. Ouch.

I suppose there is a lesson in there about how God always knows our voice and how we never have to ask for anything from Him in the third person. 

Monica needs wisdom for parenting her children or Monica needs help to stop saying the word "crap," please. (Although I do.)

But that wasn't what I thought of when my sweet middle child reminded me that I need be a bit more careful when relating to my boys. What I remembered was that I am not parenting a tribe, but rather three individuals who need and deserve my personalized attention. Yes, there will be lots of times when it will be completely appropriate to refer to them as "the boys" and treat them collectively. However, as they mature, I need to be mindful to continue to get to know their ever changing personalities, to know their distinct voice. 

So, Happy Middle Child Day, sweet redhead. Mom loves you very much!

Butts Up!: A (bruised) Tale in Humility

One of my favorite summer activities as a kid was tubing the Salt River. Lest those of you from moister climates envision it to be something like this:

The Salt River, as it runs through Phoenix, looks like this:

What's that? No water, you say? That's right. The Salt is a just a massive dry riverbed in the middle of central Phoenix used only to accommodate flash floods during the monsoon season. Further east of the city, however, there is water and, depending on the year, it can be quite full. If said weather conditions were in place, my family and lots of others like us would take our desert dwelling selves to the river for a day of tubing.

At many points the river is wide and at least chest deep, but at others it is quite shallow and full of exposed rocks that one must avoid by, wait for it...standing up and walking down the river. Then there are the most dangerous places. The ones that look deep or at the very least deep enough to stay in your tube floating merrily along, but really hide large river rocks. The only way to avoid a rear full of stone is to listen for a very distinctive warning from those further down river...."BUTTS UP!" At which point you know to lean back and lift your behind out of your tube and enjoy the ride, hopefully avoiding any painful encounters with nature.

I cannot tell you how many times I've recalled this obscure idea, especially after I've done something stupid that could have been avoided. Anytime I've heeded a warning from someone further down the "river" than me in any area; parenting, ministry, marriage etc. I've been able to avoid some kind of smack to the behind. If, however, I don't, and I proceed in my own knowledge, ignoring the advice of a more seasoned rider, I often end up finding out just how hard river rocks can be. On one such summer tubing trip, I decided I wanted to impress a boy by getting, what I hoped would be, a fantastic tan. I made the genius decision to not wear any sunscreen at all...for a whole day...outside...down a river...in the summer...in Arizona. My dad tried to warn me a few hours into the trip that I was getting red, but I persisted...BUTTS UP! He told me it would hurt and that I should really, really consider putting on some sunscreen...BUTTS UP! He strongly advised me to lather up should I end up a swollen, blistered mess...BUTTS UP! I. Did. Not. Listen. Sitting, standing, generally just breathing, was painful for a really long time. BUTTS UP, indeed.

So what's the moral of the story? Don't tube rivers in desert? No! In fact, absolutely tube the Salt if you get a chance. (I've seen, on more than one occasion, wild horses roaming the river banks, which is pretty much awesome.) You should always wear sunscreen? Well, yes, that is a small but important moral. Ninth grade boys are not, it turns out, attracted to a lobster masquerading as an eighth grade girl.

No, the moral of the story is that humility is the key to traveling life's river as abundantly as possible. Submit yourself to the idea that you do not know everything and put yourself in a position to learn. Find those who've gone ahead of you and seek out their wisdom. Ask questions and be open to, not just hearing their answers, but putting some of them into practice. It may be the difference between a fun summer day and a bruised bottom.

"When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom."

-Proverbs 11:2 (ESV)

And There Was Ice Cream for Breakfast

Last year at this time, our friends were literally lying on a mat on the floor of a Polish hospital watching their infant son fight for his life. What started as a cough on a Wednesday, had put him in a coma on life support by Saturday morning. For the next five days he clung to life, his parents never knowing if he would live to see the morning. His mom, Brooke picks up the story....

But Maxwell did make it through the night. And now it is Wednesday. On Wednesday, Maxwell started to stir. Which means, there was one point when he actually (lightly) clasped onto his dad's finger. 

This small movement was the same as a mountain being moved. It gave us our first sliver of light. It was the first ray of sunshine after a terrible storm.

On Thursday, a movement had been started, "Ice Cream for Breakfast!" Children and parents and people all over the world had dedicated Thursday morning to eating ice cream for breakfast with their children in honor of Max--but the GREATEST part of all of it was that they spent that time with their children praying for a miracle in Maxwell's life.

Thursday wasn't much different than Wednesday. His respirator was still doing all of his breathing for him. And then Friday happened.

We walked into the ICU Friday morning, and Maxwell's eyes were open. He was crying and crying and crying. He was doing some of the breathing on his own with the respirator making up for the rest.

The doctors extubated Maxwell and by the next day he was breathing on his own. The NEXT day.

This week marks the one year anniversary of Max's journey and of Ice Cream for Breakfast. Friday morning our family will partake once again but this time it will be in deep gratitude to our God for His everlasting mercy and love. We will celebrate as a family because I want my boys to know that there is a God in heaven who knows about a small baby who could not breathe and his missionary parents who had no other help to turn to. I want them to know that there is a Heavenly Father who heard the prayers of those parents in their darkest, most desperate hour and rallied the saints, young and old, to petition the throne of heaven on their behalf. I want them to know THE NEXT DAY that little baby could breathe again. I want them to know it is God alone that performed this miracle, for them to marvel at the works of His hand and know that He is LORD. 

We know that God could have taken Max at any point in the last year. On Friday morning we will fill our bowl and praise God that, in His sovereignty, he didn't, but we will also pray for those, who, just like Max's parents, need our intercession this year. The names of Katie, Ben, Sarah, and David will be lifted up at our table. 

Perhaps you don't know someone struggling through illness. What miracles have you seen God do in your own life this year? Month? Week? Big or small it doesn't matter. Take the time to tell your kids what our God has done and celebrate together.

For great is the LORD, 

And greatly to be praised...

- 2 Chronicles 16:25a

Thank you, Brooke and Richard, for allowing us to walk along side you. You are examples of faithfulness for all of us and we are proud to call you friends!

And We Were Fancy

Yesterday was a good mom day. Bathrooms were cleaned, children played with, exercise attempted, delayed tasks completed. By anyone's standards it was productive. So, as a reward for such a fantastic day, I painted my fingernails red, because red fingernails are fancy and I was feeling F.A.N.C.Y.

As I stepped into the hallway sporting my fancy nails, my four year old met me wearing his school uniform (polo shirt and kakhi shorts) with the black dress shoes he wore as a ringbearer last fall. He asked if he could wear them in the van to get his older brother from school. Normally, I'm the type of mom that prefers the appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, but today I relented. I relented because before I could answer him, he said, "Mom! Don't I look fancy?!"

Everyone needs to feel fancy occasionally and if that means black dress shoes with athletic socks and shorts, then ok, let's be fancy!

What do you do to feel fancy?

And the Bride Was Beautiful

Two weeks ago I sent out an SOS for help with a project our Bible study was tackling. Holy Moses, did people respond....

 * The fourth grade girls Sunday School class donated a HUGE bag of pajamas for the kiddos in Guatemala.  

* The college ministry provided yards of material and supplies PLUS gift cards to cover the cost of anything else we might need as we sewed.

* We received donations of thread, coupons to help us buy whatever we needed, and more gift cards to help defray the cost.  In short, the people of Jesus STEPPED UP!!

As a result, we were able to sew 11 complete pillowcase dresses and cut and pin 17 more. That's 28 dresses!! 28 dresses that will be distributed to girls in Uganda who have little to call their own, let alone a handmade dress made just for them.  I wish I could see their faces.  I wish I could see what they look like decked out in their new dress. I'll have to wait until this summer to see pictures of those sweet girls but I did see what we looked like, and it was beautiful.

I've never seen an ugly bride, but there are a few who barely made it.

Unfortunately the Bride of Christ has a reputation for barely making it sometimes. Worthless arguments over inconsequential issues, inexcusable self centeredness, and flat out meanness can mar our appearance and make us flat out ugly. 

When the people of Jesus rally to His calling, however, and use their resources and spheres of influence to meet a need, the result is stunning.

Each pair of pajamas, yard of fabric, and hour hunched over a sewing machine, represented mercy, grace, generosity, sacrifice.  People gave what they had, whether it was resources, time or talent, to make sure those little girls know that they are treasured and loved. That Bride is beautiful.

Thank you to everyone to helped!

Keeping This One for Me

As the first born child and grandchild on either side of the family, Samuel's life has been exhaustively documented.  His baby book is complete and bulging with memorabilia. (Please don't ask about Benjamin's.) We have emailed, texted, tweeted, Facebooked, and Instagramed images of church and school performances, soccer, football, and baseball games, and cub scout award ceremonies to his grateful out of state grandparents and our probably less grateful friends. 

Three weeks ago, Micah and Samuel sang with their respective church choirs. I took multiple pictures of Micah, but when Samuel's group walked up to the stage I put the camera down and didn't pick it back up.

Several years ago there was a Newsweek article about a woman who forgot to bring her camcorder to her daughter's dance recital. Panic ensued. Mom guilt took over and her mental state got ugly.  Then, with the first strains of the music, the fog of her anguish lifted and she relaxed.  The camcorder would not magically appear and, as this was in the era before cell phones, she had no other choice but to sit and watch the show. It was the best recital she remembered watching because, well, she watched it. Undistracted by technology, she noticed details about her daughter's performance that she wouldn't have otherwise noticed because she was too busy documenting it. 

As I lifted my phone to capture the song, that article flashed through my mind.  I immediately put it down and made a conscious effort to sit and watch my son. He was confident and unafraid, but not quite relaxed.  The lights on stage were bright and caused most of the kids to lower their faces just a touch, creating a look of concentration. Samuel was no exception. Finally looking at ease as the song ended, he smiled conspiratorially at his best friend who stood next to him, and they ambled down the stage steps together. I thought he was marvelous.

Once the performance ended, another story of another woman came to mind, though this one was far older than the other.  Scripture speaks of a young girl who kept memories of important moments to herself, choosing, instead, to "treasure [them] in her heart" rather than share them. I imagine in times of fear or doubt or loneliness, Mary replayed the images of the adoring shepherds and worshipful magi and let them sit with her, comforting and sustaining her like a trusted friend.

I want to learn to treasure those moments, too. Perhaps my memories are a bit more mondane. Moments that come a thousand times a day and flit away as quickly as they come. A silly look, an awkward smile, or a quiet moment sitting together. These are the memories I want store up, because some memories, no matter how common, are too sacred to be let loose into the world.

My son is growing up quickly. Where there used to be a pudgy toothless baby, stands a gangly, snaggle tooth eight year old that smells of dirt and boy. As his mom, I am priviledged to bear witness to his life.  Some of that life I will share and some I am learning to keep just for me.

A Note to the President

“This is really what the White House is all about.  It’s the “People’s House.”  It’s a place that is steeped in history, but it’s also a place where everyone should feel welcome.  And that’s why my husband and I have made it our mission to open up the house to as many people as we can.”

-Michelle Obama, December 1, 2012

“Due to staffing reductions resulting from sequestration, we regret to inform you that White House Tours will be canceled effective Saturday, March 9, 2013 until further notice. Unfortunately, we will not be able to reschedule affected tours.”
-White House Press Release, March 5, 2013

Dear Mr. President,

Devoted to the idea that there was no better education in American history than visiting the epicenter of our cultural and political heritage, my parents took my brother and me to Washington D.C. for two weeks in the spring of 1994.  The highlight of that trip was our tour of the White House, specifically the Blue Room.  I was delighted and astounded by its hues of sapphire blue and its magnificent view of the South Lawn. I stood reveling in the history that saturated every inch of the space, thankful that I had the opportunity to, not only visit, but feel welcomed in the seat of Presidential power.  Sir, I am heartsick today, because that will not be the case for thousands of Americans and international visitors this spring.

The Sequester is complicated, I realize that.  I understand that it was created to be so intrinsically horrible that both sides would be compelled to the bargaining table in an effort to avoid it.  I understand that the $85 billion in cuts are “across the board,” leaving little to no wiggle room for which line items are to be affected. I also understand, however, that, as the President, you set the tone for our nation and have certain options at your disposal to direct the national dialogue. Mr. President, I believe you chose poorly when you chose to use the closure of the White House to tour groups as a tool in this discussion. 

The American people’s relationship with the White House has always been a very personal one.  In its early days, citizens overran the House during inaugural receptions and daily formed long lines to make requests or “recommendations” to the President.  Donald Ritchie, the Senate historian said that “The gates at the beginning were more to keep cows out than they were to keep people out.”  The Civil War dictated that security was tightened a bit, but even after Lincoln’s assassination, the “People’s House” and the grounds, especially, were still open for public use, a practice that was discontinued only in 1941 with the start of WWII.  It was and is that sometimes ridiculously unfettered access to the seat of power that set us apart and makes our American democracy unique.

Mr. President, certainly this a difficult situation to navigate.  I appreciate that the environment in Washington is tenuous at best, but, in the long run, you are responsible for your decisions and yours alone.  Let your legacy be what you promised it would be: transparency and access. Afterall, the White House is not the “People’s House” in name only. We are your landlords, and we respectfully ask our tenant open its gates once again.

If you wish to contact the President regarding the cancellation of public tours, here is the contact link:

http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/submit-questions-and-comments