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.