Beware of taking your kids to church :)
Easter is one of my favorite times of the year. Easter gives us an opportunity to invite people to church more easily than at other times. As you probably know, many people visit church on Easter even if they don’t usually attend.
That’s great. Sort of.
Several years ago I heard a fabulous sermon on godly parenting and it’s haunted me ever since. The pastor gave an interesting illustration: He made the rather bold point that if we, as parents, are just giving our children a little tiny dose of Jesus we may be doing them more harm than good. We may, in fact, be preventing them from wholeheartedly trusting and following Christ as adults.
Consider immunizations. When we give someone a flu shot, we’re actually giving them what? A little tiny dose of the flu. Give them just enough and it will keep them from getting the full-blown flu. The natural reaction of the body is able to ward off and render harmless the flu virus.
Is it possible to immunize our children from Jesus?
Studies have often shown that those who are soured most on Christianity are not those people who have had no exposure to church and the Bible, but rather are those who, as children, either have bad experiences in the church or parents who sat in pews on Sunday but showed zero evidence of living out that faith the other six days of the week.
They had a tiny dose and therefore were apparently immune to the full-blown effect of the risen Lord.
Why is this? Because a parent who models a half-hearted or Sunday-morning faith is essentially saying, “I know all about this Jesus guy and He’s not significant enough for me to actually change my life. It’s just not that big of a deal.”
That, friends, is a scary message to give our children.
It’s not just that we haven’t given our children enough religious experience, it’s that we’ve proven by our lives that there are no real-life implications of believing in God. Kids aren’t stupid. They have great noses and can smell BS a mile away.
Why would they want to believe in something that doesn’t matter? So they abandon ship. Of course, they hold this stance only until they have their own children. Then they decide they want their children to “have religion”, so they wind up doing the exact same routine as their parents. No real faith, just going through the motions. And in these motions, another generation is immunized from faith in Christ. Frightening.
Along this same vein, a paragraph from Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood has always haunted me in a similar way. Dillard reminisces her fond memories of summer Presbyterian church camp:
“The adult members of society adverted to the Bible unreasonably often. What arcana! Why did they spread this scandalous document before our eyes? If they had read it, I thought, they would have hid it. They didn’t recognize the vivid danger that we would, through repeated exposure, catch a case of its wild opposition to their world. Instead they bade us study great chunks of it, and think about those chunks, and commit them to memory, and ignore them. By dipping us children in the Bible so often, they hoped, I think, to give our lives a serious tint, and to provide us with quaintly magnificent snatches of prayer to produce as charms while, say, being mugged for our cash or jewels.” (p. 134)
Did you READ that? It’s startling. The women is a literary genius, of course, but she’s also hitting the nail on the head, and the conviction is well-earned. If our lives have not been transformed, utterly and completely transformed by the power of the gospel, then what are we doing teaching it to our children?
The gospel is scandalous; its claims are spectacular, it is “wild opposition to the world”. How tragic it would be if we taught our children to study Christ’s claims, “commit them to memory, and ignore them.” Wow. Is that not what we are doing when we ourselves ignore them? Are we not then merely giving our children’s lives a “serious tint” and giving them “quaintly magnificent snatches of prayer to produce as charms”?
Please, please hear my heart in this: I do hope we all take our children to church this weekend. And every weekend. But more than that I hope and pray that we are convinced of this scandalous, life-changing gospel found within the pages of Scripture: It is the power of salvation to all who believe (Rom. 1:16).
The life and death and resurrection of Jesus Christ changes everything.
May it do just that in us … and our kids.
{Thanks so much for reading.}
Leading our children from cynicism to hope…
I remember right where we were when she said it, a couple years ago.
We were snuggled up together, under a quilt; we’d just finished reading the story of Jesus healing Jairus’ daughter. What a glorious story! And then she said it, quiet, to herself,
“God doesn’t do that anymore.”
My breath caught, struck that her unguarded childlike words would reflect what I too suspected, way down deep:
Does God do that anymore?
The truth was, though I’d read those words dozens of times, I wasn’t quite sure if God “did that anymore.”
My own inner doubts seemed harmless enough, honest questions, right? But once I heard my own unbelief spoken softly into the air, through the very lips of my precious daughter, the one I have devoted my life to discipling into a follower of Christ … then I knew something great was at stake:
My life is becoming her doctrine.
I closed my eyes and saw the sand in the hourglass–time running out.
See, childlike faith can quickly turn to cynicism. Certainly, we cannot (and should not!) shelter our children from all disappointment. God does not say yes to every prayer. (This too is grace.) But children give us the gift of unfiltered speech:
The Emperor has no clothes!
They see right through religion. What is real? We’re often afraid to speak the obvious, afraid it will expose our own inadequacies, and as a result we sometimes miss seeing a real God do real stuff in the real world every single day.
Later, we sat on the couch and read The Hungry Thing. When all the adults cannot fathom was schmancakes and hookies and gollipops could possibly be, the small child speaks up with the clarity that only humility can bring:
Pancakes, and cookies and lollipops!
We all need a lesson in childlikeness. Believe what the Word actually says. Keep living as if “biblical” is real, because it is, even if you don’t feel it or see it at first.
Eventually your “real” will rise to meet biblical. Don’t give up.
What does this mean for my mundane? It means refusing to give up. It means meeting the questioning gaze of my daughter when she prays again and doesn’t see the answer she’d hoped for. It means honestly admitting that I also don’t understand sometimes. And it means celebrating every glimpse of the miraculous in our mundane. (Four times recently Heidi has prayed on her own to find a misplaced item and each time God immediately answered. She prayed for a specific need on Wednesday and had it clearly answered. Mundane miracles start tiny!)
It means cultivating an atmosphere of childlike faith and steadfast hope. It means rejecting cynicism, doubt, discouragement, and unbelief. It means come to the Father again and again in faith, in prayer, asking for everything from miracles to meals.
Let’s not lose our children to cynicism. Let’s commit afresh to seeing His kingdom come, in our homes and in their hearts as it is in heaven.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. (Rom. 15:13)
{Have a glorious week, dear child of God. Thanks for reading.}
What you taught me, Mom.
Happy birthday, Mom. I love you so much and I’m so glad I was born to you! I cannot imagine anyone more loving, kind, sacrificial, gentle, patient, and faithful as a mom. You are a gift from heaven to all who know you and I can’t thank God enough for letting me be born to an amazing woman like you. Of course there are so many things you have taught me, by example, but a few come to mind, that I’d like to thank you for:
::People are more important than things::
I remember every time I’d spill something, or break something, or ruin something; I remember you cheerfully grabbing a towel, or a broom, or some glue, and saying, “Well, people are more important than things.” You never shamed me or made me humiliated because of ruining some object of yours, even when I polished your special silver with shoe-polish! This made a powerful impact on me, in so many instances, remembering that people are always more important than things.
::Joy is found in serving people::
I remember being critical of you, because you so selflessly laid down your life for others. You cooked, you cleaned, you constantly laid down your life to serve dad, to go to his ballgames, watch his games, take on his projects, do his thing. You were always serving us. But you knew a secret I hadn’t learned back then: Joy is found in serving people. You came alive serving others. You poured out your life loving Dad, and us, and you truly glowed with joy as a result. I think it’s funny that now Dad is the one doing all the cooking and cleaning for you! 😉 You both are humble servants, and I’m so grateful for that example.
::Prayer is more effective than power::
I was an idiot in high school. Can we just all agree on this? I remember doing so many stupid things and watching you never panic, never freak out, and never pull me into a power-struggle. Instead of getting upset, yelling, or throwing around your weight … you prayed. I know you did. You prayed guys out the door and prayed bad situations to pass. You prayed and prayed because you knew that prayer is more effective than power. I believe that God’s abundant goodness and grace on my life is a result of your prayer. Thank you for praying me out of the idiot-years!
::Homemade bread will fix most things::
It sounds silly, but I’m so grateful you taught me to bake bread. Not only has it saved us probably thousands of dollars (Killer Dave’s is like $6 a loaf!) but it’s often forced me to slow down and take the simple way. Even on hard days, my kids will light up if I offer them a buttered slice of bread, and homemade bread fresh from the oven has been given to many neighbors over the years, a delicious treat that costs mere pennies to make. I feel like the ability to bake delicious bread gives me something I can take to any gathering, no matter how fancy the meal, to bless people. It makes a great hostess gift, and is a wonderful cooking activity to include kids in. For all those loaves, thank you.
::Loving people is usually just listening::
I remember you saying that the best way to bless people is to let them talk about themselves. Ha! It’s true though, we all desperately want to be listened to, we long for someone who’s willing to listen to us share our heart. You are the best listener I know. Thank you for 35.5 years of listening to me — listening to me cry, complain, boast, pray, and speak. Thank you for listening to me recounting my victories and failures. Thank you for listening to the friends I brought over, and showing genuine love to people by simply listening. You have completely won the hearts of my children by just listening to them, sometimes for hours on end! I think Dutch would be content to sit and talk to at you all day long! 😉
Happy birthday, Mom. Thank you for loving me and teaching me so much through your life. I love you.
{Thanks for reading.}
Kari’s homeschool day in the life (with a 7- and 9-year old)
The title of this post should be Kari’s homeschool day in the life (with Dutch). By this I simply mean that the age of my children isn’t primarily what influences our days. It is Dutch who influences our days.
I say this with love and with all the proud-mama vigor you can imagine. I adore my boy. He has Asperger’s syndrome, a character trait (as we call it) that gives him a certain set of strengths and weaknesses.
Every child, of course, has strengths and weaknesses, but Dutch’s are extreme. My daughter Heidi, on the other hand, is typical. She is predictable. She potty-trained herself and could probably raise herself. I could homeschool her in my sleep. I often joke that if I had had her first, I would’ve written a parenting book. *smile*
But I didn’t. I had my precious son first, and spent the first three years of his life crying, convinced I was the worst mother in the world and how on earth did everyone else have this mothering thing nailed while I was at my wit’s end?
He’s just unique. Glorious and gifted and destined for greatness, but often our days are difficult.
Please don’t read that I don’t enjoy homeschooling. I do. Please don’t read that I’m disappointed by Dutch. I’m not.
I’m simply attempting to share with you an honest glimpse of homeschooling a challenging child, and I trust that ten or twenty years from now he and I will both be reaping the benefits of persevering through these hard days.
So, what are these days like?
Wonders within wonders
It all happened so fast. After almost a year of praying, watching, waiting, wondering, within a week’s time everything fell into place and I found myself sending big news, somewhat awkwardly, via text: “Hi. So um… we sold our house and bought a house yesterday. Moving in 3 weeks. Surprise!”
That’s sort of an exaggeration, but it felt so fast, there just wasn’t time for a lot of explanation. The whole thing is amazing, like, borderline miraculous, and I’m eager to share the whole crazy story with y’all at some point. It is the next chapter of our following-Jesus adventure and it looks way different than I thought, but isn’t that how He’s always working? Rest assured, we are still planted here in Oregon City, still leading Renew, still living in community with all our same peeps.
Nothing’s changing except our address and our view of how BIG God is.
But in the midst of this amazing grace and WONDER, we also had a big crisis in a little heart. The real reason I was texting the news was that I couldn’t talk about the news. Our little Dutch has a major challenge with change, and although he LOVED the new place out in the country, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go of our beloved bungalow in town. We tiptoed around the topic most of the week, Jeff and I speaking in code through every conversation, delaying the inevitable discussion with Dutch. His sour attitude worsened through the week as he sensed the news was coming, and I kept praying God would change his heart.
But Saturday morning as I prayed for Dutch, dreading the conversation that needed to happen that day, the Father did another wonder in my own heart. He showed me how often my prayers for my son are still selfish. That is, I pray that God will work in his life so that it’s easier on me.
I asked for him to change but the Father gently showed me: It’s me who needs to change first.
So instead, I asked for God to work a wonder in me:
Help me be patient with him. Help me be kind. Help me not be resentful when Dutch’s struggles dampen my spirits. Help me not rush him, but help me patiently give him space to grieve. Help Dutch be comforted. Help him feel loved and safe. Help him find victory through this huge transition and learn a life-changing lesson: That You are constant even in the midst of change. Help him find JOY in this process and show him all the ways that this is Your grace pouring out on him. I mean, the new house has a giant wood carving of a BALD EAGLE on the deck! It’s like the place was made for him! Father, let him see Your love him. And let him see it … through me. In Jesus’ name.
That morning, Jeff and Heidi left for a little daddy-daughter date to get moving boxes. I had planned to work on writing, but when I saw Dutch, elbow-deep in mud out playing in the yard, I pulled on my heavy coat, slipped into my rubber boots, and headed outside. He lit up when he saw me. “Hey, wanna join me?!
I pulled up a lawn chair. He began happily talking, the way he does when he’s content out in nature. He told me about dinosaurs and George Washington and types of soil and which bugs were his favorite.
He talked the entire morning away while I listened, and smiled.
But then, around noon, the news had to be shared, and he dissolved into a torrent of tears, screaming and running to his room, slamming the door. I snuggled up beside him, wordlessly. We stayed there a long time. For several hours, he refused to talk. I made his favorite lunch, curled up with him in my bed, and waited.
Then, around 2pm, he asked for a snack. As I got up to head to the kitchen, he remarked,
“Well, if we’re going to live there, let’s go visit every few days so we can enjoy it now!”
My head spun around and I saw his side-smirk, the little twinkle in his eyes. I walked back and sat down beside him. He smiled.
“I’m not mad anymore, Mommy,” he began, his head held high with a new brightness in his eyes. Then, like a dam broken, a torrent of excited questions poured out, Could he bring his cardboard boxes? Could we dig in the mud there? Could we play badminton in the barn? I laughed and assured him, “YES! You can bring every scrap of paper and every box and you can even dig up your favorite worms and bring them in a bucket, if you want. YES.”
I beamed. My boy! My boy had a breakthrough! Never have I seen such a clear breakthrough in his heart and life, so dramatically. I also found that this breakthrough impacted every other area of life. The last six days he’s had a more cheerful outlook on everything–chores, school, life.
He even said on Monday, “I like math!”
Wonders never cease.
It is this, the wonders within wonders that makes me stand in awe of our great and awesome God. He is mighty enough to move mountains and yet he cares about the fragile fibers of our children’s emotions. He is strong enough to change my wayward heart, and gentle enough to do it through a holy whisper.
What wonders within wonders await you this week? Praying we watch and see, listen and obey, and get to stand in awe of our great God and King.
{Have a blessed week! Thank you for reading.}
Her. {I love you.}
Her. Just, her. This one. She is seven tomorrow and how do I even begin to describe how this girl lights up my life and brings JOY beyond my wildest imagination. I’ve often remarked that her middle name should have been Joy, because although she’s shy at first, she slowly blooms, eyes wide and face upturned and curls spilling down her back, and she is pure LIGHT and wonderment. I am enchanted with this girl.
There are so many things that make her spectacular. She is incredibly tender, kind, compassionate, loving. She’s usually more selfless than me. She is a true peacemaker, constantly seeking to bless others, constantly thinking about how her actions might affect others. She has an amazing sensitivity to the Spirit, listening quietly to His voice, and eager to pray and intercede for others. She’s smart, funny, and super athletic. She picks up new things with ease. Yes, all these things.
Because I find myself naturally praising her so often, once I asked her: What means the most to you, that mommy says? Is it when I tell you you’re kind? Or loving? Or funny? What? What do you like most that mommy tells you?
You know what she said?
I like it most when you say, “I love you.”
That’s it. I love you. And isn’t that what we all long to hear? More than “You’re so smart, or talented or gifted or creative. More than things about us, don’t we just long to hear those simple words, “I love you.”
Because the truth is, more than we desire to be praised, we desire to be loved. [bctt tweet=”More than we desire to be praised, we desire to be loved.”]
Anyone can stand back and objectively assess our strengths. Anyone can praise us from afar. But only those close up can love us. The real thing we crave is relationship.
And Heidi, this is what means the most to me. Our relationship.
I loved this year when Daddy was in Africa and we had a special beach trip, just you and me. I loved riding the carousel with you (above), and how you sat at my feet while I was speaking at that workshop (ha!) and sometimes poked your head out and smiled at the audience!
I loved it when you ran your first race this year! How we held hands the whole time, and you ran so fast you beat your brother! I was so proud of your courage, and loved being right there with you.
I love having our early-morning Bible times together, every day. These will always be some of my very favorite memories–just you and me, with our books and Bibles. I LOVE having this time with you each day.
I love how, when I had to go away for that conference in Colorado, you were sad about us missing our Bible time together in the morning, so you made the paper cut-out version of me, complete with Bible, the words “I love you Heidi” coming out of my mouth. I know it was hard for you to see me go but I was so proud of you, being brave. I will save this paper cutout forever!
I love this, when we were camping and goofing off and being silly. I LOVE that you are always silly and you help me remember to laugh. 😉
I love how you sit with me while I write. I wonder how many thousands of words I have written with you on my lap???!
Heidi, I love you. I love being with you. It is pure joy to be your mommy, and I love having you with me every day. Happy birthday my sweet girl!
Praise is wonderful, but today perhaps there’s someone in your life who just needs to hear, “I love you.”
Thanks for reading.
Clarifying or Modifying?
This concept came back to me recently, and I remembered this phase we went through when Heidi was a toddler. Chewing on this again today, considering subtle ways we seek to modify His will. Praying we submit to His plans knowing they are always for our good!
~
It was in the toy aisle at the Dollar Store where she first said it.
We were picking out party favors, puzzles and games, when she pointed out some bigger puzzles that had caught her eye. In her bird-chirp voice: “Can I have that?”
“No, sweetiegirl, those puzzles have too many pieces for us. But you can pick out one of these kids’ puzzles for the party.”
She looked up at me with her wide eyes and sweet smile:
“When I’m bigger I can have that?”
My heart melted. Precious little thing. I reached down and picked her up, kissing her on the cheek. “Yes, babygirl, when you’re bigger you can have that.” We finished our shopping and left.
A few days later she asked for something unrelated. Probably a graham cracker or a drink of juice. For whatever reason, I said no, not right now, perhaps later. Her same sweet smile and singsong voice,
“When I’m bigger I can have that?” I grin. “Yes, babygirl, when you’re bigger.”
It was cute. She kept attaching little smiley questions when I’d answer no. One time I left her at naptime (instead of snuggling until she fell asleep) and explained that I was going to get the laundry. A few weeks later, when I left the room at naptime she said, “You going to get the laundry,” and smiled to herself, falling asleep. Cute.
But as time went on and she kept saying it, it was less of a question and more of self-talk. When I’d say no to something she’d say to herself, “When I’m bigger I can have that.” Again, not disrespectfully or unpleasantly, necessarily, but it started to get my attention. And then, whenever I’d leave her room she’d say I was going to get the laundry.
Finally one afternoon I clarified, “Mommy’s not going to get the laundry. I’m going to go write and you need to go to sleep.” She cried. What? “Mommy I want you to get the laundry!” What had I created here?
Finally, too, I intervened with the self-talk. Heidi asked for something and I said no, she started sobbing, and through her tears told herself she could have it when she got older.
I bent down, “Heidi-boo, Mommy didn’t say you can have it when you’re older. I just said you couldn’t have it. I need you to simply say Yes, Mama and not tell me or yourself that you can have it when you’re bigger. Just accept Mommy’s words.”
Do I just accept His Words?
In our last session of Bible study we talked about how sometimes we have learned beliefs from our families, from growing up, things we’ve always believed, that aren’t necessarily God’s Word. We tell ourselves these things, often even subconsciously modifying God’s commands. The first time Heidi had asked the question she had genuinely been clarifying my word. But as it progressed it developed into her modifying my word. Instead of simply accepting my commands, she modified them in her mind to make herself feel better.
Taking a straight-up No. is too hard. So she added a qualifier to soften the blow.
How do we modify God’s Word to soften the blow?
When God says, “no” or gives a clear command and we add some sort of modification, even if it’s a tiny thing like “when I’m bigger”, it’s still a big deal.
Why? Because as long as we add the modifier we’re insisting on the final word.
We’re not really bowing.
We’re still making ourselves the god of our life, by adding modifiers, however innocent or subtle they may be.
Honest, clarifying questions are always welcomed by God. Subtle statements modifying His will are not. When we clarify, He is on the throne. When we modify, we’re trying to usurp. We forget He is a good Father and all His commands — even the “no’s” — are for our good.
Let’s trust our good Father and just accept His Word … even when we’re bigger.
{Praying this for us today! Thanks for reading…}
When your life is a little different from your list…
The chatting and the chicken dying weren’t on my list. Early that morning I’d numbered it neatly in my planner:
- Baking
- Homeschool
- Finish Romans study
- Blog Post
- Work on book
I was still in my jammies when I began the baking, following my familiar weekly ritual of letting the yeast foam for the first loaf of bread, chopping onions for roasted veggies, pulling up Pinterest for the cake recipe. We watch 2-year-old Grace on Tuesdays, so she woke up shortly thereafter and I gathered her sleepy-eyed sweetness in my arms and finished making breakfast, sipping a second cup of coffee, savoring the thought of a domestic day at home.
For the most part, all was well. Chores were done without argument, school began without tears. Then I could feel the tension begin just a bit as math frustrations arose, focus slipped, mishaps happened. By lunch time I had yet to brush my teeth but school was done and baking was done and no one was injured — win!
“Let’s go outside!” I announced cheerfully, figuring once I got them out and happily occupied, I could sit on the porch and get the rest of my work done–studying and writing. But I soon discovered a toddler had tossed something into the chicken coop and it needed immediate retrieval, so I donned my mud boots and headed out to the rescue.
I looked for that one little feathered friend, Checkers, the sickly one, and there she was: Standing sadly right inside the gate. I saved the tossed-in toy, fed the girls, fetched the eggs, and was heading out when the kids gathered ‘round: “Mommy, let’s let Checkers out in the yard for awhile.”
So I nudged Checkers gently with the gate, to urge her out of the coop, but she took one slow step to the side, keeled over into the mud, and as three poor wide-eyed children watched, died.
Oh no.
“Guys, go play over there!” I try to say it cheerfully but Grace points and begins repeating, “Chick’n dead! Chick’n dead!” Heidi’s eyes spring up with tears and Dutch runs to the other corner of the yard and stares into the sky.
And just like that, I watch everything unravel. Thankfully, Jeff zips home to dispose of the dead chicken, but now the oven timer is chiming, Grace is peeing her pants, Dutch is protesting our impending Nature Walk, and Heidi’s sad that Daddy has to go back to work and isn’t here to play. I plate up a big lunch for Jeff, with fresh-made bread and roasted veggies, a special feast to thank him, then set it on the porch railing for him, and within moments it’s bumped over by a certain small person and it splats on the ground.
I can’t help but think it: None of this was on my list.
Right? Of course it wasn’t, because lists are helpful but ridiculously tidy. Life isn’t anything like that.
LIFE looks like this: Tears and peed pants and chickens dying and attitudes needing adjusting and timers chiming and if we have the idea that victory is a day without mishaps, we’re sunk before we start.
Right? Repeat after me: Lists are tidy. Life isn’t.
So when I finally sit down to write in my impossibly narrow window of time and there’s a knock on the door, and it’s someone who just swung by to chat (can you believe it?!), I smile to myself and choose to embrace this moment because this person is more important than my page-count and this life is more important than my list.
By the time she leaves, I can see so much clearer. And so my kitchen’s still a mess but I’ve scratched out these thoughts and will choose my children now instead of the last list-item and we’ll curl up together and I’ll listen and love and hold and smile and ask the Father for grace afresh to live well this impossibly untidy life. I’ll pray that same grace for you too, because I’m guessing your life is also a little different from your list. Thanks for reading.
Low enough to see inside …
I stood tall at the door, arms folded, that familiar wave of overwhelm sweeping my mind into hopeless thoughts. Sure, it was just a bedroom. Kids have messy rooms, I get it. But this. This particular kid’s quirkiness translates into chaos on another level altogether.
The intense emotional attachment to objects translates into keeping everything–wrappers, scraps of paper, tags off clothes. The passion for creating inventions out of boxes translates into cardboard contraptions cluttering every corner, wires attached, duct-tape holding them together. A fascination with science translates to a half-dozen bottles, various experiments, growing salt crystals and green things and jars teetering on the edge of the table. The voracious appetite for reading translates to towers of encyclopedias, right at arm’s reach beside the bed, covers torn with frequent use, dog-eared pages. The love of Legos translates to countless “creations” that cannot be stowed in bins, must be left out on every available surface. The typewriter, his new love where clicks out stories, means strewn papers with half-written plots. The fascination with flags and signs (?!) translates to another dozen or so papers taped to sticks, papers taped on the wall, door, papers taped everywhere.
Every time I address it, I can feel my blood pressure rising, anticipating the battle: he gets defensive, upset, I get harder, firmer, harsher.
Hence, the overwhelm. Maybe, you’d say, it doesn’t matter. Who cares if he has a messy room? But our responsibility as parents is to prepare our children for life. This doesn’t just fix itself. With all my heart I want to give him the tools to thrive, and that includes an orderly space. The ability to tidy. Not perfect. Not spotless. I don’t mind boxes or Legos or weird taped papers on the wall. But this was out of control.
So I stand at the door. Point. Bark. I bend to move a box, but fail to recognize its function, breaking off some antennae-ish thing and bringing him to tears.
*sigh*
Those weird irrational thoughts begin formulating in my mind, those ones we moms have in desperate moments. I could take everything away and make him earn it all back one item at a time. I could make him sleep in the hallway, on the floor. He could lose access to his room. Would that be severe enough?
It’s dinnertime and we all need a break, so we head downstairs. Earlier, he had said this was the best day ever. We’d been outside all day in the cold sunshine, we’d adventured and explored and played baseball with our housemates. It was one of those glorious childhood days.
But now he hung his head, discouraged, eyes red with tears. I picked him up into my arms,
“Ok, babe, we had the best day until 4:30. Then we had a struggle. Let’s return to joy, ok? We’ll figure out your room. Don’t worry. I love you.”
He managed a smile and nestled his face into my neck.
We ate dinner and cleaned up.
“What should we do for family night?” I asked.
Dutch, as if suddenly remembering something, lit up:
“Oh mommy! I haven’t gotten to show you Hobbes’s room! Can you come see?!”
Hobbes (and Max) are his best friends, two well-worn stuffed animals who never leave his side. I can’t turn down that light in his eyes, so I let him take my hand and lead me up the creaky stairs.
We come to his room and before the birds-eye view can overwhelm me, I lower down, with him onto the floor. I look past the scraps of paper, to where he’s curled up next to an upside down detergent box. It’s white with A-L-L spelled out bright, a low, wide opening in the front.
“Oh, neat, hon!” I smile.
“No mommy, look inside.”
I have to lie down all the way to be low enough to see.
But I do.
I peer inside. Oh!
Oh, he’s right! There is unbelievable detail, a place for Hobbes and Max to hang their stockings (!), a large piece of artwork on the wall, (“It’s a real Van Gogh, Mommy!”), a picturesque window, even a cut-out piece of flannel on the floor (“It’s carpet!”). It was a stuffed animals’ dream-home, to be sure.
He had poured his heart, his time, into creating a special room for his favorite friends.
We were both lying there on the ground, his face was right next to mind, peering inside. I turned and kissed his cool cheek, looking into his lit-up eyes.
Of course. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
I have to get low enough to see inside.
From the top, it’s trash. All I can see is cardboard-box chaos. I see garbage, mess.
I look down and see a lack of care.
Could it be that when he looks up at me he sees the same?
Not saying that solves everything, but getting on the floor is empathy-in-action and at least it’s good place to begin.
When we look inside cardboard boxes we see inside hearts.
{Praying we get low enough to see inside. Thank you for reading. }
Because sometimes, we just can’t remember…
I had only been gone 5 minutes when it happened. Onions were simmering for soup. Christmas music floating through the house. Dutch intense over Legos. Heidi happily coloring. I ran out to Jeff’s office to discuss church business, ran back in to stir the onions again. I didn’t see Heidi.
Stirring the onions, I saw her come from around the corner, head down. She wrapped her arms around my leg.
“Hey, babygirl. What’s up?”
Head stayed down.
“Heidi, what’s up Sweetie?”
She finally looked up. Her eyes wide, stricken. I lowered down to look in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” She turned and pointed, then took my hand and led me into the living room. Around the corner, she pointed.
A long line of pink marker down the wall.
“Oh.” I looked down into her wide eyes, her mouth started to twist, eyes filled, stricken by the pain of guilt. Tears spilled over her eyes. Oh I know that feeling, babygirl. That feeling of Oh, What have I done?
I scooped her up, ignoring the sizzle of onions behind me, and took her, crushed, crying, to her room. We slide down into the rocker. We rock. She grieves. I’ve been there:
Godly sorrow, it’s good–got to let it do its work.
This girl’s only 3 but has a spirit opening, like a flower, and I never want to miss an opportunity, thinking she’s too young.
“Heidi, does your heart feel sad and yucky inside when you do something naughty?”
“Yes,” she sobs.
“Me too. Mommy does naughty things too sometimes, and it makes my heart feel so sad and yucky. It’s a terrible feeling, I know. You know Mama does naughty things sometimes too, right?”
She nods. (A little too readily, if you ask me.)
“Do you know what those naughty things are called?”
She’s on it: “Sin.” She says it like she knows it, hates, it, hates the feeling of doing it. How early on we are acquainted with it!
“Can I tell you something wonderful?”
She nods.
“Do you remember why Jesus died on the cross?”
She’s recited it a hundred times: “To take away our sins!” but now, in the midst of her own sin, she can’t remember.
That happens to me too.
In the midst of my sin, I forget why Jesus died on the cross. I can’t see it. Don’t know it. Just can’t remember. Can’t think straight because the frustration and darkness of my selfishness eclipses the light of His love.
“Can I tell you again?”
She nods.
“Jesus came as a baby–at Christmas–and died on the cross, because He loves you so much He wanted to take away ALL your sin–even writing on the wall–and forgive you and take away all the sadness and yuckiness from your heart and make you all new and clean on the inside. Do you remember that?”
She nods.
“Mama forgives you, babygirl. I’m proud of you for showing Mommy your sin instead of hiding it. That’s the same as confessing. And now we’re going to pray and then go clean up the wall together.”
Now she’s stricken again. “But Mommy,” she sobs, “I tried to clean it up, I can’t. I tried with my finger and I can’t. See?” She shows me, pink ink smudged on the pad of her pointer finger. She looks down, now hopeless again.
I smile. “But this time, Mommy will help you. Do you believe Mommy can do it?”
A glimmer of hope: she nods.
After praying, we walk together to the living room, hand in hand. She shows me how she tried to get it off. How the pink just smudged and got bigger, worse.
Again, I ask: “Heidi, do you believe Mommy can do it?”
She nods.
I grab the spray cleaner and a little doggy-puppet wash cloth. She’s laughing as puppy makes silly voices and gets soaked with cleaner.
“Now, Heidi watch. Do you know what Jesus does with our sin? Watch carefully.”
Her eyes are wide. I spray the wall, and in one smooth action, wipe with doggy-puppet-washcloth and all trace of pink-pen … is gone.
Her face is light.
And I’m reminded, why Jesus died on the cross.
~
{Remembering this from four years ago. As we pack up Christmas decorations and put away new toys, let’s look to the cross and remember why Christ came. Thanks for reading.}