And when I’m doing well, help me to never seek a crown.

For my reward is giving glory to you.

-Keith Green-

 I am entering a new realm lately: that of parenting an up-and-coming pre-adolescent girl.  And a quite-sensitive one at that.  Each day brings the potential to hurt Anna in any numbers of ways: and these ways change.  So, what hurts her one day is different from what hurts her the next.  And what might be met with indifference one afternoon is met with oceans of tears the next afternoon.

What?  What is going on?  I need a parenting class.

I learn a lot from my husband.  He asks the most skillful questions.  Last night I was confused by my interactions with Anna, and for a good hour he helped me to sort and un-sort.

What is the root of your frustration right now?  What is the source of your discouragement?  I have a LOT of these feelings as a mother.  Every time I turn around, I feel the shadows of failure crowding in on me.  Every night- if I let myself- and sometimes I do, I can literally lay awake sweating about the awful things I did and said toward people I LOVE today.

Anna is becoming really complicated.  It is like bunny-trails each day: Which one is she going down?  How can I follow it?  Shoot, this trail is really long and winding!  I follow her the best I can, but some moments I throw my hands up and think: God, help me in this moment right now because once the period begins, one of us is going to have to move to another country.

A while back I went out with Josh, alone.  It was so fun to sit and…be.  And literally, that is what he desired.  To sit and be.  I asked him all about school and friends.  And after about 10 minutes of this, he looked at me and said: “Mom, can you stop asking me so many questions?”

Leave me alone!  He is relational, so far as a guy is relational.  One or two sentences expresses all there is to know.  And then, let me eat and I will tell you if there is anything you need to know.  Otherwise, assume the status is A-Okay.

Another week, Anna came home broken-hearted from AWANA.  “Mom, Josh was sitting all by himself during story-time and he looked so lonely.  I was so sad for him, so I went over and sat near him.”  All night she kept going back to her terrible sadness over Josh’s solitude.

Finally, Josh snapped.  “Anna, nothing was wrong.  I just wanted some peace and quiet!”

Girl vs. Boy.  She will wear any number of moods per week.  She is like a pea-cock, all colors and shades.  He is monochromatic.  As long as he is well-fed and I wrestle him to the ground every so often, and remind him each day that he is totally loved, he is happy.

My kids keep me prayerful.  My husband keeps me grounded, and my kids bring me to Christ each and every day.  I have both.  Two sons.  Two daughters.  I have to switch gears often.  Growing girl vs. Young boy.  Toddler girl vs. Infant boy.  I can never reach the same conclusion twice.  I cannot widely apply any theory.  I cannot sweepingly judge.  Because if I over-generalize, I am leaving someone out.  Or not giving enough legitimacy to individuality. 

At the end of the day, I would like to strongly insist that feminism’s claims that men and women are more similar than different.  Less biologically unique: Parent boys and girls together. 

(See, it’s complicated!)

 There could not be two more uniquely dissimilar creatures!

“ I thank You… for noises day and night, and loud music, and loud noise that passes for music: Today I offer this racket to You as the praise of “everything that has breath” in this house (Psalm 150:6) and thank You with each decibel of devotion”.

I am thankful for the noise of my life- sometimes.  Truth be told not always.

Most days are a whir and a blur of activity.  I set my alarm for 6am, so I can make coffee and read my Bible.  And generally within moments there is the slow step of a child coming down-stairs.  

Question: How am I supposed to be a Godly mother, when I wrestle to find still-time to read the Bible?  When I wake up early and even then I am not often alone?  How do I nurture my relationship with God, when it is not ever just the two of us anymore?

Early, early morning. Joining me for "quiet-time"

Answer: I demonstrate.  Models are used to show us how clothing should fit.  They are visible symbols of a product being sold.

I am a model to my kids.  I am the outer representation of everything I am “selling” them.  Not a perfect one, because unlike a plastic form, I am not molded into perfection.  But nonetheless I am still a physical symbol.  I model Christianity to them. It is my job and my greatest responsibility.

 Model. I plod on.  I read and I pray.  And many mornings- more often than not- someone finds a way onto my lap and joins me.  It’s now how I would do it were I to have full-free-will.  But there is a reason Jesus toted his disciples around with him: everything necessary for learning was found in and near him.  I model not how to live perfectly before my kids, but how to strive toward God.

That is found with Bible open and hands open too.  If it means they meet me here, maybe they are learning more than my best-planned lessons.

Sometimes the noise gets to me.  Today was a good example of that.  And it eats away inside of me, so that I want to snap and send everyone to the basement for a day or two.  I want to bury my head under a pillow and hibernate until the winter of loudness has past.  And I want to retreat into myself and away from the din that means there are people living in my home.  People with demands and hunger pains.   

Emma making salad for Sunday lunch- her motivation being the croutons

They are tiring little blessings.

 But I am modeling today: What is a godly mother?  What is a patient woman?  What is a kind and serving family?  What is a Christian?

So, today I thank God for the noise.  And I try to even thank Him for the interruptions.  It means that we are alive.  It means that they are happy.  It means that there is health and energy.  It means that there is passion.  Every interruption means that I am letting them in on my world, because I was never meant to live there alone.

And when I let it, the certain noise reminds me that I have much to be thankful for.

We are finished.  It went well, and it was a fun and rewarding evening.  These hurdles of courage are so good to jump, and I was a proud parent on Friday night.  I am also a parent who is glad to retire a certain musical score for the time being.

Friday morning, I heard a rapping on the door.  And suspiciously I peered out. A florist!  Standing with flowers for me.   How sweet!  I immediately thought about how highly Pat must think of me, and raced to drink in the romance:).

In actuality, these flowers were for a 7 year-old girl that lives with me.  Sent with love and pride from her aunt and uncle in Toronto.  I am not one to tear up easily, but I did tear up for this moment.  The thought of my children having family that is so invested in them, is touching and humbling.  All day long the phone rang and the emails came through from siblings: We are praying for you.  We love you.  And the minute we walked in the door afterwards, the phone rang from a nail-biting Mimi:  How did it go? 

I hope my kids will always love one another like this.  Pat and I do the best that we can, but ultimately only God can give the love and selflessness that fosters mature adult love.  And that is what we pray toward.

I posted this clip to YouTube already for Facebook friends.  Many of you are not linked up through Facebook, so here it is. 

Please ignore a) my love-handles AND b) the spit-up on my left shoulder.  Both of these imperfections are part of my Mom-identity.  And though I wish that I could always leave the house smelling fresh and without stretch-marks and extra skin around my middle, those 4 faces have made me who I am, which is less like me: and so I’ll take the flaws. 

Not always gladly in the moment, but ultimately with joy.  I am losing myself for a purpose that is nobler than my ego.

My Dad lopped these branches off a tree he was pruning for a client.  My Dad rarely skips a beat in kindness: most times he arrives at the door, there is something small in his hands.  A carton of ice cream.  Bakery cookies for the kids.  Cherry blossoms for me.  He is very thoughtful.  I love that man.

Some for the dining room.

…and for the table out back.

And I plan to include some with a meal I have to deliver this afternoon.  Once again, it is a moment to prepare a meal in my neighborhood: a place where new mothers are supplied with 6 weeks of dinners.  Isn’t that impressive?  I think so.  I have been the recipient of two sets of meals for two babies now, so always a thankful experience to return the kindness and sacrifice.  I well know the time it takes to cook with little ones around, and it was humbling to receive food from other hard-working moms when I was recovering…

Tonight is our big night. Talent Show.  My girl is getting some raw nerves in her stomach, anticipating a moment solo-ing in the spotlight.  Please pray for her, if you are so inclined.  She is so brave and sincere…but this is a pretty frightening moment for a 7 year-old… with only one front tooth.

As for my end, I am ready to retire Grace Flows Down. I have already been playing through possible songs for the next show.  I am hoping that eventually, Josh can be up there with acoustic guitar.  One more year until his hands are big enough, or so we have been told by several music teachers.  This whole preparation in song and music has been so interesting to me: I used to dream about learning musically with my kids, back when they were both tiny.  And now it is here.  And it is HARD WORK. Anna is expected to practice 150 minutes of piano each week.  Her teacher is of the mindset that working hard now not only advances quickly, but also sets the stage for hard work later.  I agree.  And 150 minutes for her means quite a few for me, as I am really wanting to teach her correct posture and hand position and tone right from the first year.  Bad habits are HARD to undo with music (or anything).

Grace Flows Down

Amazing grace how sweet the sound

Amazing love, now flowing down

From hands and feet that were nailed to the tree

As grace flows down and covers me.

This grace: It covers over the sins of my heart.  Everything inside that emanates from my heart.  Each rude internal thought  Each malicious word.  Each selfish gesture toward my children.  Each disrespectful word to my husband.  Each thoughtless deed, each moment of not placing others first because I placed myself at the head of the line.  Everything inappropriate and offensive: all that was nailed to the cross when Jesus died.

That is why we are singing tonight: to celebrate blood meets love at Calvary.

(You know that Paparazzi-Pat will be there shooting photos and video this evening, so I am hoping to have a clip to share here tomorrow.)

When I got Corrin off the plane, she had a book about herbs in her purse.  This is her People magazine -  learning Latin forms for basil.  She is really into gardening, and grows all sorts of things in containers on her porch.

INSPIRED.

We wandered around this beautiful market one afternoon, and admired the baby lettuces and herbs.

I was thinking all about this garden idea while we were away.  We sat at a coffee shop, she reading about plants and I reading about adoption.

And I was half-thinking about children overseas, and then switching gears to dwell on happy thoughts about tomatoes.  An odd merging.

God has a sense of humor.

We were whizzing down the road yakking away and laughing and there they were: 2 tomato stakes by the side of the road.  Screech.  I hopped out and we loaded them up.

And then my magazine today has this article that I quickly flipped to: growing vegetables in small spaces on a small budget.

My kind of gardening.  Now, can I do this?  Can I yield 1 tomato?

That is my goal: 1 tomato.

There is a saying that “pride goes before a fall”.

Today my pride lies in the edible.  So either I am about to trip and wipe-out.  Or my kids will publicly embarass me tomorrow.  But this is too good to keep on the inside.

A favorite website of mine is Tammy’s Recipes.  Healthy.  Kid-friendly.  And simple.  I increasingly like that combination in my life.

This is the best recipe I have found for bread so far.

Homemade Wheat Bread

1 cup warm water

1 tbsp milk

2 tbsp vegetable oil

4 tbsp brown sugar

1 tsp salt

1 cup whole-wheat flour

2 cups all purpose flour (I use self-rising)

2 tsp dry yeast

1 tbsp ground flax (my addition)

Put all ingredients in bread machine and set on dough cycle.  Or if really brave, knead all by hand and let rise.  Generally, I let dough rise twice in my bread machine.  Tonight I was bored of loaf-bread and pulled the dough into 12 sections, and let them rise a third time.

Twelve rolls became zero in less than a half-hour.

Even my most cruel critic- Emma-who regularly has show-downs with me over the quality and perceived success of my dinners, ate.  Although she made sure to tell me that the “chicken is yucky and I hate potatoes”.

We stayed this week with the Wood family- owners of Wood Fruitticher, a Birmingham-based company.

When we crossed paths with the family, there was plenty of fun conversation and open dialogue.  As we left, Mrs. Wood had a hug and some kind remarks for us.  And we felt the same about her.

I am fascinated by mothers older than myself.  I literally feel as though I would like to walk around distributing questionnaires, asking “How did you do it?”  “What was discipline like in your home?”  “What did your marriage look like in these early-child years?”  “What did you spank for?”  “How do you truly encourage your children to follow after God?”

I asked the Wood’s some of these questions.  I peppered them with long-stored-up inquiries on life and family, and was so built up by their answers.

They are much like my parents.  Right down to the 5 kids and many, many grand-children.  What looks like the nth degree of chaos and noise to many, is sweet music to the person from a large family.  The multiplied people is comforting.

There is strength in numbers, and kids from big families know this personally.

When I was not pursuing the Great Inquisition, I could be found reading here.

Or watching a movie with Corrin here.

Or working out here.

Looking out this window.

And admiring this pleasant view.

Or pouring cereal to eat in our very own ground-floor kitchen.

Or perhaps even enjoying some jazz and Susan Boyle’s “I Dreamed a Dream”  in this upstairs room.  Watching the lights of the city.

And of course, I had lust of this two-room play-house for the little ones.

But mostly, I was thankful.  The home was magnificent.  But inside lives a real family.  A real man and woman who look to pour themselves out for their family.  Who go into public schools and do ministry.  And who have raised 5 kids in affluence, for lives in Christian ministry.

The people and their hearts- that may have been the most inspiring aspect of all.

This afternoon I will leave for Atlanta.  I will have exactly 3 hours to drive in quiet alone, and then I will reach my driveway and be full-on into motherhood again.  I have a running list in my head of what will need to be accomplished over the coming 36 hours:

* roast seared and slow-cooked for Sunday lunch

* nursery duty during Sunday School hour: Anna will help me

* Anna’s music theory completed and reviewing how her practice has gone while I have been away

* Emma’s Hep A vaccine

* Will’s vaccines

* Throw a few baseballs to Josh, in preparation for his Baseball class

* drive my Mom to MARTA so she can fly to see the next set of grand-kids

That should good me good and busy!  I was telling Corrin that I almost get nervous approaching home- not because it is not joyful for me, but because the work-load is very, very high.  And I have had a chance to see what I do each and every day now that I have stepped into NOT doing it for a moment.  No wonder I get tired:).

Corrin and I sat at a bookstore and read yesterday afternoon.  I actually read an entire book in one sitting.  That phenomenon has not occurred for years- probably college was the last time I read uninterrupted.  I read this book:

The Boy from Baby House 10, a story so moving I left my coffee grow cold I could not be distracted enough to drink it.  (And my goal for this trip, as I stated to my Mom, was to “drink my coffee hot”). Growing up my parents would talk at times of adopting, and they would reference Russian orphanages as the place they might adopt from.  This memoir provided snap-shots of life in Stalinistic-Russia.  The Russia that was, and that still is, sadly.  Sweet Vanya experienced trauma so profound, my mother’s heart throbbed thinking of such need for love, and such a simple need unfulfilled.  All the bureaucracy for no end, except the end of enriching and furthering some.  My mind could hardly grasp the corruption of a system that makes it nearly impossible to adopt little ones.

This reading reminded me of a conversation I had several years ago at the beach: a man playing in the sand and the water with his son.  His little boy was all big eyes and blond hair.  And the father stated that his son had been adopted out of a Russian orphanage.  So much red-tape had held him up along the way, that when all was said and done, his son’s adoption has cost him nearly $100,000.  Baiting is the concept he alluded to.  The system allows attachment between child and prospective parent to begin, and then the costs begin rising.  And as the attachment continues, so does the price of the child.

Adoption is not most important to Russian government: pay-day is.

And then Corrin and I sat and talked- as we always do for hours- about the natural extensions of Christianity.  If we are pro-life, then we should also being pro-adoption.  How can these two concepts be mutually exclusive? Their exclusivity makes no sense.  Because if we desire to fight abortion all over the place, then we should fix our eyes on the children who are not aborted.  The survivors with no rights and no homes.  There is a teeny-tiny piece of my mind and heart that are opening to this notion of adoption.  It may never happen, and it will certainly not happen right now, but God is a God of the past, present and future.  And so I have begun to simply pray: if there is another child out there for us, even though Pat says there is not:)….give us discernment to see.

There may not be any more Helms, but I have never regretted bringing any thoughts or ideas before God.  He always listens, and He always leads.

The family we are staying with feels quite familiar to me.  This morning I awoke to small foot-steps on the floor above, as one of the grand-children came downstairs for breakfast.

Mr. and Mrs. W have 5 children and 14 grand-children!  Mr. W owns this company (www.woodfruitticher.com) and even though he had thought perhaps one of his sons might inherit the family business, none have desired to and all 5 kids are solidly locked into lives of ministry.  Church-planting, RUF, seminary.  How incredible is that? It does not take long driving around and eating around Mountain Brook, Alabama to see the tremendous  affluence.  It is a very wealthy community full of beautiful people.  So it is with great admiration that I look at parents whose children are all walking with the Lord and who have placed independent ministry-lives for their families, above income.  Who have walked away from the affluence in search of something richer.

Interestingly, Mr. and Mrs. W are pro public-schooling.  He is an elder in the PCA church which makes it even more refreshing!  We had great conversation the night I arrived and it was informative and encouraging to pick their brains on various topics.

Here is an article my friend emailed me last night.  It is worth the read.  About life as a public-school family.  The site is www.sortacrunchy.typepad.com:

*****************************************

On feeling called to public schools

I’ve written this post no less than a dozen times in my head.  I pretend to be perplexed as to why it is so hard for me to share this part of our family’s life with you, but that’s just charade.  I know exactly why it’s hard: I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being criticized and questioned.

But then I read words of wisdom from finslippy (in A few words about fear) and she reminds me:

if no one dislikes you, you’re not doing it right.

So, I’m turning my chin up to the fear and trusting you with this from my heart.

This will not be a

1) criticism of homeschooling (if you are new here, you may not know I’ve run a series of guest posts from homeschoolers.  Click on the “schooling” tag from the category cloud in the sidebar to read more.)

nor a

2) defense of the public school system in the United States of America

Most every family that I know (online or offline) who homeschools will tell anyone who asks that they feel called to educate their children at home.  The reasons for this vary greatly, but most feel utterly confident that this is the best choice for their family.

In a very similar way, we feel called to public schools. I’m going to share a couple of things with you that flesh out that statement, but I want to make clear from the start that sending our girls to public school is simply what we feel led by the Lord to do.  For now.

My sophomore year in high school, in an Honors English II class, we were given the assignment to write our own obituaries.  I doodled around a bit, and then quickly wrote out what I felt was a quite satisfactory homage to my long-lived, much-revered life.  (I was fifteen, after all.)  My friend Kelly sat next to me and worked the whole hour on hers, but grew increasingly agitated.

I just can’t stand thinking about dying.  I’m afraid of dying.  Aren’t you afraid of dying? she asked.

Well, I mean, not really. And that’s when the Holy Spirit stirred within me and compelled me – she of little courage – to stammer out that actually, I wasn’t afraid of dying because I believed when I died that I would spend eternity in heaven because of my faith in Jesus Christ.

Later that afternoon, our minister to students accompanied me to Kelly’s house where she prayed to receive Christ as her Savior.  I went to a different high school in our hometown after my sophomore year, but I know that soon after high school graduation, Kelly got married and she and her husband went on the mission field to spread the gospel abroad.

That was a defining moment in my life.  Who knew one conversation would bring so much yield?

I graduated from college with a degree in English – emphasis on Secondary Education.  I married a man whose degree is also in education.  From our earliest days of student teaching, we saw the dynamic and powerful impact of Christian teachers and Christian students in public schools.

When I taught English for three years in Texas, my heart and faith were encouraged by the amazing and authentic Christian students I had in class.  I can see their faces in my mind as clearly as if it were yesterday, even though it has been six years since I last had a classroom of my own.  A small group of them were given permission to meet on campus in the morning for prayer and a quick devotional time, and they asked to use my classroom for that purpose.

All of this is to say that I passionately believe there is a place for Christian families in the public schools of our communities.

I will say, however, as Dacey’s first day of Pre-K neared, I probably asked Kyle eighty times or more if he still thought we were doing the right thing by choosing public school.  We’ve prayed and listened and prayed and listened and for this moment in time, we still feel strongly that this is how God is leading us a family.  We believe that He has placed us in this community for a time such as this, and that we, as a family, can minister to other families in our community through the common ground of a shared schooling choice.

I feel like I can’t publish this with complete transparency without this one last note: Bear in mind that we live in The Buckle of The Bible Belt.  We sit behind the Superintendent of Schools and his wife (an elementary school counselor) every. single. Sunday in church.  Dacey’s Pre-K teacher is also the Director of Children’s Ministries at our church.  Last month, I was in the front office signing Dacey out early one day, and the door to the principal’s office was open.  I heard him on a personal phone call saying, “I’ve prayed about it and I think . . .” (anddon’ttellanyonethis but at the Pre-K Christmas program, Away in the Manger was worked into the program.  shhhhhhhhhh!)

Does this mean our public schools closely mirror a Christian school?  Oh no.  Not even close.  But we have the luxury of a comfort level there that many, many families do not have.

I say all of this to re-affirm that today I am simply telling you a little more about a topic I’ve managed to avoid for four years.  This is why we choose public schools.

This morning I am leaving town for Birmingham, Alabama.  One of my closest friends and I are having a few days “off”.  She is coming in from St. Louis and I from Atlanta, and Birmingham seems to be a good middle-ground.  Plus, friends of hers are lending us a vacation home, which makes the arrangement free of charge and relaxing.  How nice!

I am leaving these little ones until Saturday:

They, in all their creative, messy and constant expression.  I love them dearly.

This little one whom we had a show-down with last night: Eat your bread-stick and go to bed, or get a spanking and go to bed.  She chose the spanking.  Of course.  She is tough and grit and determination, yet so funny.  I will not miss disciplining her, but I will miss….her.

And this little guy with his Spiderman neck-tatoo.  He decided the night before I left must be a busy night.  I awoke to staring eyes and coughing and that sense of  AHHH, what are you doing 2 inches from my face?  I pray for his wife already- that she would be extra-patient and kind.  My mother’s heart can lovingly lay him back down and rub his back and fix his humidifier and make his ice water and kiss and hug and reassure- at 1am.  But his clutching his throat while he rasps: I’m gonna die.  Make it stop.  This is the worst.…might get a wee bit…old  to a future lady.  Oh, my alpha-male who cannot deal with a head-cold.

And this one.  She makes me vow before I go anywhere that I shall call promptly at bed-time.  And when I do she will generally cry and say that she cannot bear it one more second.  I must hurry home.  And all her drama of the day will spill out.  So, I told her that we would pray over the phone each night, and I will long-distance “tuck her in“.

And my Papoose. 

The little appendage that is always mine.  The one I coo at and talk with all morning while the kids are at school.  And the one who wears me clear out:).  I have created a monster in Will: a co-dependent egomaniac.  One day his wife will call and complain to me “You ruined him.  And now he is mine to deal with for the rest of my life”.  Yes, it is true future-wife.  I cannot deny my soft-spot.  And I am very sorry.

And this one.  He lets me get away from my responsibilities at times, and he does so with such grace.  He makes it easy on my mind and on my conscience.  And he always tries to spend special time with the kids when I am gone, so they have memories with just him.  I’ll miss him too.

(There is a story behind this photo, which is one of a series of shots Pat took.  He grew a beard a while back and then got all itchy and decided he needed to shave.  Well, one night I was laying in bed waiting for him to turn out the light, and I kept hearing low giggling from the bathroom.  I was getting more irritated because my mental ability to cope shuts down at 10pm, and it was like…10:01.  Trouble.  I asked what are you doing?  And there he was, making faces in the mirror and taking his picture.  He would shave a little, take a picture.  Shave until he had chops- take another picture.  Shave until he had a half-mustache.  Take a picture.  So funny he is.  Well, I am not allowed to tamper whatsoever with these photos.  They are very dear to Pat and to his enormous funny bone).

But, simply because a blog should be from the heart and because I seek to be genuine in all things, I am just going to say….

I will not miss this!

And this one