Can't remember the last time I so looked forward to summer

When I was a kid, I remember my dad (well, at least I think it was him) sing-song saying, as summer vacation started, "School's out, school's out, someone's let the fools out!"

He couldn't be more right and I will gladly accept the title of "fool" this year, for what a year it was. As I wrote back in December, I've never felt more unequipped, unqualified and under stress in a job than this past year. 

After December, it didn't really get better either. I am pretty sure I don't like this leadership gig. When we left Africa, I somehow thought cross-cultural ministry in a more western culture would be easier. It isn't. I've never felt more like an outsider than this past year.

But I'm also stubborn, don't like to give up, and most importantly, I don't think God has asked me to move on, at least not yet.

Last Sunday, the sermon focused on Jesus' interaction with the man with leprosy found in Luke 5. 

While He was in one of the cities, behold, there was a man covered with leprosy; and when he saw Jesus, he fell on his face and begged Him, saying, “Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean.” And He reached out with His hand and touched him, saying, “I am willing; be cleansed.” And immediately the leprosy left him.

I've read these verses many times. Hearing them read aloud, in French, I noticed something I had never noticed before. In French, the word, or expression, used by the leper was "make me pure." I immediately thought, "Hmmmmm... interesting... I wonder why he requested purity and not healing?" Same thought could have crossed my mind in English, "Why did the leper ask to be cleaned instead of healed?"

I know all about the image of leprosy representing impurity, or uncleanliness, in the eyes of God. As a result, those sick with the disease were forced to live outside the camp, crying out "Unclean!" any time they were in proximity of others. I don't understand why God chose this image and why those sick with the disease were forced to live with this burden of exclusion and rejection by society and his people. If I am being honest, it is one of those things that has always bothered me and doesn't fit with the image of God I want to be able to tuck in my back pocket and carry around with me.  Since I can't create God in my image, however, I'm stuck wrestling with this incomprehension and tension. So, all of that to say, I do understand the use of the word clean in the leper's request, but...

For those of us reading the biblical text in this day and age, without that same background connotations and with only the knowledge that leprosy is disease, I think the use of the word clean is perfect and perfectly fascinating. 

Back to the leper - he falls on his face and begging, praying, that the Lord would be willing to cleanse him...

I immediately thought of long moments over this past school year, on my face before the Lord, tearfully imploring him to...

• fix things,
• make it all go away or at least go a bit more smoothly,
• show me what I could do to do to fix things,
• send us to a different mission field,
• just let me teach English with business people,
• give me at least a little energy to face another day,
• comfort me with his presence because this season was so, so lonely,
• help me to walk the halls of the school and actually continue doing the job,
• and a million other things essentially along those same lines.

Many of those prayers? Well, he promises he hears them. 

In retrospect, I can see how others he faithfully answered... on repeat. 

They were the prayers like the leper's prayer, even though I never, ever prefaced my prayers as that man did - stating my confident knowledge of his absolute power to grant any request while humbly acknowledging that THAT wouldn't happen... 

...unless God was willing.

Ever wonder what prayers God is willing to answer?

The ones that are prayed according to his will, and not just a "may Thy will be done" in closing. 

It is the prayers that reflect the character of God and his image within me, that bring honor and glory to his name, that permit his truth and light to shine, that point any watching eyes (including my own) in his direction.

Two answers to prayer, directing my eyes and heart to seek refuge in God and God alone, are two songs literally breathing just enough courage into my wary weariness that I can continue another day. They have been earworms (as my kids say), stuck in my head, and I am so thankful.

The first is Lauren Daigle's Thank God I Do. Read the lyrics : 

I've seen love come and

I've seen love walk away

So many questions

Will anybody stay?

It's been a hard year

So many nights in tears

All of the darkness

Trying to fight my fears

Alone, so long alone

I don't know who I'd be if I didn't know You

I'd probably fall off the edge

I don't know where I'd go if You ever let go

So keep me held in Your hands

I've started breathing

The weight is lifted here

With You, it's easy

My head is finally clear

There's nothing missing

When You are by my side

I took the long road

But now I realize

I'm home with You, I'm home

I don't know who I'd be if I didn't know You

I'd probably fall off the edge

I don't know where I'd go if You ever let go

So keep me held in Your hands

You're my safe place

My hideaway

You're my anchor

My saving grace

You're my constant

My steadiness

You're my shelter

My oxygen

I don't know who I'd be if I didn't know You

Thank God, I do

The second song was written by my daughter for a school assignment. She had to compose the music, write the words and put the whole thing together, recording it for her class.  When she played the final version for me on our way in to school the morning it was due, I bawled (I know... not the most conducive for safe driving.).

I don't have her permission to share the recording of her song, but these words:

Home is not a place

It's the people you're with

The place I feel safe

Because you're who I'm with...

Home's never a place

It's who we are

The place we feel safe

Because you're who I'm with.

Her song is the cry of a Third Culture Kid's heart, but it has also been the cry of her cross cultural worker-mama's heart, realizing all over again that the only safe space, the only home, is near to the heart of God because that is who He is. As I work in the garden, fold laundry, or just sit and stare out the window at the river and the sunset, these words run through my head, healing my heart.

Summer, a season for growth and rest, 

an answer to prayer.

Rowdy Ruffians and Tough Tormentors

Sometimes people ask me what I do at École L'Eau-Vive. 

Sometimes, I wonder myself, because I wear several different hats. I imagine if I asked different students, I'd get a variety of different answers.

For instance ~

I'm not a teacher, although I certainly do do lots of teaching. 

I'm not an "orthopedagogue" or learning specialist, although I lead reading workshops and help students who struggle with reading learn specific decoding and comprehension strategies. I also write several intervention plans, or individualized education plans, each year.

I'm far from being a parenting coach, yet students' parents have been known to ask me for advice or suggestions, and not just about homework strategies.

I am a missionary and often have amazing conversations with kids about Jesus, who he is and what he came to earth to do. Working at a Christian school, however, is not a carte-blanche to talk about the Lord. I need to avoid "spiritual blackmail," where kids feel pressured to obey out of fear instead of a changed heart. Fear motivates quickly and effectively, but leaves out an important part of the Gospel - perfect love casts out fear.

When students ask me what I do, I most often say I'm like the police woman or detective for the elementary section. I spend many, many minutes helping children understand the rules and learn how to follow them; in addition, I help teach them about consequences for choosing to respect or not respect those rules.

My favorite...not favorite job (think sorry...not sorry), however, is that of mediator and peace-maker. Someone I respect exceedingly told me that that was what they saw to be one of my primary roles at the school. When wearing this hat, I'm usually dealing with violence, bullying, harassment or some other form of attack that has left at least two, and often more, injured - emotionally, physically, socially and/or spiritually. I say two because every conflict involves at least two, as both aggressors and victims are hurt by these encounters. This is especially true when working with children who are still learning all about social skills and relating to others.

Sometimes, it is easy to forget that last part... the bit about both being victims. Chris Colfer has said "When people hurt you over and over, think of them like sand paper; They may scratch and hurt you a bit, but in the end, you end up polished and they end up useless." In my role, it is important not just to help and support the victim; it is equally important to help the author of said acts understand the impact of what they have done as well as to teach them other ways to respond.

God provided me with an unpleasant lesson this weekend that I hope will help me as I intervene, intercede, mediate and adjudicate in school-related conflicts. While I never condone the actions of a bully, I can actually have a harder time identifying with and understanding those who allow others to walk all over them... 

My recent "lesson" gave me more than just a glimpse of that perspective. 

Friday and Saturday, we had a huge dump of snow. I think the final total snow accumulation was around 40 cm (16 inches), and it was blowing a blizzard for a day and a half. 

Saturday, however, was beautiful and busy. Snowplows and other snow removal vehicles were out in full force, which wreaks havoc with the traffic. Of course, living in Quebec, I quickly learned to appreciate those who do that job, for its better to put up with temporary inconvenience to have improved road conditions. I ran out to take Anna to her horseback riding lesson, and was hurrying back home because I had several things I wanted to get done during the afternoon. I followed another car into the parking lot for our apartment complex only to discover that they'd started plowing the snow and wanted us to clear the parking lot. 

The car before me pulled into a parking place, turned around and pulled out. I started to do the same and the driver of the snow plow started wildly gesticulating, clearly indicating that he did not want me to do that. I motioned, trying to indicate that I simply wanted to turn - around instead of having to back down a small hill, back up the other side and then out into snow plow traffic. He disagreed. 

He lifted the blade up, literally charged directly at my car, slammed the blade down just in front of me, creating a yellow metal wall wider and taller than the hood of our Infiniti. Then he started moving slowly towards me as though he would literally shove me, back end first down... up... and then out into the road. I was shocked and afraid, genuinely fearing he'd plow right into me.  I didn't stand my ground because I just wanted outta there! And so? I backed down the hill, up the hill and threaded my way amongst the other snow removal machines on our road (mildly traumatizing in and of itself). Then I spent the next thirty minutes driving around our large block, my eyes full of tears and castigating myself, all the while "thinking very ungenerous thoughts" about that snow plow driver.

I definitely got a taste of what it feels like to be bullied. Funny thing? I figured once I calmed down, it would just "go away." But it hasn't. I keep replaying it in my mind, getting angry once again at the dude and at myself. I've been much quicker to take offense when others have disagreed with or confronted me about something, even something banal and stupid, ever since. I feel guilty for not standing my ground (my kids were all really surprised that I didn't), even ashamed. My walk didn't measure up to my talk, and my gang has been spot-on in making sure that I know that.

Thankfully, my hubby is going to stand up for me now, even though I wasn't able to do so in the moment. He's going to talk to the administration of our apartment building, denouncing the behavior of that snow plow driver.

If I ever wondered about the importance or the relevance of what I'm doing each day, this weekend proved it to me...

My pain may be the reason for somebody's laugh. 

But my laugh must never be the reason for somebody's pain.     

Charlie Chaplin

Note : African proverbs images from: https://www.pinterest.fr/SimpleThingz25/african-proverbs/

When parenting is agonizing

Two recent conversations have had me thinking a lot about what it means to wear the hat of "Mama." It is, undoubtedly, one of the titles in my life of which I am very proud. But it is also one which often leaves me immensely stressed.

Since Mary Michelle was born 10.5 years ago, we've gone through lots of transitions. We stopped adding to our family and kids have actually started moving away to start their own lives.

[Little side note to our bigs who often read these posts... Daddy and Mama are ready to start adding to the fam again... but its your turn! Significant others and then, Lord willing after that, grand-kids, are welcome. Mama's gotten to hold some really teensy tiny littles recently and she thinks it is lots of fun! She doesn't care if you think this little  «parenthèse entre guillmets » is goofy! And yes, she is referring to herself in the third person.]

Sorry for that interruption! Ok, not really...But back to what I was wanting to say: in between today and Mary's arrival 10 plus years ago, it seems like most of our friends, as well, moved out of that new-baby growing family stage. Recently, however, there's been a stampede of younger friends having babies. 

I went to visit one of those sweet little families the other evening. It was a treat to listen to all that God has done for them, to grieve with them a little those expectations that weren't realized, to excitedly anticipate what God will do in the days, weeks and months ahead, and to remember when Tim and I held our first precious gift in our arms. As parents, we often have the message preached at us, in one way or another, that "the well-being and welfare of children should always be our focus." We are to care for their physical, emotional and spiritual well-being to the very best of our abilities. As new parents, we are confident that we will do anything to do just that.

What those giving such sage counsel forget to mention is how easily those good goals become idols, and how we are often powerless and inept at protecting our children from what comes their way. Ensuring the security of our children, physically, emotionally and spiritually is a certainly a laudable goal and one for which we should aim.

But... 

But that desire needs to be balanced with the reality of life in a broken world, ravaged by the effects of sin and the truth that it is what comes out of us that defiles us, not what is inflicted upon us. Security in this world is an illusion we strive mightily to maintain, and is often an attempt to ignore the sometimes painful sovereignty of God.

I also recently visited with another mother. Her child is older, but is experiencing really hard, unjust and unfair things inextricably linked with the consequences of sinful behavior choices. My heart physically aches for her and her child. For no matter how old our children get (I'm convinced more and more of this fact), parents long to protect them, and will go to extremes to do so. This mother is agonizing over the fact that she can't force the bad to stop, erase the hurt and then move bravely forward leaving the trauma behind.

I tried to remind her: God's hand is sovereign and He controls all that touches the lives of our children. Even when we don't believe we can trust the people and events influencing and shaping our children, we can trust the ultimate artist. God cares for them so much more than we do, He is always present, and it is often in the most difficult that we begin to catch glimpses of the masterpiece He is molding our young people to be...

It is agonizingly hard... and I'm not talking about that theoretically. I've lived it.

While still in Niger, our older children attended a French language primary school. It was not a choice I originally wanted to make - my coup de coeur had always been to home school - but because of many circumstances outside of my control and our missionary budget realities, it was the choice we felt we had to make. And then came the day that one of our daughters came home from school with a lump and a decent cut (and blood stains in her blond hair) on her head. 

It was our 11 year old son who recounted the story. He, in fact, was the one who ran across the courtyard to protect his sister, not a teacher or one of the playground monitors.  Why did this happen to our daughter? Probably because she was a white girl with blond hair and blue eyes and the gal that violently accosted her probably wanted to intimidate her. If I remember correctly, she thought our daughter's long blonde hair was a wig or extensions, and she wanted it for herself. I was traumatized... 

Yet the next day, we had to send her right back into that lion's den, and I couldn't be there to physically protect her. What I really wanted to do was smack a couple of teachers' heads into the wall, first for allowing it to happen and then for not even having the nerve to directly tell us about it when we came to pick her up from school that day.

We, of course, did meet with the teachers and the administration. We spoke with the girl  that had hurt our daughter. We talked about and rehearsed strategies that our daughter could use to prevent a similar event from reoccurring. We put her brother on guard - he knew was to look out for her and to immediately seek adult help if he felt that something was off. It was awkward. Everything in my mother heart told me it was not enough, that the probability of a repeat occurrence was high.

It wasn't enough. Because all of those actions we took? They were what we could arrange on our own, without reliance on God. Ultimately, our security, the security of our children rests in the hands of our sovereign, all-powerful, omnipresent God. 

When I recently asked my daughter about returning to school the next day - if she was afraid, she said that while she clearly remembered the event, she did not remember being afraid. And then she told me why: she remembered the different strategies we gave her, she felt able to execute them, and she remembered that the other girl had been strongly reprimanded by the authorities at the school once they intervened. I think there was one other thing that helped her, even though she didn't mention it. She naturally and easily trusted God, with a child's faith, to work things out and somehow take care of her. 

If I hadn't sent her back to school that next day, she would have missed that opportunity.

Did He stop other bad things from happening to our children while they attended that school? While they lived in Niger? Once they returned to the States? After we moved them yet again, to Canada? 

No. In this life, stuff will happen. 

We won't understand why. 

We will feel powerless. 

We will be angry and overwhelmed by emotions we don't want to experience.

It is what I, as a parent, do with "all of that" - that counts. 

It is what I model for my child that matters. 

Do I use each difficult situation unjust circumstance as an opportunity to let Christ increase while I decrease as the protector, provider and preserver of my kid's well-being?

And today? 

Well, we recently saw that childlike faith and trust demonstrated again, in the midst of events that had her far-away-parents more than just a little worried. We saw her big brother step up to the plate and help look out for her - a skill he'd practiced at least once before, all those years ago. God allowed frustration after frustration in this particular situation, but He also brought His arms, His hands - in the form of His people - to lend a physical hand and care for her. So even while I'd chewed my nails down to the quick... 

God gifted me another opportunity practice trusting Him with some of the ones I count most precious of all.

May I never forget to thank Him for those moments.

Ma chaise berçante... otherwise known as rocking chair "internship"

Tomorrow morning some time, my two older girls are taking off with a friend to visit their younger sister who is attending school in a different state. I'm delighted they are going to check up on their lil' sis. Yet, my mama-heart is exceedingly worried - the weather forecast ain't so great and even though they are all grown up and competent drivers, I know from personal experience how scary it can be to driving through the regions where they'll be driving in nasty winter weather.

It's even scarier as their mother... I literally texted one of them today and asked if we could Skype tonight just so I could be sure and hear their voices again if they died. Fortunately, said daughter kindly understood her mother's freak out...

I remember being a young adult, I remember my mom being worried. I remember having to work really hard (not always successfully) to not be offended by that worry. I had no idea how visceral and real and almost decapitating (as in the panic can sometimes interfere with any semblance of logical or reasonable brain activity) that worry can be... My family and God are pounding yet another parenting truth into my rather hard head.

One of my coping strategies to try and manage this overwhelming - and if I'm blunt, sinful, since it is me trying to micromanage their lives mostly for my own comfort with more than a dash of "their own good" mixed in - panicky concern is nostalgia. The fact that I recently heard a radio program highlighting the benefits, physical and mental, of rocking - for both big and little people - has had me mentally meandering through my rocking chair memories. 

The stories this chair could tell...

My parents gave me this Amish rocker shortly after we announced we were expecting our first child, in other words, back in 1995. I've sat in this chair during every pregnancy, rocked, nursed and sang to every one of my babies in this chair. It traveled to Niger (yes, Africa) in a container and spent several years, creaking and cracking on the back side of the Sahara Desert. I'm sure if I looked closely, I could still find bits of desert orange sand in the joints. Fortunately, it was spared during the great termite infestation that destroyed a couple thousand dollars of home school curriculum, videos and other termite delicacies while stored during a home assignment back in the States.

Then came the great conundrum. We were leaving Niger. We weren't shipping a container home. But I wanted my rocking chair. So I took it apart, carefully packed it into a suitcase, and brought it back to the American side of the Atlantic. Of course, taking it apart was much easier than getting it back together. Even with all the pictures we took. Tim offered to buy me another one. I refused.

I didn't want another one. I wanted THAT one. My rocking chair...

The chair I rocked in when my back was KILLING me during or immediately after each of my pregnancies (Believe it or not, I did not enjoy even though I've spent approximately 75 months, 3236 weeks, or 6.25 years - of my life pregnant. And yes, I was counting.)

The chair where I rocked and breathed and read until I memorized Philippians 4 after waking with panic attacks at 3 am repeatedly... until I experienced physically the "peace of God that guards my heart and mind."

The chair where I cuddled and nursed and deepened that relationship with each little life God's gifted to Tim and me.

The chair where I've read Winnie the Pooh or the Wheel on the School or Ruth to each one, because whether they remember it or not, I do.

The chair that I far too often left neglected in the corner of my bedroom for long stretches because I was too busy to stop and take the time, too concerned with my own dreams, my own plans.

The chair where I've spent uncounted sleepless nights with sickies praying for patience and health yet also appreciating those long moments of quiet with just one child rocking snuggled close in my arms.

The chair strategically placed under the air conditioner where I'd listen, the sweat still rolling down the back of my knees, to Jan Karon's audio books during sieste on a sweltering Niger afternoon.

The chair where I held my neighbor's deathly sick and desperately needing surgery little girl who continually moaned in pain while knowing there was nothing else I could do - just to give her mama a few minutes break.

The chair where I've prayed for bigger kids when they've been far from me and I've been worried about them - their safety or the wisdom of the decisions they were making.

The chair where God, along with my family, has persistently worked to gentle stubborn, hard-headed and selfish me, giving me a long "internship" in choosing joy while putting my desires (and sometimes needs) aside for a few moments to focus on serving another.

Chaise berçante... those words, pronounced in French even sound like the gentle to and fro of my chair as tilts forward and back, that God has used to gentle me. A place so comfortable, so comforting, that moves so gracefully - where I've learned some of the hardest yet most important lessons of my life.

That chair represents more than just the many precious or challenging memories of parenthood. It represents much of my journey with my Savior. I often wonder what that chair would recount... if it could.

Thankfully, a dear gentleman in one of our partnering churches was able to help put my Amish rocker back together. But it is definitely worse for the wear. Today, it sits beside our fireplace, held together by duct tape... 

...as today that "internship" continues. I pray it continues for many years, encore!

PS My girlies made their trip safely and are now hanging out and s'encouraging (yes, that's franglais). I wish I could be there with them.

of alarm clocks and such

My kids have a favorite radio station and they always ask to listen when we are commuting back and forth from school. It isn't a Christian station - the organization Tim works with has an application in with the government and they are just waiting on final approval from the government... I think - and so sometimes we turn the volume down for a song or conversation (and then discuss why we needed to turn it down). For the most part, however, the station tends to be family-friendly, is great French practice and is often downright hilarious, especially when the radio hosts begin to share interesting tidbits they've run across in the news, on the internet, etc.

Such was the case yesterday afternoon on the way home from school.

Apparently, a study has been done about the most effective way to get kids out of bed in the morning. 

As a mom of more-than-a-couple-still-remaining-at-home and even with the heavy traffic through construction zones, I instantly tuned in to the conversation. For, as most mamas know, especially those who have teens, sometimes you literally have to grab that young'un by the leg and physically drag them out from under the covers for even a groaning/moaning response. This week, I became a 23 year veteran of this parenting gig, yet I don't have this one near figured out. So, I was all ears to learn what the researchers had discovered. 

One conclusion was that, especially for kids and teens, alarm clocks are simply not effective. Younger bodies sleep longer and usually much deeper than the old folks with whom they rub shoulders. It is documented that children and youth often (if not usually) sleep through alarm clocks, fire alarms, emergency sirens, tornadoes... Hence sometimes, one of our basement dwelling teens' alarms will wake me, all the way up on the 2nd floor, before it ever causes them to stir. 

Yes - I write truth - even if they later deny it.

I also know for a fact that every single one of my kids is delighted when I wake them up by quietly entering their room leaving the light off, sit on the side of the bed (or snuggle right down under the covers with them), stroke their hair, scratch their back, and whisper softly next to their ear. The researchers found that this method was not only more pleasant for the child, but that youth are awake, literally with in seconds, when awoken gently. Compare that to the minutes, on average, required to drag a child from sleep when an obnoxious, obtrusive and very loud noise began to sound. It's also important to include that the gentle, rapid awakening resulted in happier, more compliant little people in the morning as well.

Also interesting? A female's voice - a mother's voice - was the voice that was effective. Dad whispering just didn't have the same impact.

Interesting eh?

As I've been mulling this over, I was also struck by just how God often uses that same, gentle approach when waking us from spiritual sleep. 

Sometimes, it feels like I am slapped in the face with truth or a need to change. But more often, it is the gentle whispering of the Spirit when I feel wrapped in the love of godly, encouraging friends, a surprising comment from one of my kids hidden in the humor of our family life, a passage of Scripture that replays over and over in one of the songs we listen to almost every day, a simple word that repeatedly comes up in all of the above and other situations that reminds me to return to God's truth and His way.

This shouldn't surprise me. After all, the Word teaches that all the flashy, amazing and brazen have little effect if not also smothered with tenderness and love: 

"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing. Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails..."

Love never fails. I don't think that means love is like a fairy godmother's magic wand... I never realized until just recently that I've always treated those words like that, thinking, "Just gotta love enough and things will somehow work out." Rather, I've now come to think it means that love just keeps on keeping on and keep on and keeping on. Regardless. Regardless of the result or lack of result.

And, I'm challenged once again, even though I always fall short, to love like that.

I can be okay with falling short because where I am weak, He is strong. I can also rest in the other verse that came to mind as I reflected on that alarm clock study: "Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; Like a weaned child rests against his mother, My soul is like a weaned child within me... my hope is in the Lord, forevermore." (Psalm 131)

photo credit: WORLDTHROUGH1EYE Monday Mornings via photopin (license)

Five Minute Friday (from a week ago) ~ Should

I'm a perfectionist.

And I don't usually have a problem meeting expectations, or achieving what is considered "acceptable."

Efficient, usually energetic, hard-working, perseverant - 

But I rarely measure up to my own standards. 

You know ~ the ones I set for myself, and work so hard to try and attain (sometimes driving my family crazy in the process). And yet... almost always and even after all that effort, I fall short. 

I can come up with a dozen or more shoulda, coulda, wouldas: "If I'd just ______________..." Then, just for good measure, I'll tack on a few coulda, shoulda wouldas because I can always think of a million possibilities given the 20/20 vision of hindsight: what I should have or could have done differently that would have, ideally, produced an "on-target" result or, at the very least, one more in line with what I'd been aiming for.

To add insult to injury, at this point, I usually start to mentally beat myself up - not only because of my failure to achieve my goal, but also because of the resulting internal drama that results from this perfectionism.

According to Psychology Today, perfectionism is "...life [as] an endless report card on accomplishments or looks. It's a fast and enduring track to unhappiness, and ...is often accompanied by depression and eating disorders. What makes perfectionism so toxic is that while those in its grip desire success, they are most focused on avoiding failure, so theirs is a negative orientation. And love isn't a refuge; in fact, it feels way too conditional on performance. Perfection, of course, is an abstraction, an impossibility in reality, and often it leads to procrastination. There is a difference between striving for excellence and demanding perfection."

As I used to say growing up, "It ain't good." 

But ~

 God is using it as a chisel in my life.

I'm in the midst of one of those shoulda, coulda, woulda mental battles right now - one where I didn't accomplish what I'd wanted or expected of myself and for which I'd worked long and hard. I had striven for more than just excellence. I only achieved pretty good. I certainly didn't attain the perfection I was demanding of myself.

God's chiseling away at my self-sufficiency and self-idolatry and the antibiblical underlying worldview to which my perfectionism attests: that somewhere, deep down inside, I still believe that me, myself and I can figure out how to be more than good enough. 

It's a worldview that denies the power of the Gospel, suffocates grace, smothers mercy and stamps out hope.

And I know I want no part of it. 

For I know the One Who already DID. And He ain't little.

He is the heart of the Gospel, the author of grace, the impetus of mercy and the harbinger of hope.

-----------------------------------------------

(No, this isn't really a five minute write... but it is something that has been tumbling around inside over the past few weeks. Now, it's finally tumbled out as I think with my fingers.)

Last time for THAT moment with the last one of my gang

I love teaching. 

I'm passionate about teaching middle school. Fourth through seventh or eighth grade - some days you get the elementary school student, some days you get the high school student but on most days you get the student who's wandering back and forth between those two and totally clueless.

And I love it.

I do enjoy teaching younger children, but not with the same passion... unless you want to talk about teaching little ones to read. 

Or, teaching anyone of any age to read. 

One of the most memorable moments of my life was when, after working with a 60+ year old Zarma woman in Niger for over two years, she haltingly read a primer version of the story of Ruth from the Bible. As she struggled through the words, all of sudden all of the syllables and sounds came together and made sense. She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears of wonder and she emotionally said, "I know this story. It's from the Bible. It is the story of Ruth and Boaz. I'm finally, for the first time ever, reading God's Word for myself. It isn't a pastor or teacher or man reading it to me." I cried, too.

I've been so privileged to work with each one of my children as they've learned to read - either teaching them before they started day school or working with them in the language  they weren't using at school. For most of them, that has been reading in English. For a few, it has been reading in French.

There are so many moments. 

That moment when the code is finally deciphered and the learner realizes that those scribbles on the paper actually translate to sounds they use all of the time when speaking - and mean something.

That moment when reading transitions from struggling and halting and hesitant to fluent.

That moment when the words turn to real colors and smells and tastes and sounds and sensations, both palpable and emotional.

That moment when it is no longer simply reading aloud someone else's words, but interpreting them -and making it personal - to develop them into the story the reader wants his or her listener/s to hear.

That moment when God's story, as revealed in His Word, suddenly transforms from two dimensional to three and finally four or more dimensions, whe the reader is able to have his or her mind blown by His incredible-ness, His so-different-from-mere-man-ness, His powerful-ness, His bigness, His loveliness...

Mary Michelle experienced that last moment, for the first time, tonight. 

She was reading from the Jesus Storybook Bible. I just love its subtitle - every story whispers His name - but I digress. 

She read the following words: 

In the beginning, there was nothing. 

Nothing to hear. Nothing to feel. Nothing to see. 

Only emptiness. And darkness. And... nothing but nothing. 

But God was there. And God had a wonderful Plan.  

"I'll take this emptiness," God said, "and I'll fill it up! Out of the darkness, I'm going to make light! And out of nothing, I'm going to make...EVERYTHING!"  

Like a mommy bird flutters her wings over her eggs to help her babies hatch, God hovered over the deep, silent darkness. He was making life happen.  

God spoke. That's all. And whatever He said, it happened." (p. 18)

As she was reading aloud to me, I noticed that somewhere along the line, she's picked up a tiny touch of a southern accent (like me) - the only one of my gang, apparently, who has. Every single time she read the word "nothing," it sounded more like "nuthin' " This tiny twang showed up in every single -ing word. This fact makes me smile!

But back to the point. She read the above words, gradually slowing, and finally she paused. I thought it was because she was looking at the illustration or waiting for me to turn the page. Maybe. 

I was wrong she turned to me, and in that moment, the total awe on her face was priceless.  

She said softly, her voice trembling a little bit, "Mama, if God didn't have the idea to make people, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have you. That would be really sad," as her little hand reached up to cup my face and pull me closer to nuzzle.

I responded, "Hey, if He hadn't made people, you wouldn't be here either."

She startled, then giggled, "I guess that's right...." and her voice trailed off. I stayed silent because it was obvious she was thinking.

"I guess that means He didn't just make the world and the universe and all that stuff out there. He also made words and ideas so that could tell us about Him. Oh Mama! I'm so glad God made words and that He put the words in a book so I could learn about Him. And tell you I love you. And it's even okay that He made French words, too."

That moment! Witnessing His Spirit work in the lives of one of my children? It ranks right up there with the very best of all experiences, ever!

Will she remember the details of this conversation in a few days? I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that, in that moment, God just became exponentially "amaizin'-er," in her eyes. In my eyes, too. At the same time, her view of Mama decreased. I'm so glad that process is starting to happen.

In any case, there's no doubt whether or not I'll remember these details of that moment. I want to. I need to. 

That's part of the reason I put them down here. 

For posterity.

When Parenting Gives You Whiplash + ...

Last night, I was at a basketball game for my ten year old. 

In between cheers of encouragement and full belly laughs at her team of just-shy-of-tween-age girls who are all limbs and uncontrolled speed with awkward (at best) coordination, I was also busy texting away with my almost 18 year old. That daughter - who moved back to the States last summer - was working on one of her college applications for next fall. She was rapid-firing me screen shots (which I had to enlarge and scroll all around just to be able to read on my phone), asking me what different abbreviations referred to, what certain questions meant, generally seeking advice and counsel as she negotiated her way through the on line application.

Two very-different-but-not-really-because-they-are-all-my-kids worlds colliding: the fun, noise and movement of an elementary school basketball game with the seriousness, potentially future-life-impacting decisions of young adulthood and the completion of college application forms. 

My head was, almost literally, spinning.

This is one of those things that I couldn't fathom way back when - a young mother of several littles. Those all consuming, all absorbing days of diapers, late night feedings, steamy showers to alleviate croup and congestion, car seat battles, potty training, moms & tots groups and mountains of laundry that rarely got folded and put away before being worn again. 

I could have never foreseen such craziness, even when frazzled by the scurrying of school mornings and making then packing lunch for eight or nine bodies leaving the house by 8:00 a.m. - at the latest, the wild switch between drilling second grade spelling words, kindergarten writing practice... both while deciphering physics and striving to remember how to use a scientific calendar... only to be interrupted by a seventh grader learning to use a Chromebook followed by ninth grader trying to write a poem for English class. Oh yeah... dinner was prepared and a prayer letter written while all of that other stuff was taking place.

Now we've entered that parenting season where biggers are far from us and busy with lives they are building independent of their parents... but who, in many ways, still need (and thankfully, still desire) coaching from Dad and Mama as they learn to navigate all of those new-to-them real-life-with-real-life-results-and-consequences types of situations. When overwhelmed and confused, they text Mama, hoping she can somehow figure out what they need to do. When tired and needing encouragement, they call Dad, hoping his voice (and a few words of wisdom) will breathe courage and gumption back into them - and just maybe tell them what to do so they don't have to figure it all out all by themselves.

We currently have three at least knee (or waist... chest... neck... depending on day and/or circumstance) deep in a swamp called Discovery that Adulting is Liberating, New, Fun and Exciting... but Sometimes Scary... and Almost Always Lots of Hard Work and Responsibility! 

Our young adults are on a steep learning curve - but, "Oy!" 

So am I.

For when I get those texts from distant ones who are removed from my right here right now reality of elementary homework (almost all in French), high school homework (again, almost all in French), carpools, basketball games and schedules, malfunctioning saxophones, school Christmas programs as well as all the regular daily - dinner, laundry, picking up around the house, keeping up with mission correspondance,... I'm learning how to multitask in a totally new way. For I try to give my biggers the coaching they need, encouraging, giving factual information, asking questions that get them to think... but I can't just grab a pencil and work out a sample college application the same way I just walked then talked our 4th grade Elsie Mae through adding signed numbers - until she was ready to practice all on her own. I can't write a college essay, apply for a job, talk to the financial office and figure out a payment plan for school bills. I can't just default to telling them what I think they should do because I'm discombobulated by straddling the chasm between these two parenting worlds... These bigs have to make their own plans and decisions and then follow through (or not) and get the results (or consequences) that are a part of their choices.

It IS agonizing as a parent - to want to tell them what I think they should do (after all, experience has taught me a few things here and there) and know that that's exactly what I shouldn't do. Instead, I need to coach and encourage and comfort as they live their own lives and choices, listening and listening and listening - occasionally reflecting back what I hear or asking probing questions - but no longer pushing... no longer leading... 

Instead, I'm coming alongside as they join me in this adulting adventure.

That's all fine and dandy - I get it.

What makes it crazy is that at the same time, we still have the bigs and littlers at home - who have very different parenting needs. And I need to be very present, not distracted by the text of the moment - which can be hard. After all, an elementary basketball game doesn't seem to have as much long term life impact as decisions about which college to attend.

That switch from parenting-by-text to basketball mama? 

It = whiplash + wind knocked out of you + exhaustion 

(bigs text at the most unreasonable hours, by the way) 

Most days, I don't know 

• whether to cry from loneliness for my hearts that are walking around many miles distant - I miss those awesome young adults, a lot...
• whether to celebrate all of the great steps I get to hear about (and occasionally see) as they trudge through the adulting swamp...
• whether to panic that a car is in the ditch or someone is deathly sick because I haven't had a text or Facebook message in the past 36 hours - and send out the Calvary to check, just in case...
• whether to just bask in the enjoyment of learning to be not just parent but friend...
• or whether to take a 25 minute power nap and slather Icy Hot on my neck so I'm ready for the next wild texting session in the middle of a basketball game!

On the other hand, every single day, I DO know

that I wouldn't trade this life I've been gifted by God.