Our Family: Crawfish Burials & Mexican Fiestas

 

Meet my family.  

This is the nine of us at our completely-impromptu Sunday best, with my mother asking me "Did you bring your camera" after I'm already at her house and "Do you know how to work the auto timer?" when the instruction book is somewhere at home, its spine still uncracked.(Thankfully, I'm not opposed to pushing every button with those indecipherable symbols to figure it out).

This is us--slightly neurotic, definitely exhausted, a good bit high strung, and always flexible.  We fly by the seat of our never-need-pressing dresses and our just-put-your-coat-on-and-nobody-will-notice shirts.

Still, it still seems strange to see so many smiles in one shutter click.  

We began as only four--my mother and daddy, brother, and me. Thirteen years later, even the dining table and its eight chairs that I bought because I wanted it to be big enough really isn't.  Each time the nine of us gather for a meal, we have to drag in an extra chair from some other room of the house.  And when our extended family and friends partake with us, out come the piano bench, the rolling office chair, and whatever other seating options we can cobble together. 

My brother and sister by marriage are the ones on the far right--blue polo shirt and royal purple dress.  Johnathan is the Navy chaplain and Liza works with CASA.  Both just recently left Washington D.C. and moved to North Carolina, one of those routine government-change-of-assignments that will take them (and us) all across the nation and around the globe. 

In the midst of the once-every-three-or-four-years-move, they left the chaos of unpacked boxes and well-wrapped china to come for a quick visit.   

As you might expect, our daily lives simply stopped.  Last weekend was a whirlwind love fest, Louisiana style, of course.  

There was a valiant attempt to make a homemade hummingbird cake for mother's birthday, two chances to worship together at both our churches, a Cinco de Mayo fajita fiesta, and a crawfish boil (along with several crawfish shell "burials" around GrandMama's yard, courtesy of my powdered-sugar-war-painted daughter).

Then, there was the ever-coveted time playing with the world's best Uncle Johnathan.  Nobody can elicit giggles, race on bicycles, or play ball better than my brother.  Nobody.

Each time Johnathan and Liza leave to return back to their home, I believe there’s no more that could have possibly been crammed into their visit.  Yet, at the next gathering, we seem to outdo ourselves again.  And each time they are no longer with us in the body, all I can say is, “One day, there will be no more goodbyes.” No more.

Oh, how I long for that one day.

The Importance of Daddies at Day's End

As late afternoon winds find rest, the cloud of dusty flecks disappears from those last lingering rays of auburn sunlight hesitating over the treeline.  Early summer mosquitoes begin to buzz aloud, seeking a sweaty heat source while day's birdsong suddenly goes silent.

My oldest son, Wyatt, and I linger long near the swamp's edge to scoop up more tadpoles, maybe even catch one of the elusive, tiny frogs filling the surface under cover of night with bubbly, algae-colored eggs. 

Soon will come the slim green frogs and transparent geckos lining the walls of our house, all in search of moths ever-hovering near the porch lights.  Against a backdrop of rubbing cricket legs will come the squeaks of flying squirrels, the eerie hooting of owls on their tin-can phones, calling and answering from both sides of our house. 

In the midst of all this normal winding down at day's end with my family, husband noisily plows up the back yard plot of land he bombed with poison just two weeks ago.   Rain is coming tomorrow, the perfect time to break open the earth and scatter purple grass seed on bare earth.

While "poison" might seem a bit extreme, it's not...well, not if you live on a hay farm where the field is literally fifty feet from the front door.  For some reason, the Alicia Bermuda hay does not respect the invisible line between mine and theirs.  They don't even pretend to.  Instead, their runners sashay over into my yard, almost flaunting their transgression and daring me to do something about it.

Ceding the land back to the field isn't really an option, though, because the hay's open-sod nature allows too many weeds to take root.  The end result is a winter yard that is more weed than hay.  That's wonderful if you're Amelia and adore anything that can possibly be considered a "flower" but not so wonderful if you'd really like a real lawn some day.

And so, husband plows and rakes and then plants by hand.  It's not long before four little feet join in the "fun," two of which soon find freedom to squish bare in cool dirt.

Although it would go faster without their "help" and even though their assistance will put him finishing the task by headlights after dark, husband patiently bows his six foot frame to give the twins each a turn cranking the handle on the spreader.

Amelia and Emerson walk behind him, following in daddy's footprints, then run off in search of bright purple dots to cover with dirt, a task which grow harder with each dimming minute. 

Mother's Day is just three short days away and I know some men are going to be scrambling to find that perfect gift for the mothers of their children.  I like tangible "I love you" gifts as much as the next woman, but when everything is said and done, very little makes this mother happier than seeing her children spending time with their daddy.   This gift of time will last longer and have a more far-reaching impact than anything you can buy in a store.

There's just something about that lingering of a father and child at the close of each day that brings me peace and comfort, a heart warmth that says no matter how chaotic and uncontrollable life may be around me, here in this moment, at least, all is well.

Cause and Effect: Are We All Bound Together?

The concept that my life is bound to your choices doesn't strike me as that far fetched.  How else do you explain my grocery bill each week.  I certainly don't purchase any more food than I did a year ago.  If anything, I purchase less.  Still, with OPEC driving up the price of oil, drought in the mid West, an unseasonably cold Spring up north, and inflation affecting everything from toilet paper to crayons, it just makes logical sense to believe that not only am I effected by my environment but also that my choices affect you and your choices affect me.

Several years ago, a movie The Butterfly Effect espoused much the same view wherein small, seemingly inconsequential choices ultimately have seemingly unrelated (and sometimes catastrophic) results down the road.

In Chris Brauns' newest novel Bound Together: How We are Tied to Others in Good and Bad Choices, he makes a similar argument.  Brauns' first two chapters are interminably tedious as he approaches his premise from the hypothesis that most people don't truly believe in what he refers to as the "principle of the rope," that we are inextricably bound to each other in good and bad.

Yet, once he feels the reader is convinced she is "roped" to others' choices, Brauns' narrative improves significantly as  he explains how this principle plays out in the doctrine of original sin, wherein all mankind is "roped" to Adam's bad choice.  Despite being "roped" to sin, mankind has a choice to burn that rope and join himself by a stronger rope to Jesus Christ.

Here's the rub, though: to be bound to Christ, one must be bound to the gospel of Christ, which requires that one first know the true gospel, the Word of God.  Additionally, to be bound to Christ, one must be bound to each other in Christ in a local New Testament Church.  As Brauns says of this need for Christian community,

"God's plan is not to change us as individuals; the principle of the rope means that our union to Christ also unites us to others who are connected to him in faith.  As a result of our union, we are mortared into Christian community.  The principle of the rope means that God will use the relationships we have with others in the body of Christ to change and transform our lives.  God will use our new connections to confront our sinful habits, remind us of truth, and bring healing and victory to our lives. But this can only happen if we are roped into Christian community and involved in a Christ-centered local church" (p. 87).

Brauns concludes in his last chapter (which is, by far, the best writing in the entire book) with a call to avoid the trap of radical individualism, warning:  "If we Westerners continue to see ourselves as islands, the future will be very dark. Cultures and countries cannot flourish apart from a deep recognition of solidarity that only Christ and his church can make happen" (p. 163).

The interesting thing is that this principle is important not just for Christians.  Anyone's life can benefit from understanding how his actions affect others and how others' actions affect him.  Yet, if a person is to reach the fullest plan God has for him in this life, s/he will only be as effective as possible when linked together through the gospel of Christ within a Christian community.

Chapters 4, 5, and 10 are the best in terms of content, but in all honesty, Chapters 6 - 9 were exhausting to read.  These chapters do a good job of applying the principle of the rope by using Scripture to explain how one's joy, marriage, family, and even fear of death are better understood in light of one's belief that everyone's decisions affect another.  Still, they are what I'll call "plodding" chapters, which I had to slog through.

While this is not likely a book that will radically change your life, Brauns' thesis is valid and his warnings about the dangers of radical individualism along with the strong need for Christian community are extremely important in our present culture.

Speaking "Alternate English"

We Bought a Zoo.  It had been advertised as a family friendly movie, albeit one the critics weren't exactly thrilled with.  That was fine with us.  In the past few years, "award-winning artistic masterpiece well-loved by the critics" has come to mean insanely weird, difficult to follow plot, or pushing some politically-charged agenda. 

Besides, fine art has become less than important since three young children came on the scene.  Or maybe it's just that I'm older and tired from the busyness of life so that when I have the chance, I want my movies to be entertaining, not draining.  I want to see on screen the way life should be, not the way life is.  I want the bad guy to get his comeuppance and right to always win.  I want justice to prevail, sin to have very real consequences, and for those consequences to be immediate, not in the after life.  Oh, and I want the happy ending.  Always.

Yes.  I want the fairy tale.

Don't get me wrong.  I love historical fiction.  I believe in the importance of reliving horrific events from our world's history.  They remind us to avoid those mistakes in the future.  They demonstrate just how sinful man is at his core and how low he can sink when given the rope to carry out those innate, twisted desires.

But as a general rule, "family-friendly" movies have become of utmost importance to me as a parent.   What's more, the closer I grow to God, the less I want to fill my own mind with what I refer to as "smut."

As you might imagine, I usually wait for movies to hit television before I DVR them.  By that time, most of the language has been chopped, even if the verbally polite audio doesn't match the moving lips, and inappropriate commercials can easily be zoomed past.

We Bought a Zoo, though, was a $5 after-Thanksgiving-sale purchase.  And it was PG.  Perhaps that's my problem. When I think PG, I remember when the producers of E.T. wanted a PG versus a G rating to draw in an older audience, so they added a single irrelevant curse word to the script.  My how PG has changed.

Husband and I previewed the movie one date night, me squirming uncomfortably with each curse word and completely out-of-place sexual innuendo made to Matt Damon, who was playing the part of an obviously grieving widower. 

Family friendly?  Not for my family.  All I could think was "My children will never be able to watch this!"

A few weeks later, I picked up the DVD case and just happened to glance at the back cover where I read "Includes English Family-Friendly  Audio Track (Alternate Audio)."

Intrigued, I popped in the DVD and went to the main menu.  Beneath "Play" and "Scene Selection" was "Language."  I clicked, and the different language options were the expected ones: English, Español, and Closed Captioning for the Hearing Impaired.  But then, there was a fourth option: English Family-Friendly (Alternate Audio).

By changing the language of the video, I could watch a cursing-free version of the film.

At first, it was amusing.  I was and am honestly thankful the company gave me the made-for-TV audio.  Yet, the label has troubled me ever since.

According to Hollywood, my household speaks a different language than the bulk of society.  We don't speak English.  We speak alternate English.

Alternate English.

When did a clean mouth free of curse words become alternate versus mainstream? When did a cursing-free household become marginalized as so different as to be the odd-man-out?

It's a sad commentary on where our society has gone, where it's headed, and why Christians need to take a stand in their own homes.  If the 78.4% of Americans who claim to be Christians would ask God to help them bridle their tongues and speak like Godly men and women, well, you get the point.

Scripture tells us out of the mouth can't come both blessing and cursing.  In other words, our hearts can't speak two languages.

Our children must see us as parents and Christian mentors practicing this "alternate English" in our homes.  Otherwise, they will never be able to bridle their own tongues, will never master this strange language, which grows stranger by the hour.

Even Grown Ups Need Encouragement

We are all pretty good at putting on our game faces, at wearing masks that conceal what we don't wish to share.  The moment our pressed clothes and polished shoes cross the threshold, we muster up a day full of smiles and friendliness meant to erase any hint of the turmoil going on inside our souls.

But behind that smile that we wear for our friends, our families, our church families, and even strangers, sometimes it's difficult to just breathe.  The emotional burden inexplicably becomes a physical weight that can almost be felt pressing down, in, around, compressing the heart, head, lungs...suffocating.

I've heard pastors tell congregations to just give the burden to God, and they'll instantly feel the weight lifted.  Many times, that works.  Yet, then there are those instances when God, Himself, burdens our hearts for an individual.  He intentionally places the burden on us.

This past weekend was one of those times for me.

I tried my best to give three individuals' different situations completely back to Him because honestly?  Even though it doesn't sound very Christian-like, I didn't want to be burdened for them.  I'm in the midst of grading final projects and final exams.  The last thing I wanted was so much drama during my busiest time of the school year.  What's more, I didn't want to feel this much for someone who wasn't my own blood. It hurts to feel another's pain.

But God didn't lift the weight.  Instead, He made my heart literally ache for what several of my sisters in Christ are going through at this season of their lives.  For days, he made that burden all consuming, filling my thoughts throughout the day with prayers heavenward for that person to find His peace, comfort, confidence, strength, or discernment.

I have learned from past experience that this is how His Spirit works in me, reminding me to pray for others when my daily schedule might keep me from remembering.  In time, He eases the weight, but until He does, He is calling me to pray and sometimes, to encourage those persons through my words and deeds.

Scripture says, "And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, ²⁵ not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching" (Heb. 10:24-25).

Encouragement is something we all want but don't always give.

Perhaps we don't want to pry or get up in someone else's business.  Maybe we're even a little afraid of what other burden we'll be laden with if we do express our concern or seek to encourage another.

But think of how good it feels when someone stops you just to say they are praying for you.  Think of that phone call or short note you received, out of the blue, just to encourage you.

I have one of those cards tacked on my office bulletin board.  Every time it catches my eye and I reread its words, my heart swells warm again and again.

Those words of encouragement, though?  They're few and far between.  It's too easy to tear down.  It comes too naturally.  Think about it.  Do you call a company when they have a great product? Or only when you have a complaint?

It's discouraging when all you ever hear are negatives.  My days are filled with college students and very young children, both of whom drag me down daily with a litany of complaints concerning what they think I'm not doing right.  In this click and send generation, too many of my students are quite adept at vocalizing every grievance before walking away to take a breath and think about their words or tone.  It's extremely rare to get a 'thank you.'

Perhaps it sounds whiny, but I have those days when I long for someone to step up and say something nice to me, to speak a word of encouragement over me during a trial, to tell me YES, I am doing something right, that I am doing a good job with whatever, or that they're praying for me.

Because I understand this need in myself, I try to meet it for my children by constantly speaking words of encouragement over them.  Each night, I write my oldest son Wyatt a letter to read at morning breakfast, just something simple to brighten his day, to encourage him.  Each morning after daddy takes him to school, I awaken to the phonetically-spelled reply of my kindergartner. This morning's missive was a list of what I could do to "exercise" my body and mind.  Then, at the bottom were the simple words, "thank you encourage me."

Those simple words of thanks for me as a mother brightened my entire morning and stayed with me throughout the chaos of a too-full day.

This is who we all need to strive to be--a people who encourage, who build up. Because, truly, how much does it really cost us to open our mouths to encourage another or to take five minutes and write a short note?

Navigating the Fickle Friendships of Children

It doesn't matter whether you're six or sixty.  Any time a person tethers his heart to another's and that cord is cut, the free fall from the emotional mountaintop is inevitable.  If you're are one of the unlucky family or friends standing below when the heartbroken crash through the cloud bank and fall back to earth, you'll likely be nursing a few heart bruises, yourself.

Heartbreak can mask itself in the cloak of anger, grumpiness, and even defiance.  But underneath these gruff symptoms lies a tender wound, a hurt not even a mother can heal with all the love she longs to rain down on her children.

I should know.  Our farm was transformed into Heartbreak Hotel last Friday and well into this week.  I had seen it coming, but even a good meteorologist can't stop a Gulf Coast hurricane from coming ashore.  He can only warn of its imminent approach.  Still, there are always going to be those who refuse to hear his words of wisdom and choose, instead, to stand on shore as the winds whip violently, sometimes lifting them from the very foundation they stand upon.

My six year old, Wyatt, knows he's not allowed to have a girlfriend until he's much older.  We call them "friend girls."  But no matter what name we gave the object of his affection, that didn't stop his heart from seeking another girl's approval and love.

He first told me about her a few months ago as we walked hand in hand together from the afternoon school bus.  Crunching through the still-frozen earth of our hayfield to our home, he suddenly asked, "Do you want to know how we fell in love?"

Like most relationships, it revolved around food, this time an individual-sized bag of shared M&Ms.  I couldn't help but smile when he didn't know her name.  The more I asked, the more I realized he really knew nothing about her.  In his mind, "love" meant friendship.

He just wanted a friend, even if it were a girl.

Over the next months of afternoon recess, he did learn her name, regaled us all with stories of her new glasses that kept her from "running into a wall" again, thought nothing of holding her hand when she wanted to walk on the balance beam, and gave her a wallet sized photo of our family.

Then came the long evening of tears when my little man turned little boy once more, his head bent low in my lap as he poured out an ocean of brokenness over the loss. 

All I wanted to do was heal his heart and give him back the naturally open, trusting happiness only found in children.  I tried introducing a new word into his vocabulary--"fickle"--to describe girls, used the "when they mistreat you, that means they really do like you" logic, explained that girls his age usually only play with other girls, and ended with the promise that he had a huge family who loved him more than most children.

Nothing this mother said made it any better.

Surrounded by a pack of other girls, his friend-girl had spoken the worst phrase in the English language: "I don't want to be your friend anymore.  Go away!"

And so, I did the only thing I could do.  While rocking my oldest in my lap, I prayed aloud over him.

The first few days back at school were lonely, but I kept encouraging him to find a new friend, to ask someone to explain the rules of one of those games he didn't understand.  We talked about only needing "twenty seconds of courage"

One week later, the little girl's name is no longer a part of household conversation.  My son's grouchy attitude has given way to his usual jolly bounciness.  And what's more, he played a new game with another friend today, even though he didn't quite understand the rules.

Wyatt knows I don't always like him, but I will always love him.  I still say those words on a daily basis, still put them in writing for him to read each morning at breakfast.  Perhaps that's why my love is less sought after--because he knows it will always be there.  It is safe, unconditional, and never ceasing.

This isn't his first heartbreak caused by the fickle friendships of children, and it won't be his last.  It's one of the hardest parts of growing up.  What am I saying--it's one of the hardest parts of living, even as an adult, this putting your heart out there and having to reel it back in, sometimes in pieces.

Yet, somehow, learning what true love isn't, what true friendship isn't--this is the only way to learn what actually is.  This is the only way to appreciate the true love and friendships we might otherwise take for granted.

Christians & The Home / Public School Battle

This space typically steers clear of politically polarizing issues, but as a parent who is currently both homeschooling my K4 twins and public schooling my K5 son this year, I have to hear both sides of the great divide.  Neither side is okay with the other.  Both sides espouse only the evils of the other.

I have to hear it all.  And it hurts my heart to the point I want to stand up and shout, "Stop It!!!"
 
That snarky little cartoon you posted on Facebook poking fun at home schoolers as being both ignorant and socially inept?  The hilarious picture you linked to where two little African children comment on how horrible American public education is because the children are forced to sit perfectly still all day long?

It's not funny.  Instead, it's divisive.

Sarcasm is anger's second cousin; it is a passive-aggressive way of saying, "I'm a better mom because I'm educating my child this way."

The problem, though, is not divisiveness in the political area. It's a much deeper division that pierces the very soul.  This war over the choice between public schooling and home schooling is pitting Christian against Christian, dividing brothers and sisters in Christ.

One child even asked his mother how I could send my oldest son to public school if I had really prayed to God about it.  The assumption was that I was a bad mother and a bad Christian for not homeschooling, that I was more spiritual if I kept my son home with me (and that he'd be more spiritual, too, by extension).  In another conversation, a friend made the assumption my twins' shyness was caused because I home schooled them and would lead them to become social lepers.  This time, I wasn't a bad Christian but was still a bad mother.

I am not merely a mother, though.  I am also an educator. 

Over the past fourteen years, I have taught your home schooled teens, your public schooled teens.  I have even taught those private schooled teenagers whose tuition cost more than I make in a year.

In the end?  I can't tell a difference among them. 

As a whole, I can't stereotype a home schooled student as being "closer to God" any more than I can stereotype him as "lacking significant social skills." Likewise, I can't stereotype a public schooled student as being a "standardized test robot lacking out-of-the-box critical thinking skills" nor can I stereotype him as being "less moral."

In composition courses where students reveal more of themselves in their writing than they would in a history or math class where facts and figures are more important than personal ideas, I get the privilege of learning who my students are as individuals. Yes, even on the college level, I know them...sometimes too personally.

I listen to their in-class discussions, read their heart-driven essays, have one-on-one office consultations.  By the semester's end, I know most of their histories, their current situations, their moral convictions, their religious beliefs, their political leanings, their dreams, their greatest hurts, loves, and failures.

Yet throughout it all, I can't really tell a blanket difference between the student who was educated in his kitchen or in a traditional classroom.   I'm equally as likely to have a conversation about God with either group.  (I'm also equally as likely to have my socks blown off by both group's immorality.)

Being a good mother? Being a good Christian?

It has nothing to do with whether you home school or public school.  It has to do with you obeying God's calling for your life, whatever that may look like.

Our household is a unique one.  I was public schooled from day one in kindergarten. My husband's academic upbringing was the exact opposite, with his mother home schooling him throughout elementary school and middle school, then home schooling through Pensacola Christian Academy for high school.

When husband and I married, we brought to the table our two completely different experiences on education.  Perhaps that's why we both have love in our hearts for these two styles of education rather than animosity for one side or the other, because we understand this is one of those areas not spelled out in a Biblical command but one where we must pray and receive guidance for our family.

Whether we realize it or not, with every negative word we speak about the "other side," with each sarcastically angry cartoon or comment we post on Facebook...we're creating the next holy war at the feet of our children.

I strongly believe Satan is working intently to break up the unity found in the church.  Where better to draw the dividing line than based on the definition of what makes a good or bad Christian? A good or bad parent? What better way than to discourage and divide rather than support and encourage.

Before I speak.  Before I post.  I need to ask myself if my words are opinion versus Biblical command, if my words can hurt, can offend, can divide versus draw my brothers and sisters in Christ together.

If the answer is yes, then I'd better hit delete.