How to Look for the Double Blessing

You know that coat in the back of your closet? The one you haven't worn in years but can't bring yourself to throw out because you could (theoretically) wear it again someday?

Or maybe it's a dress, a shirt, a pair of pants you've hung onto for a decade or more in hopes (or dread) that it might fit again.

What if I told you these weren't just pieces of fabric that others might classify as old, out-of-fashion, hand-me-down, worthless.  What if, instead, you looked at them with labels such as blessing, gift, ministry?

Even more importantly, what if you truly believed that even hand-me-down clothes could have a God-ordained purpose?

In my heart, I do believe just that.  Everything has a purpose.  All things work together to the glory of God, towards His eternal plan.

The problem is sometimes I am guilty of unconsciously believing that what I consider insignificant and not really useful, God does, too.  Without really thinking about it, I place everything I see, own, or do on a mental chart, each piece ordered in a hierarchy of importance.

The old coat? Box of my daughter's sparkly rocks from the driveway? Stack of children's watercolors from the month? These all get categorized as Unimportant.

My shelf of completed Bible studies? Photo albums? I-phone? Important.

Receipts for the IRS? Birth certificates? Wedding ring? Teaching files? Very important.

Perhaps you're like me and those things, actions, ideas considered to be insignificant or unimportant, we simply overlook.

Yet, what God has been teaching me over the past year is that it's the small, insignificant pieces of life that can hold the most value.

The way to bless others doesn't have to be big, flashy, or front-page news.

To bless others and to be blessed on a daily basis requires us to seek out the small, the seemingly insignificant parts of life, to follow that still, small voice, and to inject Christ's love whenever and wherever.

To bless and be blessed might come from something as insignificant as taking the time to help an old man find a two liter bottle of root beer in Wal-mart. Or of lingering on the phone an extra five minutes with a friend who just needs to talk.

Or, it might come in the form of an old coat.

This past Thursday night, I experienced such a blessing from being able to pass along a few coats to a group of new refugees in my ESL class. The week before, I had asked my church family for help.  Two men offered their gently used coats, and I added them to the few I had found at the thrift store.

I expected to be a blessing to my new guys.

What I didn't expect was to learn that the middle aged refugee I had been teaching all year long, the one whose job is to wash up to five hundred cars a day---he was the one who really needed a coat with a hood to keep him warm this winter. Unbeknownst to me, he had already made his request to the church's pastor a few weeks before.

Although he also was unaware of the specific need, my brother in Christ had given just such a coat--with a hood, the perfect size for this man.

There are no words to communicate how proud my student was of his new coat.  This usually quiet man kept coming to me and giving me thanks when all I had done was deliver the blessing.  I was so very blessed in seeing God at work through something small.

It was humbling and heart warming at the same time, the thought that an idea that we thought began in our own heads began in the mind of God who then warmed our hearts to give.

I know what it is to bless and to be blessed...it is a chance to see the fingerprints of God in daily life.

Since the birth of my twins, I have been blessed a thousand fold by others' passing along their children's clothes and toys.  I have learned to prefer shopping at America's Thrift over the mall, to be grateful for a closet full of my fashion-savvy mother-in-law's hand-me-downs.  And I have learned how to both receive these blessings and to pass them along to others.

It's what I've come to call a "double blessing," being blessed by the gift and then being blessed by the giving of it again.

It makes me wonder what other blessings we have received are just waiting in the wings to be passed along to another, to bless again.

My Children's Hero

By tonight, most of America has now wiped Veterans Day from its mind as we plod through another nine to five work week. 

My mind continues to dwell there, especially in this week just following the presidential election.  Perhaps it is because I am concerned about this country.  Or maybe it's simply that I feel guilty at how easily I find it to turn my back on all thoughts of our veterans and their sacrifice, like flipping a light switch.

I am guilty of taking for granted my freedoms, for not being thankful enough for those who have served my country.  Yet, it's not because I am unfamiliar with their sacrifice.  My problem comes from being so familiar with sacrifice that it can easily become commonplace.

I grew up with a father who had a shoebox full of black and white images from Vietnam, a few depicting a young man not yet my father, his unwrinkled face sporting a dark moustache and toothy grin as he held a machine gun as large as my car's front seat.  I still have a hard time imagining my father flying an airplane or wielding such a large weapon.

On my upstairs dresser sit portraits of both my World War II veteran grandfathers in full uniform.  I sat for hours with both of them, listening to what they wanted to tell me most--war stories, sadly, most of which I have forgotten.  Although both men are now gone, the images I see each day are of men in their youth, full life ahead of them, children yet unborn.

Even as a child, I knew sacrifice for one's country wasn't just something done in the past but something that must be continued in the present to protect our nation. 

That present included sacrificing my mother's sister and their family as they traveled the world with her spouse, "Uncle Elton," a chaplain for the Navy.  Our visits together once or twice a year were always packed with laughter and love, always ended with tears and the pain that comes from love stretching over the miles.

Now that I have children of my own, they, too, are growing up with a knowledge that sacrifice for one's country is a calling, is just an ordinary part of life.  Like me, they will likely struggle to really appreciate that sacrifice because it is so near.

My children know that Grandaddy fought in some war years before they were born, but to young minds, the present is more important than the past, easier for them to grasp, imagine, hold in their hands and hearts.

The concept of a soldier's sacrifice lives vibrantly in their minds through their Uncle Johnathan, my brother.  As a chaplain in the Navy, Uncle Johnathan (along with Aunt Liza) can't always be at their birthday parties, can't "just come over" as Emerson and Amelia still often ask him to do. 

To my children, Uncle Johnathan is their hero.  He is mine, too.

I give thanks that in this day when so many people let us down that it's almost expected, there still exist real heroes with hearts devoted to God and lives given in service of our country.

May God richly bless them.


Images: Poster for Wyatt's school last week and a painting door prize my mother won at that celebration.

A Best Way to Begin the Christmas Season

 

My children already have Christmas smiles, the kind that melt your heart, that light up not only the whole face but the entire room as well.  Any mother will tell you such smiles are as beautiful as any museum-quality gem and as contagious as laughter, inviting the world to linger and share in their joy.

The beauty of this smile is that it is fueled by a Christmas joy, one that has nothing to do with talk of Santa Claus, sugary treats, decorations, or visions of gifts they would like to personally receive. 

Instead, the joy of Christmas has been glimpsed in three red and green paper shoe boxes lined up on our dining room table, three boxes that contain nothing for us.

While we have participated in Samaritan's Purse and their Operation Christmas Child ministry in the past, this is the first year all three of our children are old enough to really get involved in picking the items for their own boxes.  

Even the dreaded weekly shopping trip turned into a celebration as we marched our very conspicuous empty boxes into Wal-mart.  The children literally bounced up and down the aisles, searching, choosing, seeking to figure out how much could fit inside.

No, a Barbie's legs were too long.  So was Tinkerbell.  The pink sparkly pom poms did fit, but took up too much space that could be used for the bouncy ball, glittered hair clips, and necklace/bracelet set.  

The tie-dyed socks squeezed around the lenticular puzzle, a yo-yo, and a couple matchbox cars.  Then there was the play-dough, Angry Birds stickers, lollipops, toothbrushes, and t-shirts.

At one point, my excited Emerson ran straight up to a stock-lady, his words tumbling over themselves as they told about him buying gifts for a boy and Amelia buying gifts for a girl, both who would get no Christmas presents to remind them that Jesus loved them.

It warmed my heart to see his uncontainable joy at being able to spread the true meaning of Christmas, of Christ giving of Himself for us, of us giving of ourselves to others around the world.

The wonderful news is that this ministry opportunity is open for everyone.  It's not too late for you to pack a shoe box, too, and impact the life of a child this Christmas season.  Operation Christmas Child National Collection week is next week, November 12 – 19, 2012.  To find a drop-off location near you, visit this link.

And the absolute coolest thing?  While you can just use the usual labels on your box, this year, Operation Christmas Child has made it possible to track each shoe box's journey through "Follow Your Box."  By making a $7 donation online to cover shipping and handling costs, we were able to print out special labels with a bar code.  As the box travels, Samaritan's Purse will scan that bar code and send us an email, telling us its destination.  

The children and I are all excited to learn where God will cause those boxes to end up! 

Even as I write this, I know from past experience that as the season gets into full swing, my focus will waver at times from Christ's birth.  

But before the pink aluminum tree comes down from the attic, before the annual family photos are stuffed into cards and envelopes, before the Christmas songs shuffle in the CD changer--this, this seems the perfect way to begin to the season.

A New Place to Gather Together

On my front lawn, a flock of seventy six Canadian geese have already turned South for the winter.  Their loud honks resound through the double-paned glass, announcing webbed feet's return to earth for a breakfast in our hay field.

Closer to my threshold, frost kissed yellow lantana have already withered into brown death while a liberal salt shaker of leaves brightens my gravel driveway anew each morn.

The seasons, they turn ever so quickly.  

Even when I am watching the calendar like an hourglass, when I think my senses are focused, watching, alert...still, I close my eyes to summer and awaken the next dawn to the inescapable presence of autumn surrounding me.  I breathe it into my lungs, feel its dewy coolness reach deep within every exposed pore of my skin.

These are the changes I can prepare for, the ones marked in the Farmer's Almanac.  Then, there are those changes I know will come but just can't really plan for until they are upon me.  Sometimes, these are the ones that are bittersweet.

When we moved into our new home in July of 2010, my parents loaned a small table and four canary yellow 1950s era chairs, the perfect size for two year old twins, a four-year-old big brother, and this mother.

For almost two and a half years, the intimacy of daily life has revolved around that little table more than any other place in our home.

It is there that I taught my Wyatt how to read, to form his letters, to color in the lines.  It is there the children and I gathered each day to give thanks for breakfast and lunch, read the Word of God together.  We danced wild, happy, giggling circles round it, painted enough watercolor masterpieces on its surface to paper the entire room.

We lived, we loved, we gathered there.

But come August, it became obvious that our family had grown beyond what a 29" square table could accommodate.   

Now at six and four years old, the children's art projects, books, schoolwork, cups, plates, utensils--they overlapped, covered, infringed upon--we simply did not fit anymore.

This table that had long brought us together was now causing division, bickering.

And so, I began my search for what I have now learned the industry calls a "gathering table," a name, a God-incidence, that still makes me smile.

This past week, we have gathered anew around a larger rectangle, this one counter height and with more than four chairs so even our six foot tall daddy can join with us. 

Once again, the children and I pull out the paints and pencils, books and paper, working separately and together in the same space.  I have even begun to teach the twins how to read just as I did with their older brother at the smaller table in this space two years ago.

Like every change, this one, too, means letting go.  Yet, it is a choice to live in the past or to embrace the present and celebrate life, joy, and family.

We choose joy.



Images: The morning after we moved into our new home--July 6, 2010--and present day, almost 2 1/2 years later.

Evenings are Not For Ourselves

When husband comes in from a long day at the office, I know the thing he'd like to do most is flip a switch and turn himself off, just focus on something, anything mindless for a half hour or more.

Before children, he could do just that.  Each evening's routine involved him shelving the wingtips and exchanging the decorative hangman's noose, crisp white straight jacket, and knee-high black compression tubes for threadbare jeans, a t-shirt, and white Hanes socks.

I cooked supper while he collapsed in his easy chair before an old episode of MASH or a football game.  With a chilled can of Dr. Pepper in hand, he simply disappeared for a half hour.

Now with twin four year olds and a kindergartner, disappearing is not an option.

The children go outside most evenings ostensibly to play, but I know what they're really doing--watching, waiting for daddy to turn the corner of the driveway and make his way across the hay field to them.

Mommy is expected to be here always.  But Daddy?  He is special, the much-awaited one whose coming is celebrated by squeals of delight.

Long before husband turns the knob to come inside, he has been mobbed.

Even from the kitchen, I can hear those knock-down bear hugs and loud clamoring for attention, for the chance to tell daddy something about the day first. 

These short spaces between our days and our nights no longer belong to husband or to me as individuals but to each other as a family.

And so, the five of us gather most nights of the week around a home cooked (or at least can-opened / defrosted / reheated) meal where we take turns sharing the best and worst  (or "baddest" as the twins call it) things about our day.

We speak aloud our joys and those parts we wish had happened differently, our successes and our failures.  While one good and bad thing is required of all, some days, a whole list tumbles out across the table.

On one particularly hard day, Amelia stopped my more-than-one-thing bad list, saying, "Uh....that's enough."  The good days, though, are filled with little ones struggling to find a worst part to their day.  When that happens, Emerson always says, "The baddest thing today was that I didn't get to go to the fair."

Then, in that short space after dinner but before bath, book, and bed time, my six foot plus man folds down to little people size.  In this three foot tall world, he gives horsie and piggy-back rides, races die cast cars, plays hide and seek, puts on or takes off a pile of dress up costumes, or referees a board game.

My children's faces have glowed especially bright this past week as they've laughed at daddy's inability to play a new game from Emerson's fourth birthday party.

It has been an absolute riot to watch two boys try and set up the hardest layout possible for their father, then their sister climb on daddy's shoulders for a bird's eye view of a valiant attempt to aim and fire three rubber birds at a tower of plastic wood and pigs.

Misses are met with taunts from the boys while direct hits on the plastic green pigs are met with uproarious celebration.

 
I know it would be so much easier for him to just say, "Daddy has had a hard day.  Go play with your brother and sister."  It would be easy to just sit them before a Charlie & Lola or Veggie Tales video or to even simply hand over the Ipad with the electronic version of Angry Birds.

But this?

This is a choice to invest in one another, to invest in family, to invest in joy.

When Not Everyone Will Be Your Friend

Even from half a football field away, I can see my oldest son's face crumpled in anguish, streaked cheeks catching the afternoon sunlight as he stumbles down the school bus steps and hurtles across the gravel towards me.

His every step is slower, heavier than normal, that light, carefree bounce I can't imitate if I try completely absent.  I walk more swiftly to meet him halfway, fighting a motherly urge to just run and catch all fifty pounds up in my arms, lifting him in an embrace for all to see.

Wyatt is still too young to be ashamed of tears, of running into mommy's waiting arms while a whole bus-full of children stare out of cloudy rectangle eyes.  Still, I am aware that day is coming and try to let him take the lead in how much emotion he's willing to share in public.

A couple weeks ago when this same teary scene played out, his small frame literally folded at my feet so that I, too, had to sit in the dirt, draw him onto my lap, and rock him until the worst of the storm had passed.

Today, though, our thick, puffy coats, thin bluejeans, and the fading light say it is too cold to sit on pebbles until the waterfall dams up.

When he reaches me, all he can choke out before falling into my chest is, "I really don't think he wants to be my friend." 

This.  Again.

Hand in hand, I guide him inside Oma's house where the twins are gleefully underfoot in the kitchen, supper preparations filling the air with smells of warm goodness.

Yet, even the unmistakable aroma of brownies fails to entice him as he moves down the hall to the solitude of the unheated bathroom.  I follow, turn on the room's small space heater and sit by the radiating warmth of its glowing zigzags.

Through his sobs, I make out a tale of being falsely accused by his seatmate of taking a paper, of that same boy tattling to the substitute bus driver, and of that poor, poor man fussing at Wyatt to put it back where it belonged.

While this is the present symptom, it's just one of two dozen or more that speak to a deeper hurt--that this little boy doesn't want to be Wyatt's friend.  It's something he can't comprehend, why anyone wouldn't want to be kind and friendly, why anyone wouldn't want to hear his story, look at his Scooby Doo book, or just simply talk with him.

I've tried explaining that it is impossible for everyone to be his friend.  I've shared my own stories of mean children not liking me in grade school. I've suggested ignoring him, praying for him.

He and I have brainstormed reasons why this little boy may say cruel things to Wyatt.  Perhaps he's very tired or sick.  Perhaps he doesn't know how to be friends.  Perhaps he doesn't have a mommy or a daddy.  Perhaps he doesn't have Jesus in his heart to teach him how to love others.

Logic, though, doesn't touch an injured heart. Hurt is hurt.

"It was a perfect day," he sniffles, pauses, tears starting to cease.  "Except for the bus."  And with those words, the second wave begins.

I don't tell him his feelings are wrong.  I don't tell him he is a big boy who must get over it and move on, even though this is the truth of life he will have to learn himself.  I simply sit in the soothing whir of the heater's fan blades and make shushing sounds as I rock my firstborn on the floor.

After awhile, he reaches his arms completely around me and draws me closer.  I whisper that daddy will speak with the bus driver and ask if perhaps he can move to a different assigned seat. 

This rejection--it's hard enough for adults to deal with.  I'm thirty five; both head and heart still feel the sting when I receive a negative comment on this blog or when someone is overtly rude to me because of my Southern accent, my faith, my appearance, my whatever.  But not understanding why everyone can't like you just as you are is devastating for a five year old.

I can't protect him from everything, much as I'd like to.  The comfort of returning to the safe haven that is his home won't block out the pain inflicted by the world outside the farm. It won't keep out those who would rather bully you than befriend you.

This is simply the curse of sin, the pain and division it causes to to all living under the curse.

But understanding that doesn't heal the heart of a hurting little boy.  Only God and a whole lot of love can do that.

In his own time, Wyatt unfolds himself, gives me a weak smile, then asks, "Can I have a brownie now?"

Sunshine peeks through a crack in the clouds.

What to Do When You Lose Sight of Yourself

If the calender depicted this past week as a child's see-saw, there would be a five hundred pound feed sack sitting immovable at the far end.  High up on Monday, I would be hanging on for dear life as my body slipped slowly down the board to that box marked "Saturday."

The phrase "It's all downhill from here" would apply, but not in a good way.  I can almost feel myself going downhill towards insanity, becoming that someone I don't want to be anymore.

With all three of my children's birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all falling during the last three months of the year, I find myself Spring Cleaning in the fall when rooms full of people start trickling into my house.

Sure, I clean, on a daily basis, as every woman must.  But, getting my house ready for family and friends to come over for an official visit brings out the absolute worst in me.  

I wonder WHO ingrained in us this obsessive burden, this crazy need to make all things appear perfect for company?

In other countries, there may be a hut and a dirt floor, which is brushed out each morning, and that's it.  There is no fretting over the dirt that swirls through the sheet in the doorway, just thanks for a roof overhead and food in the belly.

I know this and have intentionally forced myself over the past year to give those "come as you are" invites of the moment.  I have worked to grow comfortable with opening my not-your-Southern-Living house.  If there is a thick layer of dust quilting the television, folded laundry still waiting to be tucked away, a labyrinth of books at your feet, or water colored paintings wallpapering the kitchen counters, the clutter is almost excusable.

But come October, I feel the pressure.  My vision shifts to finally see the red clay hand prints on every light switch and door jamb, the gray sheen on those high shelves I hardly ever glance at, the small toys not quite invisible under the La-Z-boys. 

This normal mother who cultivates a quasi-chaotic haven for creativity suddenly develops unreasonable expectations.  Insanity sets in with the belief that this house can be whipped into streamlined perfection for just one week.

I snap at children for Lego projects left in the kitchen.  I snap at husband for not doing something to help. I snap at myself for not getting it all done faster, better, earlier.

Can't they see the dust on that chandelier? those fan blades? The tarnished finger streaks around the stainless steel canisters in the kitchen? the toothpaste on the bathroom mirror that no one but mommy can scrub off?

What is wrong with me!?  Where is the woman who learned love and hospitality were more important than perfection?

It's sad how quickly I can lose sight of her. 

Last night, I left the vacuum cleaner, floor polish, and laundry hamper to drive into the city and teach ESL to a small group six.  Five smiling men in ironed button-down shirts worked to learn their third language.

Sudan. Libya. Eritrea. Ethiopia.

A hair dresser.  A mechanic.

All five less than a week into their new life as refugees in America.

At least for a few hours, I escaped back to reality where there is no concern about dust, about what the new boyfriend in the family might think of my home, about whether I'll succeed with my fondant/butter cream/gum paste cakes for the twins.

This reality is one where five kind, intelligent men have no jobs, where before the end of the year, they will be on their own without a shred of government support.  These men's needs were simple--shampoo, laundry soap, and dish washing liquid.

If I were dishonest, I'd end here with something profound about my chiropractor God giving me a major adjustment so that suddenly, my priorities were realigned.

But that's not quite the truth.

Instead, I drove back home with two worlds trying to coexist inside my head--the one where I'm not the psychotic mother and wife obsessed by an unrealistic image of the perfect setting for people to gather together...and the other where I know deep down that stuff doesn't matter.

I don't have it all together.  All I can do is pray for the Helper to give me grace to make complete what is not, to focus on what I already know to be true, and to ask forgiveness along the way when I slip into that other person more concerned with the things of this world than with the hearts and souls of those around me.