A Face Behind the Cardboard

Since my family expanded from 2 to 5 members, it seems my watch has started to run faster. What used to be one 2-minute bathroom break per weekly shopping trip has turned into at least one 15-minute detour, sometimes two. And whereas I used to skip lunch, now the brood insists taking time for food is mandatory.

Each time I venture into town, I struggle to get the children home for 2:00 nap time. Sometimes on the 30 minute drive home, I sing loud, goofy songs with Wyatt or reach back to shake little legs and feet in hopes of keeping the twins awake just a few more minutes.

Yesterday was no different. But traffic wasn't cooperating, and the twins had already drifted off. If I didn't get them home soon, there would be no napping in cribs, no quiet time for me to decompress.

As I drove at full speed onto the exit ramp, I saw it 100 yards in front of me--a green light. I pushed down the gas pedal.

And then I saw her--a woman standing with a cardboard sign beside the white line that told cars where to stop. I sighed. It seems there's always someone at this particular intersection...and it seems the light always turns red so I have to sit there as I face stoically forward, pretending to ignore the person's sign, the shabby clothes, the weather-worn face, the need.

As I drove, I kept my eyes firmly on the light, as if my willing it to stay green would do just that. And this time, it did.

But as I whizzed toward the intersection, I glanced her way and gasped. It wasn't her sign that said "Traveling. Need Help. God Bless."

It was the knowledge that this wasn't an anonymous face. I knew this woman's name. I knew part of her story. I knew she had family.

My heart immediately felt the crush of God's convicting Spirit. I was shamed by my own rush to get through the green light just so I could avoid her.

Could I change my mind? Stop to offer help? No. The light remained bright green. And traffic behind me wasn't too thrilled that my sudden braking might make them have to sit at a red light and avoid her silent request for help.

Each time I ignore the anonymous face, my conscience burns within me. When with my husband, I will sometimes give a ready-to-eat food item to ensure they at least have something to eat. But most of the time, I do nothing.

Each weekend, I have a "to do" list. Since I know it's just a matter of days before I see another face behind the cardboard, this weekend's list includes a plan to create small packages that will minister to the body and soul of those I encounter at red lights.

My Lord and Savior said, "For I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me water; I was a stranger and you invited me into your homes" (Matt. 25:35).

Without the help of others and God's grace, I could be the one standing there feeling others' disdain and scorn.

A Divided Heart

Do you know what it's like to speak out for a cause even when it means standing against friends and loved-ones?

To speak your heart, knowing those words will divide you from another and quite possibly will draw hatred and resentment toward you?


I do.

In the wee hours of Monday morning while the whole house slept, God spoke to me. He told me I must stand and speak even though He knew I would rather sit in silence. But He also warned the consequences of standing for His Word: "They hate him who reproves in the gate, And they abhor him who speaks with integrity" (Amos 5:10).

I must stand. But obedience would have a cost.

This is the reason my blog this week has been uncommonly silent. My spiritual family has been heavy on my heart. Several times throughout each day, only tears would come along with halting prayers to God for my family's healing.

I've been waiting for words. Waiting for God to speak. And grieving the heartache within my spiritual family.

I spent my today fasting and praying intermixed with my duties as a mother. Only tonight did God give me the words. I spoke. And in doing so, I have probably permanently severed at least one relationship.

Tonight, my spiritual family divided. It breaks me to think of the loss.

Women and men who have rocked my babies and kissed their little foreheads. Women whom I have held hands with and prayed in small, intimate circles of fellowship. Women whom I looked up to for mature spiritual leadership.

Unreconciled. Angry. Hurt, themselves. Believing in their hearts that they had the best interests of the spiritual family in mind.

My spiritual family needs healing. I need healing.

This road my Savior asks me to walk is not an easy one. It requires me to give without reservation my heart in loving relationships and in friendships. And then it requires me to choose to honor Scripture over my heart and those relationships when the two are in conflict.

A grieving, tender heart...one that hopefully my Savior can use as He heals my brokenness.

The Mouth

This precious little boy who loves the comfort of a blanket even in 101 degree heat, who adores "nature walks," and who doesn't think flowers are too girly to be fascinated by their petals or to carry in a bouquet back to the house so he can put them in a peanut butter jar vase

This same beautiful boy is going through a phase that is trying his mommy's patience. It started with the crocodile tears over everything, and I do mean everything: my sweeping his newest "special" rocks back in the driveway, Amelia pulling one of his puzzles off the shelf, Jonah the cat playing with his blanket.

I have become one of those mothers I never before understood--you know, the ones who totally ignore their children's tears in the checkout line at Wal-mart? The ones whose faces show serene calm as if they're listening to a calming Mozart piece rather than the fevered-pitch of an angry child in their buggy?

Wyatt knows I refuse to watch a tantrum. It's a well-defined rule--if you want to cry, pitch a fit, or yell, that's perfectly fine....in your room. Mommy has sent herself to her room more than once over the past three years. And sometimes, Wyatt sends himself to his room, too, before I even have to say a word.

But now the phase has morphed again. To keep my cool, it is taking everything I have in me (and then some Godly grace along with many, many sentence prayers sent heavenward). Along with the tears, Wyatt has added what I call "the mouth."

It's not like I didn't expect this. With his love of books, he has unusual control of an expansive vocabulary for a child his age. The problem is that same vocabulary is exploding into out-loud, powerful words of defiance.

Tonight, he spent over an hour in his room because, as he put it, "I not sorry! I not sorry!" And later, when daddy told him to pick up his toys, he said, "I not have to listen!" a stance he quickly changed to "I not have time to!" when he saw me enter the room.

And yet, as aggravated as I was with him this evening, moments before his defiant hiney stomped down the hall for the night, he redeemed himself. As his daddy sat down to read Amelia her night time book, he walked over and started reciting it to her. So precious. Such an expression of brotherly love.

There's hope for him yet.

One Little Lost Book

If each book were a soldier, our living room would be one of the safest places in the state.

When I sit in the middle of the room, I'm literally surrounded by an army of books. A squadron of school books takes up one of three cushions of the couch. A teetering stack of fall-themed books guards the end table. Three bookshelves of "don't touch" mommy and daddy books hide stealthily behind a La-z-boy. Wyatt's books flank the gas fireplace. Baby board books divide their forces between the hearth and small shelves beneath the TV. And a bag of library books stands at attention beside the train table.

This room won't appear in your next edition of Better Homes and Gardens. Too many books are still scattered across the floor as I sit and write this post. Too much energy and imagination remain in the air even though the little ones have long since been tucked in bed down the hall.

On a regular day, the twins regularly grab a chunky board book in pudgy fingers to wave in my face until I stop to read it. Emerson has even learned to say "baa" for book and smilingly squeals with happy delight when I respond, "Do you want me to read it?"

Long ago, I gave up counting how many books I read each day. All three kids know many of them by heart. Sometimes, though, Wyatt remembers one part of the book and not the title like when he asked for Pooh and the echo. Hmmm....took me two weeks to realize he was talking about Pooh's Best Place, complete with the requested echoing cave.

But yesterday, we had a book problem. As Wyatt unloaded his stack of ready-to-be-checked-out books onto the counter, the librarian informed me that we hadn't returned Pickles to Pittsburgh. Ok. "I know I returned 13 of them. But, if you say so, it must still be at home. I'll check."

A library book was missing. An it's-not-ours-so-don't-chew-on-it book.

So while the children napped, I frantically turned the house upside down. An army of one, I took my choice weapon--a Maglite flashlight--and moved every piece of furniture that I couldn't see under (including the couch). I then went through every book on every shelf, which was no small task.

Still no book.

Hours later, I called the library to see if they'd made a mistake, if perhaps the computer had malfunctioned and not scanned in the book properly. Could they please check the shelf?

If I had heard the panic in my voice, I'd have checked the shelf. But the lady looked at my account and said there was no need. The librarian had already figured out the computer's error when she went to place the "returns" back on the shelf. The lost book was found--at the library, where it belonged.

Thankfully, I was too relieved to be irritated with the woman on the phone. But it wasn't too long before I realized I had just given up an entire two hours hunting a lost book when I should have been working or napping.

And as I grumbled to myself, God immediately brought to my mind the Bible story about the lost coin. I looked it up:

"Or what woman, if she has ten silver coins and loses one coin, does not light a lamp and sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin which I had lost!' In the same way, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents" (Luke 15: 8-10).

Ooh. That hit hard. I'm in the middle of a training course about doing evangelism the way Jesus modeled in Scripture. The first step is not to go out witnessing but to work on my own heart. I must first develop a compassionate heart for each lost person, a heart that would rather risk personal embarrassment or rejection rather than see one person go to hell.

A lost book. A lost coin. A lost soul. Each one important to God.

A computer malfunction?

I think not.

Messy to the Power of Three

I haven't quite figured out how they do it. But they're masters of messiness.

Three powder-smelling, snugly children wake up each morning and put on clean outfits, lovingly washed, dried, and folded by yours truly.

But sometimes, the trio doesn't even make it thirty minutes before managing to coat their outfits in dirt, poo, or gummed-to-death Cheerios.

Today's culprits were the puddles from last night's rain. Tomorrow...who knows?

But what I do know is that whatever substance manages to spot and stain each little outfit means more work for me on Mondays.

Spray a little Shout or Awesome here. Rub in some Cheer or Tide there. Heat some boiling hot water on the stove to activate the Oxi Clean for soaking those really stubborn stains. Whatever it takes to scrub away the grime so tomorrow I can clothe my children in the same outfits again to see what stain they can get on them this time!

Today's wash contained one of Emerson's outfits coated in some undetermined substance he wallered in outside. It's soaked in my bathroom sink for a week, but the stain still isn't budging.

My standing over the washer and scrubbing on stains as I grumble about messy children really bothers my husband. His logic? If one scrubbing session doesn't get out the stain, throw the outfit in the trash and buy another one. It bothers him even more when he knows I'm scrubbing on a shirt the kids only wear at home on the farm...or a shirt he knows I bought for 59 cents at the thrift store.

But there's something in me that just doesn't want to give up and admit defeat. Something in me that wants to keep trying to save that outfit.

Maybe that's because I know what it's like to be stained, myself. And I'm glad my heavenly Father didn't give up on me.

Christmas in October?

Half of my yesterday was spent checking off a mental To Do list, which included waiting with dozens of other impatient youngsters to get the twins' second dose of the flu shot. Not on that list (but of equal importance, as I learned) was changing umpteen poopy diapers without my container of wet wipes, which had vanished from the diaper bag! At one point, I told a newly-outfitted Emerson if he had another accident like that, he'd be wearing pink for the rest of the day. Apparently, that threat worked.

But amidst the normal chaos of taking three small children anywhere, we took a short detour to the mall for food and a little playground time.

And there they were! Christmas trees! Right by the elevator in Dillards, a whole row of fully-decorated-been-there-for-at-least-a-few-days TREES!

Wyatt saw them first. Twinkling lights, tree-top winged-angels, furry snowmen, brightly-colored balls, and shiny silver stars that shimmered with every bounce as Wyatt dragged me closer to the trees.

I had to laugh at his exuberance because I know where it comes from. Me.

I LOVE Christmas. It is my absolute favorite holiday. The smells, the lights, the music, the decorations, the once-a-year spirit of communal joy I feel electrifying the crisp fall and winter air.

When people complain about Christmas being so commercialized or taking over the stores earlier and earlier each year, I just have to bite my tongue.

Secretly, I don't mind the Christmas trees sitting next to the fall pumpkins and turkeys. Secretly, I love another reminder of Christ's sacrifice when He left His throne in heaven to become a small baby here on earth. From the trees to the music, it all points me to Jesus.

When a student called me this spring, in the middle of the conversation, he suddenly stopped: "Uh...is that Christmas music in the background?" Yes. You mean it's not playing in your house, too? And just this past week, one of my new bloggy friends Deb at Heavenly Humor laughingly asked, "Wow, you're playing Christmas music already?"

Drop unexpectedly by my house any time of the year, and you'll likely find me singing with my soul to the sounds of "O Holy Night" or another familiar (and not so familiar) favorite. We don't limit our playing Christmas music to one month of the year just like we don't limit our worship of God to Sundays only.

The YouTube video here is of Todd Agnew's "God With Us," the Christmas story told from the Magi's point of view. Turn up the volume, close your eyes, and really listen to the words. It's amazing.

God is with Us. Not just at Christmas-time, but 365 days a year.

Give Him Wings

The deep conversations with my almost three-year-old happen at seemingly random moments. Like earthquakes in the ocean. Still blue water for miles around. Then a great shift of the earth’s tectonic plates and a tidal wave rises from the water's surface.

One minute Wyatt is a little boy playing in the rocks, getting dirty, reading Curious George books, and driving me crazy with his crying tantrums. The next, he’s asking the deep philosophical questions that leave me wondering, “Where did that come from!?”

While he’s sitting on the potty. On the drive home from Wal-Mart. Moments before bath time. It’s always at a time when my brain is hibernating.

And considering I spend most of my day in a “Don’t stick your fingers in that!!!” defensive mode of conversation, the all-too-abrupt return to the world of intelligent thought leaves me stumbling over my words and wishing I had some crib notes in front of me.

And so it went this evening. The changing of the guard had already taken place as my husband took charge of the children’s bath time routine. I was already on the computer, working on student papers.

Then came the pounding across the kitchen floor as little feet ran my direction. But before I could tell Wyatt to get back in the bathroom, his words stopped my lips.

“Is Jesus love me?”

No time to think of an answer. Short, halting sentences as I weave my way through the truth. “Yes, he loves you very much. He died on the cross for you. But Jesus is alive. Remember? And he flew up into heaven where he now lives with God. And one day he’s coming back to get us and we’ll fly up in the air with him to heaven.”

“But I not have wings.”

Ok…didn’t see that one coming. Quick. Think 3-year-old lingo. “Well, when Jesus comes back, he’ll give us wings to fly up to heaven with him.”

“And he come back for me?”

“Yes, and he’ll take us home to heaven to live with him if we’ve obeyed him.”

He pauses. I hesitate, too, wondering if I should just leave it with the “obey” part since that’s been the main lesson lately. But he’s not finished.

He leans one shoulder hard against the chair and ducks his head. “But I not want to die.”

I stumble over my words again. “Well, you’re not going to die today.” Oh gosh, I just lied to my kid. But I don’t know how to explain all that to a child this young!

He doesn’t give me any time for more thoughts. “But I not want go to heaven.”

This one, I’ve got in the bag. “Oh, yes you do! Because that’s where Jesus lives and we want to live with him forever.”

He smiles. “And he give me wings to fly up in the air? Like an airplane? And a helicopter?”

Content with my, “Yes,” this grown-up conversationalist takes flight to his bath, hands flying through the air like a plane.

Oh Jesus. Please give me the right words to teach this little boy to love you so that one day, he can fly home to you.