Dating My Husband

She stopped me in what was supposed to be a quick-by-necessity dash through the Christian bookstore. What was I doing now? Were the children plopped in front of the Veggie Tales screen really all mine? Did I stay home with them?

As the conversation lulled, I could have made a break for it--the children were minutes away from remembering it was past their lunchtime. But I couldn't just leave without asking. My heart really needed to know.

How was her granddaughter, the one who shares my name, the one whose birthday I think of two days after my own each year?

Her lilting voice instantly dropped to the hushed tone of something that should not be said, and she held up three fingers. "She's on her third."

A vise clenched my chest--I didn't know.

Only one year older than my 34 years...and just one in a multitude of past friends who have given in to the belief that their marriage can't be fixed, that "till death do us part" really was just a suggestion.

It breaks my heart, brings tears to my eyes--for those friends, for their former spouses, for their children.

*******

A few hours after the bookstore conversation, I stand in front of the mirror, taking a little more time than usual to touch up my make up, try on and take off two or three blouses until I find one that looks special.

Most Friday evenings see me driving back into town while everyone else is struggling to leave. I'm usually pretty tired and could easily drop the children off at my inlaws' house, turn around, and go take a nap, watch a movie, or catch up on some work.

Instead, I go have a dinner with my husband.

"Have fun on your date with daddy," Wyatt yells as I head out the door. Like a watchful parent, he adds, "Be careful! You know it'll be dark soon!"

Just a couple hours each week for us--to laugh, to catch up, to hold hands across the table...to kindle the flame.

*****

Today, my husband works on the red barn, ripping off the rotten front boards and adding new ones. And I? I cling a little more closely to his side, handing him nails, standing on a board he's trying to hold down and cut with the skill saw, finding dropped screws, and moving the rotten boards out of the way.

It's not that he needs my help, nor that I don't have work of my own I need to do indoors.

It's merely that I need to feel him close today, need to express my thankfulness for his love.

These small everyday intimate moments we choose to spend together, they are the breathing in and out of prayers for our family to be a living example of what Christ's eternal covenant is all about.

Photo: Side by side shoes as Doug and I work together.

Wanting to Be Shallow

I want to hide them, camouflage these white tubes protruding atop the barren winter field. Yet with a septic tank lying just beneath, I must be careful what I put there.

A year ago, my aunt had a tree who kept feeling its way through the soil, far across the yard until it found a constant source of water in her tank. Once there, its roots continuously circled and grew around and inside until the tree had to be cut down.

Yes, I know the problems that roots can cause, stopping up an entire household.

This past week, I went to my parents' home and dug up an assortment of iris and narcissus bulbs, the start of a shallow flower bed to hide those white tubes.

With a more-than-a-little-misty rain falling on Monday, I shallowly inserted twenty or so bulbs in the sandy soil. Their skinny green tops doubled over, not really hiding anything at this point.

My mother shoved the concrete bird bath over there last week. And today saw me clumsily operating a post hole digger, creating a 26" deep hole in the ground for the eight foot post that held up the bird feeder my daddy put together with deck screws and scrap wood...just like the one my brother made for him a few years ago. It doesn't look like much--the molded concrete, the green shoots, the wooden pole.

But bulbs that only sink their roots a few inches in the ground and "yard art" that helps sustain the birds in the winter and summer--that's what's required here.

This concept of shallow roots has bothered me since I started thinking about this project--it goes against everything I am.

I don't know how to do that, put down anything that doesn't sink way down deep past the topsoil and into the dark depths of the earth.

That's why change is so difficult--even if it's change for the better.

Last week, I witnessed my oldest exhibiting a trait that I have struggled with since childhood--and it scared me, the knowledge that it was already taking root in him simply because he saw it in me every day.

Then and there, I ripped up some pretty deep roots in my own life and begged God to help me start again for my children's sakes.

It's been almost two weeks now, and with the Spirit's help, I have been mostly victorious so far. Each day is a struggle, wanting to sink that taproot once again to what comes easily to me.

For now, though, I'm trying to keep those roots as shallow as those bulbs I planted in the new earth, daily praying for God's help and giving myself time to mature in this new way of living before going deeper.

Growing More Beautiful

Last year, the "Mrs. Dorhauer" rose was finally beautiful. Vines, thick and hearty, climbed over and under themselves, only stopping to scatter the occasional large clusters of single roses among the web of green.

I was proud...something belonging to my husband's grandmother, and I had kept it to share with my children.

Not that I really did anything to be proud of. The extent of my contribution didn't involve much more than digging up the struggling shoot and transplanting it to its new home. Sure, I poured on a few buckets of water when its leaves crinkled threateningly in the hot summer afternoons, but mostly, I ignored it.

Still, when anyone spoke of its massive beauty, my chest swelled with pride.

When we moved this past summer, the rose had to stay behind until the cold winter days would give it a chance of surviving its own move.

I knew I would need to prune it significantly and that it would take a few years to get to its former glorious state, but when I went to dig it up today, I was completely dismayed at what I found.

Between my husband and father-in-law's less-than-motherly attempt to detach it from the red barn when they moved it here and the new renters who really don't like roses by their new fire pit, there wasn't much left.

The main center stalk had been cut almost to the ground with one thin vine shooting forth as evidence that it still lived.
Foot pounding spade into the earth, I circled round until I had freed the plant from its home. Then, I began digging a few feet away where roots had traveled underground to produce a dozen or more healthy new plants.Back at the house, I made holes in the red Louisiana clay, planting each small vine and considering how much I'd lost.

And in that instant, the plant wasn't just a plant. It was my lost children, Doug's lost career.

I couldn't help but thinking how many times have I produced something beautiful only to have someone or something come along and take it away? Destroy it?

This starting over--I know how difficult it can be. It requires much energy put to new growth. And it will never be exactly the same as it once was.

Even so, I chide myself, remembering that I didn't create what was beautiful. I had no real right to it beyond the moment it was granted me as a blessed gift from above.

It's hard, a truth I have to make peace with more often than I'd like. But in the struggling is faith that God will re-make us...hopefully, more beautiful than before.

Learning to Be Still

"No," she murmurs, resting her head in defiance against the barn. The word comes out as an almost whisper, an emotion that cannot help but be expressed but that she knows shouldn't be spoken aloud to her mommy.

Her face may appear to be facing straight forward, but I know she's watching me out of the corner of her eye, waiting to see if I'll respond, how I'll respond.

Like all my children, Amelia has an independent streak. "I do it MY self" is a phrase I hear often in this season of my life.

Yet, unlike the boys, she has always had a difficult time with sitting still, always bouncing from one activity to another.
Recently, she has started sitting for longer periods of time, giving me hope that one day, something will captivate her attention enough to keep her glued to her seat for more than five minutes at a time.

Like Amelia, I have had to learn to balance "doing" with being still.

By junior high, all I wanted to do was be still and read books. My mother blew that out of the water by limiting me to one book per week, but still, I preferred the solitude of the ink-filled page to a flurry of activities.

Now, as the mother of a busy household, I have the opposite problem, Amelia's problem.

Even in my Christian life, somewhere along the way, I equated loving Christ with activity, doing, results...not being still.

Don't get me wrong--activity, the "doing" for Christ is good. But the doing without the stillness is like building a house on the sand--one small hurricane, and it reveals what's not holding it up.

Over the past five years, I've sought the stillness.

Last week, my ladies' Bible study group began its twenty-first Bible study since Spring 2006.

In six weeks, we will finish Book 10 in Kay Arthur's Kings and Prophets series. Years ago, my mother stated she wasn't sure she'd live to complete the series.

After mixing these ten studies with various ones by other writers, here we are, years later, and much richer than we ever dreamed possible.

When I look at the list of Scripture that we've studied, I find it hard to believe we have seen that much of God in five years' worth of Wednesday mornings.

It's a miracle that God has given us the perseverance to keep going, to consistently stay in the word, to hold each other accountable.

In a group where almost every member has the wisdom of 60+ years,

I have learned with them how to be still with the Word,
how to be still with my God...
and how to listen for His voice,
seek His understanding,
breathe in His heart
that beats through the words
and makes alive my mind, heart and soul.

You can see it in our eyes, bright with excitement at God's revelations. You can hear that catch in our voices as we speak of our time in the Word from the previous week.

It's hard to explain the passion for this kind of stillness that rises up in me each time I start a study. It's like gulping down water on a cloudless summer day...

Never, never enough.

Be Patient With My Learning Curve

The kitchen timer rang, its shrill sound heard loud and clear over the twins' shrieks. For a split second, everyone stopped mid-run. Then, in her outside voice, Amelia yelled, "Jingle Bells!" and we ran to the potty.

Thus began a week of intensive on-the-potty-every-35-minutes-whether-you-need-to-go-or-not training. It was a week of verbal encouragement ("I'm proud of you!"), treats, and round-the-clock attention to the vanishing blue star on the front of the pull-up.

But by Thursday evening, my twenty-eight-month-old twins still weren't going to the potty unless the timer went off. They were still having accidents (though fewer). And they still didn't care if their underwear was wet.

I was more than a little outdone. Four days. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.

NO. PROGRESS.

It seemed I had learned more from the potty training experience than the twins had, and what I learned wasn't very flattering to me.

In a week where I lost a good bit of sleep over my own steep learning curve in tackling gum paste flowers for a birthday cake, I found myself increasingly frustrated with their "I don't care" two-year-old attitude.

With every lost hour of sleep, I lost a double portion of patience.

By Thursday evening, I was thrilled, knowing the next day, my mother would babysit the potty-training-failure-children while I went to give a computer training to a group of last-minute-trainees who had skipped the prior two trainings, trying to avoid the inevitable.

Thursday evening, though, I had promised to help a group of five women learn to crochet.

But I was tired. I was frustrated. And I knew if I went, I would need to stay up into the wee hours of Friday morning to finish the cake and try (once again) to craft a huge gum paste flower that was larger than any of my cutters could make and that nobody on the web could show me how to do!

I didn't want to go.

But by now, you know me well enough to know I went anyway. And with five women who wanted to learn, it was such a pleasant teaching experience.

When one of the women would make a mistake and I would need to re-teach a stitch, I heard myself speaking calmly, quietly, and in an understanding tone, none of which had I been using earlier that day with the twins.

Later that night as I attacked round two of gum paste flower-making, I felt so defeated. I'd spent several days getting so frustrated with my own flesh and blood; yet, I could treat complete strangers with kindness and patience.No wonder my children were doomed to failure. The learning curve was high, and I was expecting perfection now.

When I came home Friday afternoon, my mother told me the twins had taken themselves to the potty several times on their own. And they had been dry all day!!!

Today? The same--dry all day and taking themselves to the potty several times without my prompting. Progress after all.

"I'm so proud of you, mommy!" Amelia squealed this evening as she launched herself off the potty and into my arms. "Yes," I grinned," I'm so proud of you, Amelia."

Lord, as you are so patient with me, please grant me the ability to be patient with my own children. Fill me with your patience...because my own just isn't enough for even a few minutes.

Top Pic: Among other things this week, I learned to crochet with "fun fur." What an experience in being able to stitch without being able to see the holes! Yikes!

Guest Post: The Faith of Ronald Reagan

My husband loves to read--and write--about anything political. So, since my week has been jammed with giving a computer training, making a Sweet Sixteen cake for my best friend's daughter, and helping teach five women to crochet, well, I was glad for him to read and review Brown's new book. Without further ado...

Ronald Reagan’s name had hardly pierced my six-year-old consciousness until the afternoon of March 30, 1981, when John Hinckley, Jr. took aim and fired upon the President and his entourage. In my small parochial schoolhouse the news spread quickly, with teachers running outside to tune their car radios into news stations for information. In that moment, viewing the passion, fervor, and intensity of my teachers, parents, and older students, I began to realize Ronald Reagan was more than a faceless name at the end of my class’s listing of U.S. Presidents.

In the hours and days which followed, my family prayed a multiplicity of prayers for the President’s recovery, and along the way I discovered literally everyone in my small circle of influence believed Ronald Reagan was a leader appointed by a higher power to a higher calling.

According to Mary Beth Brown's new book The Faith of Ronald Raegan, President Reagan felt much the same way: “God, for some reason, had seen fit to give me his blessing and allow me to live a while longer" (p. 15). Later, Ms. Brown confirms President Reagan wrote in his diary: “Whatever happens now, I owe my life to God and will try to serve him in every way I can.” Others have written, “Reagan believed that God had spared his life so that he might go on to fulfill a greater purpose” (Kengor).*

In many ways, Brown’s book about Ronald Reagan’s faith begins from the premise that Ronald Reagan was a man of faith, spirituality, conviction, and principle, and the book then sets about to “prove” this contention through discussing various stages of Reagan’s life and certain members of his family.

The book certainly has a historical component to the extent it recounts events and circumstances of the Reagan presidency. The book also has a spiritual component in which Brown discusses the meaning of angels and various other theological ideas. Unfortunately, I believe the book fails to effectively “connect” Ronald Reagan to the author’s original premise in any meaningful way.

I believe Brown’s tome reads like one of dozens of papers and pieces I have crafted in graduate school, analyzing an author and his/her works as compared to a particular philosopher or school of criticism. In those papers (and in Brown’s book), the main impetus was to retell the life, story, and facts in a way which supported my own hypotheses. The result, both for me and for Brown, is a final document which communicates the original hypothet but fails to impart the whole story, the whole truth.

Brown’s choice selection of Reagan’s quotes from which a faith inference could be made is not placed alongside other quotes from which one could learn of Ronald Regan’s decided humanity. Rather, Brown presents a one-sided rendition of Ronald Reagan’s life and times—a view which is taken through the “lens” of Reagan’s unending devotion to his faith. Noticeably absent is any real-world perspective which would show how Reagan, though obviously a man of great faith, nevertheless had doubts and fears. Amazingly, Nancy Reagan’s own consultation with an astrologer is not a topic of discussion in the book.** This omission, I believe, speaks volumes regarding the manner in which Ms. Brown has penned this small book.

In the end, I would not recommend the book for an accurate and complete rendition of history. Reagan’s own An American Life amply covers that aspect. I would not recommend the book as a bastion of spiritual thought and learning. In the midst of recounting the events surrounding Reagan’s assassination attempt, Brown stops to give a nearly page-long abstract discourse on the importance of angels (p. 9). Although the section is certainly accurate and authoritative (citing the Bible and Billy Graham), it simply seems to be out of place.

Perhaps my displeasure in reading the book is summed up thusly: I brought a fair knowledge of Ronald Reagan’s life and history with me to the book; however, I hoped to learn some salient points or facts which were theretofore not commonly known. Unfortunately, Mary Beth Brown assembles an odd selection of quotes and facts to support her hypothesis, and she aligns these “pieces” of “proof” into a logically inconsistent and relatively useless book.

At the end of the day, I have no doubt Reagan was a man of devout faith, conviction, and values. I also believe an authoritative book will one day address President Reagan’s faith in a manner worthy of true scholarship and learning. Until then, I will place Ms. Mary Beth Brown’s attempt on my shelf and wait.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review, nor did I do so. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this information in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

*Kengor, Paul (2004). "Reagan's Catholic Connections." Catholic Exchange. http://www.catholiceducation.org/articles/catholic_stories/cs0080.html.

**Kurtz, Howard (2007-05-02). "Ronald Reagan, In His Own Words". The Washington Post. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/05/01/AR2007050102070.html.

The Art of the Thank You

Four years old and never written a thank-you card before. Pathetic, isn't it?

I could excuse it as he couldn't write his letters the first few years. I could say the words would have expressed my gratitude instead of his. And I definitely could shrug it off as just one of a zillion things that has slipped through the cracks since I've had children.

Whatever the reason, this past Christmas morning when Wyatt decided one present wasn't enough and voiced his heart with the words "I'm not thankful," I became painfully aware that thankfulness doesn't come naturally.

The children and I spend our days exchanging thank you's and you're welcome's as a regular part of conversation.

But polite words don't always reflect an attitude of thankfulness.

That must be cultivated.

To that end, Wyatt and I have spent many an afternoon at a kitchen table covered with envelopes and cards. Polar bears, mallard ducks, and a black wolf adorned the front of freebie cards I'd stuffed in my stationery drawer over the years. Not exactly the type card I would send out, but they were fabulous as far as he was concerned.

In each card, he would write the name of the person he wished to thank, then pass it to me. I would remind him what that person gave him and then write exactly the words he wanted to say.

Many times, I had to suppress a snicker. Other times, I had to prompt him for other ideas concerning why he liked the gift. I loved one where he had me write. "Thank you for ____. This is Wyatt."

Afterwards, I passed the card back to him for his signature.

By the end of the stack, I could tell he was beginning to learn the art of saying thank you.

Yes, I'm sure the cards will end up in the garbage dump or a recycling bin. But, hopefully, the gratitude will continue to live on and blossom in the heart of the thankful.