Brotherly Love

Within a week of finding out he was going to be a big brother, (a) was pretty excited about the pending arrival of “his” baby.  We tried to prepare him as much as possible for what it would be like to have a baby at our house, helping him cope with the idea that this baby could not play or talk back to him at first, for the reality that it was going to be a brother when he originally wanted a sister, for the fact that Mommy and Daddy would have to stay at the hospital for a few nights, and I still had concern in my heart about how he would handle having to share his favorite people.  What I was not prepared for was just how precious brotherly love would be at our house. 

From the very first moment (a) met (b) he was totally in love.  He beamed from ear to ear as his first declaration was “There’s our cutie baby!!!” Within two minutes of that meeting he begged, “Oh Momma, can we keep him!!???” (Which pulled at the heartstrings of everyone in the room including the nurse!)  Even now, 8 weeks in, he still asks almost daily if we can keep his baby brother.  The answer is still definitely YES.  I was afraid the new would wear off as the reality of crying and spit up and dirty diapers set it, but to my surprise, he is still completely in love with “that cutie baby.” He wants to help with him in any way he can, he talks sweetly to him, he gives him infinite hugs and kisses, sings songs to help make him feel better if he cries, and shares with him all stories of excitement and adventure he can think of.  He wants us to take (b) with us everywhere he goes and when they do need to be apart it takes 472 kisses to get (a) to finally part with him.   

Photo credit: La Di Da Photography LLC

Watching all of this on a daily basis makes my Momma heart melt into a million pieces.  I know it most likely won’t last forever, but I am going to enjoy every second of it while it does.  As I have watched the relationship with these two blossom I pray that I know what is ahead… having grown up with a couple of pretty awesome sisters myself, I know there will be days they will want to slug each other, but I hope they will also always be the first to jump in and help each other.  I know they will get frustrated beyond words, but if anyone else does they will be the first one to defend each other.  I hope they will cling to each other through the lows and cheer for each other in the victories.  (And I can’t lie, I hope they will take great care of (A) and me when we are old!)

Photo Credit: La Di Da Photography LLC

This brotherly love has also shown up in some of my devotions lately- and it has made me think how thankfully I am for that “brotherly love” within my faith family as well.  That I have friends who I know will help any way they can, will speak encouragement into my life when I need it, make me “feel better” when I cry, that we can share our joys and excitement with, that we may get frustrated with each other but are also the first to defend the other, and that we can cling to each other in the lows and cheer for each other in the victories.  I am so thankful that God set his people up to function as a family, because that brotherly love is a bond that is not easily broken.  It is stronger than time and distance, it is forged for life, and it is a gift from God himself.

“Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.  Honor one another above yourselves.” Romans 12:10

Without Distractions

Over the weekend, we had the privilege of attending a wedding back home in Indiana.  This wedding gave us the opportunity to take a little trip down memory lane.  It was held in the chapel of the church camp where (A) and I grew up.  This was also the camp where we met as teenagers, became friends, and eventually started “falling” for each other.  As the wedding music began, we sat side by side on the bench, a little boy in each of our arms.  I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered how we often sat side by side on those benches during evening worship those weeks of camp nearly 20 years ago.  I looked across the aisle and saw our friend, John, who we have known for many, many years.  John was the dean the week of camp when our siblings and friends conspired to try to get us to start dating- John was somewhat in on the conspiracy.  As the bridal party continued to come down the aisle, John caught my eye.  He was looking at our family with a knowing smile, and I could tell he was remembering us as teenagers also.

Our family back at camp so many years later... distractions and all :-)

On the late night drive back to Illinois, we discussed how the afternoon had brought back a flood of memories- but the most prominent one in my mind was the thought of what it was like to be in love with so few distractions.  Back then we weren’t worried about careers or household finances, we weren’t sleep deprived, our schedules weren’t packed with responsibilities, and we weren’t throwing our hearts and energy into parenting.  In the beginning planning a date night was as simple as checking the schedules on our part time jobs.  We really could sit and talk for hours because no one else was screaming for our attention or begging to be fed.  The future was something we only dreamed about, we had no idea what it would actually hold.  As (A) and I reminisced, we agreed that we wouldn’t want to trade the beautiful life we have built to go back to those simple times, but it sure is precious (and truthfully- healthy for our marriage) to remember what things were like before the distractions- what first made us fall for each other and what we built our relationship on in the very beginning. 

During my Sunday School class the next morning, the topic of distraction came back up as we discussed it was one of the greatest tools the devil uses against our marriages- how we many not stand in opposition of our husband but we easily become distracted by our busy lives and how it can cause our marriage to suffer.  But as I have thought about that further, I realize it is not just my marriage that can be a victim of distraction…. It is also my quiet time, as my house is rarely quiet… it is my role as mom when I take a look at all the things I need to do around the house… often lesson planning and grading distract me from loving my students as I should… the busyness of my own life distracts me from being the friend I should be. 

Distraction is dangerous because it is sneaky.  It is filled with GOOD things, but sometimes those good things, keep us from the BEST thing.  I pray that my eyes would be open to notice distraction when it tries to take over.  While all the “things” in my life do have to be taken care of, I don’t want to miss the forest for the trees.  I’m thankful that memory lane often takes me straight into the forest- and the memories take me to the heart of what I need to focus on the most… relationships.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us” Hebrews 12:1 

Whole Hearted Messes

Today was a 4-loads-of-laundry day.  I realize in some homes that is totally the norm every day, but I am the kind of girl who wants to get the most “bang for her buck” when it comes to detergent and electricity (ok, or maybe I just hate folding it), but in our house a 4 load day is a big deal.  I shouldn’t be surprised… we have a 6 week old (seriously… how did 6 weeks go by so fast!) who is an expert a spitting up on everything- hence a load of his clothes and a load of mine, a three year old who plays as hard as he can all the time until he is covered head to toe in sweat and dirt and grime, and overall we lead a pretty active life which tends to lead to more laundry.

Bouncy houses = one VERY dirty boy!!

As I made multiple trips in and out of the laundry room today, I couldn’t help but smile as I looked at one of the little plaques that sits in there.  I bought it at a home décor sale years ago because I absolutely loved what it said… “The most memorable days end with the dirtiest clothes.”  It’s so often true!  I think about the most memorable days from my years growing up… many of those “most memorable days” were in the cattle barn, and I was FILTHY from hard work but my heart was full from the rewards of that work.  As I watch (a), so many of our “most memorable days” mean sweat and sticky and lots of dirt because he plays hard and has fun doing it.  Some of the dirties clothes I have washed for (A) involved dares or challenges he took from kids in ministry- whether it was a pie to the face for reaching a VBS goal or cracking an egg on his head in the church camp cafeteria, he is always willing to get dirty to make memories bonding with students.  Right now (b) manages to get his clothes dirty within about 3.2 seconds of me getting them on him… and these days are so memorable as I watch that precious little boy growing right before my eyes.  It’s true- memorable days end in dirty clothes. 

I think that phrase is true, at least in our home, because you aren’t afraid to get dirty when you are doing something with your whole heart.  When heart is involved, I just spray on a little extra Oxi-Clean and smile as I think about the memory that made the mess.  And I think it is true figuratively too… you aren’t afraid to get a little “messy” with extra time or effort or financial support when you are working at something with your whole heart.   

When you love people with your whole heart it is messy because you risk getting your feelings hurt.  When you do ministry with your whole heart it is messy because people carry around a lot of baggage before they hand it to Jesus.  When you care for your family with your whole heart it is messy because some times they let you down or leave you carrying a lot of the weight.  When you lead with your whole heart it is messy because you feel like you are never enough.

But I wouldn’t trade the “messy” days for anything because that is where the memories are made.  That is where the learning happens, the sacrifices are made, the lives are changed, the whole heart is invested.  After all, as Kingdom Workers that is how we are called to live… “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as if working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward.  It is the Lord Christ you are serving.” Col. 3:23

Praying for that Classroom

For the last two days my social media feeds have been flooded with “First Day of School” pictures- both from the perspective of parents and teachers.  My students don’t return until next week, and I will still be home on maternity leave for a few more weeks, but I am still spending the majority of my time at school this week getting things ready for my substitute (God bless my friend, Judy, for stepping in!!).

As I look at the pictures of kids I have watched grow, and see the classrooms of friends I dearly love I think about all this year will hold.  All I can do is hope that I’m not the only one praying over that classroom.  Praying over the classroom because while I am a teacher, I’m still a person too.  I’m worried about meeting all the needs of every child in that room because I know that no matter how hard I try I will feel like it wasn’t enough.  I am a person and it hurts when outsiders complain about teachers or parents question how much I care or the approach I am taking.  I hear all the outside “noise” about “why aren’t schools teaching this or that…” and trust me some days I wonder too, but I have to follow the standards the state has set out for me.  I am a teacher, but I am also a person so I struggle with stress, am overwhelmed with joy, and wonder about the future… often all three within the same hour in my classroom.  I am a teacher, but I am also a mom who is worried about my own babies at child care while I work.  I am a teacher, but I am also a wife and friend trying to juggle relationships outside of the classroom.  I am a teacher, but I am also a Kingdom Worker so I am spending every day trying to show my students the love of Jesus in the best way I can for a public school classroom. 

I am praying for that classroom because it is filled with students.  And while they are students, they are also children- some who are missing parents because they have spent the entire summer together, some who are missing parents because their parents are absent from their lives.  They are students, but  they are also siblings who are distracted today because they had a fight with brother or sister this morning or are wondering what their best friend sibling is doing down the hall in another classroom.  They are students, but they are also athletes tired from practice or worried about their game that evening.  They are students, but they are also friends who are learning about the social interactions of their adolescent years where one moment you are besties and the next you are “frienemies”. 

I am praying for that classroom because I know the year will bring a roller coaster of “life” through the homes of everyone in that room.  I am praying for that classroom because I know the kinds of events that we will watch on the evening news and ask God to protect our community from experiencing the same turmoil.  I am praying for that classroom because I know that prayer is the most powerful thing I can do for the lives that walk through my door every day, and it is the only way to help keep peace in my heart and mind as I face a new school year.

Will you join me in praying for “that” classroom?  Mine, but also “that” classroom your child, grandchild, teacher friend, or even random stranger is stepping back into for the start of a new year.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Philippians 4:6 

The Cost of Convenience

This week we are at church camp- an adventure we dearly love!  However, one small problem at camp is that snacks are not always readily available (and face it- no camp canteen has healthy snacks).  This would usually be a great chance to exercise self-discipline in my eating habits, but currently my body is busy making “heart milk” (as (a) calls it) for (b) and I am pretty much starving all the time.  Wanting to plan ahead, I made a little shopping trip before leaving for camp to stock up on some healthy (or at least high in calcium and protein) snacks.  I wanted things that would be easy and require no prep, after all I don’t have access to the kitchen, nor did I want to drag my entire kitchen with me. 

As I shopped for snacks that met my requirement list, I was reminded of one thing in particular… convenience can be very costly.  It is much cheaper to buy a block of cheese than to get individual packs of string cheese- but a block of cheese then requires a knife and a baggie to put it in once it is cut up.  I’m usually a pretty frugal gal, so the block of cheese is my normal route, but as I mentioned earlier, for this trip I put emphasis on convenience.  For string cheese and individual chocolate milk bottles, I was willing to pay the price.  However, there are other conveniences where I’m just not willing to pay the price.

I was not exactly convenient to come to camp with a 4 week old baby and a still sore body, but the price for staying home would be missing out on being used by God in the lives of the campers this week.  That was a price I’m not willing to pay.  It is not convenient to give up sleep, plan lessons, and juggle a small amount of teen drama, but the price for avoiding that would be missing out on answering important faith questions and the chance to mentor teens in their faith- that is a price (A) and I aren’t willing to pay.

It is handy when life is convenient, but it comes with a cost.  While I’ll pay for string cheese, some cost is just not worth it.  It wasn’t convenient for Jesus to go to the cross, but then my sin wouldn’t have been covered, and I thank God every day that leaving me in my sin is a price he wasn’t willing to pay.

I’m so glad Jesus took the road that wasn’t convenient… and for this week we are too!  Please keep praying throughout this week for our amazing campers and faculty at this week of camp.

Laughing at Myself

Some people are born for greatness- it seems everything they touch turns to gold or great success.  Others are born with great talents that we admire with amazement.  I however was born with an innate ability to get in ridiculous, awkward situations.  More than once (or ok… more than probably 10 times) I have acquired bizarre injuries from things such as empty cardboard boxes, plastic water pitchers, or my own fingernail (and once from someone else’s fingernail). 

It has been a family joke most of my life, that if some ridiculous injury happens or situation arises, guarantee I am involved in it.  Because of this, I learned early on that there were only two ways to cope.  I could have a total meltdown, cry, and feel sorry for myself, or simply learn to laugh at myself and the situations I found myself in.  Now, I will certainly admit that from time to time “total meltdown” was the choice I made (sometimes still make), but in most situations, I have learned to simply laugh at myself. 

I wish I could tell you that I had mostly outgrown this “special ability” but, nope, not in the least.  I have actually found that as a mom, somedays it seems to plague me even more.  There are days where I feel like I MIGHT potentially be the mom version of Wonder Woman… we actually are all clean, dressed, fed, get a nap, and possibly even show up someplace ON TIME.  Then there are days like yesterday…

With a little bit of laughter we are all surviving my "Mom Game"

Due to a minor complication I had with (b)’s birth, I have to run to the next town south every Monday for bloodwork.  It really is pretty simple- I can show up any time of the day I would like, and I am only in the building about 5 minutes from the time I walk in until I walk back out.  (A) is back at work and I did not want to bother him and I was feeling a little like it might be a Wonder Woman Mom day, so I just decided to take both boys with me.  The drive is about 25 mins from our house, and when I arrived at the doctor’s office I looked in the rearview mirror to discover both of them were sound asleep.  I’m currently not cleared to carry any more weight than the baby, so carrying (a) is COMPLETELY out of the question and I have to take (b) out of his car seat because I can’t handle the weight of him and the seat.  I spent over 10 minutes trying to wake (a) for the 5 minute procedure and by waking (b) he decided he was hungry.  My visions of the Wonder Woman suit were quickly fading to reveal my purple v-neck tee and denim capris.  As usual, I was only in the building a few minutes (though it was more like 7 minutes this week because everyone wanted to see the baby).  When we got back out to the car I decided it would save a lot of tears if I just hopped in the back seat and fed the baby before we took off.  It was only 72 degrees outside and had a nice breeze, so instead of starting the car I just rolled all the windows down a couple inches to let the air flow through.  I climbed in the backseat, shut the door, and snuggled up with the (b) for him to eat.  He finished in about 15 minutes, I buckled him into his baby seat, (a) was enjoying more of his nap, and once again I was starting to feel like a great success… until I tried to open the door.  It wouldn’t open.  No problem, I will just flip the lock and climb out.  Still didn’t open.  At that point it hit me… several months ago (a) was discovering his independence, and I turned the “child locks” on both doors in the backseat for his safety.  You know… those child locks where it is impossible to open the door from the inside, it can only be opened from the outside.  This wouldn’t have been a huge deal if there had been another adult along, or if it was a busy parking lot where I could have yelled out the cracked window for a passerby.  But… it was not a busy parking lot, I was by myself, and I was not in our town where I could have easily called (A), nor did I have my phone with me in the backseat.  Also, when I mentioned my denim capri pants early I failed to say they were REAL pants… not maternity pants, not yoga pants, but bonafied button/zipper denim capris… 3 weeks post c-section.  I’m still not exactly in acrobat shape… especially in real pants.  Cue panic… I really wasn’t sure what I was going to do and our bright eyed little (b) was watching me with a big grin on his face.  At 3 weeks old, it was like he already knew of his mom’s reputation for the ridiculous/awkward.  After several minutes and failed attempts, I finally managed to rearrange (b)’s seat so that I could (very UNgracefully) wiggle and climb and flop through the small console cut out and into the front passenger seat of my car.  As I let myself out and returned to the back seat to secure the baby seat back in place, I made sure to turn OFF the child lock on that side and realized I was laughing out loud.  There was no one else who saw me, (a) was asleep so he wouldn’t tell, and thankfully (b) can’t talk yet, but I couldn’t help but keep laughing as I realized how incredibly ridiculous I must have looked and how I’m sure there is NO ONE else I know who could have gotten themselves in such a silly situation. 

As I told someone the other day, it is a good thing that awesome concealer, a great pair of Spanx, and a face filled with JOY cover a multitude of flaws in my mom-game.  I may not have the Wonder Woman Mom suit, but that’s ok, I don’t think I could laugh as much at her as I get to laugh at ME.

“Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.  Then it was said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.”” Psalm 126:2

Learning to Love Again

We are two weeks in to life as a family of four.  There have been some things about it that did not surprise me- I knew it would be a challenge, I knew it would be worth it, I knew I would be tired and sore.  But there have been other things that surprised me- the main one being I would end up learning to love all over again. 

I knew I would have no trouble loving a new little boy, I knew my heart would expand for him, but I didn’t know that having a second would teach me to love my first all over again.  I was not prepared for how much more I would love (a) as I watch him adore his baby brother, watch him truly be a helper to us, watch his huge independent personality soften as he gently offered to help me off the couch or help me walk as he saw me in pain.  His new role as “big brother” has brought out a whole other side of him that I love more each day.

I didn’t know I would learn how to love my husband over again.  From the first day he became a Dad, I have adored how much he loves his son, appreciated what a “hands on” parent he is, have marveled at his patience, and thanked God that he is my partner in parenting- but now that there are two, I am learning to love him all over again.  As I sat in the nursery in the middle of the night last night, I stared across the hall to our empty bed… empty because he is a teamwork kind of dad- I was in the nursery with a baby who doesn’t sleep, and he was in the “cowboy bed” with a three year old who doesn’t sleep.  I love how hard he is trying to make sure each of the boys has special time with him because it is important to (A) that each of them feels like an individual.  I love how willingly he takes turns so that I can also grab a few minutes of sleep here and there, and how hard he is trying to be involved even though this crazy broken arm is making some tasks hard. 

I have learned to love my friends all over again.  Some who are far, but have still checked on me faithfully day after day since they can’t be here in person.  Friends who are planning trips to bridge our miles because they still value the friendship with our family and want to meet this new little one.  A friend who I know really means “call me” because she answered her phone at 3:00 am and came to my aide.  Friends who have fed us day after day and others who have sent cards, gifts, calls, and messages across our distance.  These gestures have reminded me that the love of friends really can hold you up.

I’m learning to love a baby all over again- someone who can’t communicate with more than a cry, but who has snuggled his way so quickly into my heart.  He has reminded me that love isn’t just a feeling, but a choice, and a verb, and a sacrifice.

I am learning to love myself again.  I have struggled my whole life with body image and insecurity, but with more gnarly scars and darker circles under my eyes, I am learning to appreciate this body for getting to be part of a miracle, and to be thankful for great health, even if it doesn’t look exactly like I want it to.

And as our family takes on our “new normal” as a party of 4, I fall more in love with my Creator each day.  I’m more and more thankful for the blessings he has given me- the little ones and big ones.  I see more and more how much his sacrifice for me cost Him, as I learn about loving my sons.  I am more and more appreciative of His grace as I see how quickly and easily, I fail.

Parenthood truly is the adventure of a lifetime, and I love it.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  The dirty diapers and sleepless nights won’t last forever (at least I sure hope not!) but the lessons I’m learning in how to love all over again will last for my entire life.

“And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.  God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.” 1 John 4:16

 

The Best Laid Plans

By nature I’m a planner.  A preparer.  I like to know what is coming next and be ready for it.  But sometimes God has a subtle (or sometimes not so subtle) way of reminding me that life doesn’t always go as I planned.

On Saturday, June 29 we went to a pool party at the home of some friends.  While focusing on watching (a), (A) did not watch himself as closely.  He slipped on one of the pool steps and in trying to catch himself he landed on his arm in just the wrong way.  A few hours and some x-rays later we had confirmation of what we already were pretty sure of… it was broken.  In 2 places.  The kind nurse at urgent care took one look at me and said “Oh bless your heart- this is bad timing.  That baby is coming soon!” Yes… it was 10 days before our scheduled c-section and my head was swirling with “Oh no!”  (A) was put in a splint at a 90 degree bend up above his elbow and all the way down to his fingers.  All I could think about was the stress of what he couldn’t do.  How was he going to mow the yard?  How would he drive me around after surgery?  How would he help with the baby in the hospital?  I had already booked newborn family pictures- how were we going to hide this huge cast in pictures I was already looking forward to printing and hanging all over our walls? All my plans were starting to worry me.  I just kept taking relief in the fact that we still had 10 more days.  Once he was in his “official” hard cast we would know more.  A lot of healing could happen in 10 days.  I was going to take comfort in that.

The next day was Sunday afternoon and we had a relaxing family day.  I put a couple finishing touches on my preparations for baby- a little extra cleaning on the infant seat, some hand washing on the diaper bag that has been put away for a year.  I was feeling good that I was at least in control of those preparations and had them ready with PLENTY of time to spare.  I went to bed around 10:30 feeling a little hormonally sorry for myself as I continued to worry about (A)’s arm, the pain he was dealing with, and how I was going to add his new list of dr appointments to all the pre-op appointments I was looking at for the week.  I wasn’t completely sure how I would juggle it all. 

Around 1:00 in the morning I woke up with what I thought was a cramp in my back.  I was sure it was just from being 38 weeks pregnant and sleeping in a weird position.  I rearranged myself and it went away… only to return a few minutes later.  After this repeated itself about 3 times I started to wonder what was going on.  I couple more “come and go” cramps later I had the thought… I wonder if this could be contractions.  I never had one with (a) as he had been a breech baby and therefore a scheduled c-section.  The method of his arrival was why I was scheduled for a repeat surgery, and due to some of my medical factors we were very much hoping to avoid spontaneous labor.  One of my medications needed to be completely out of my system before surgery, and things would work more smoothly if we could time that all in a planned way.  Around 2:00 am I found myself Googling “What do contractions feel like?” I began timing them and realized yes… these were definitely contractions coming consistently 6 minutes apart.  I went downstairs to wake up (A) who was sleeping in the recliner where he could prop up his throbbing broken arm, and unbeknownst to me had JUST taken some pain medication. 

As I cried telling him I thought I was in labor all I could say was “It wasn’t supposed to be this way! This ISN’T the plan!!”  All I could think about were the appointments that we were supposed to go to throughout the week so that my medical team and I would be prepared for delivery.  We didn’t have his broken arm “set” yet, we were supposed to be meeting our new pediatrician…. But despite the plan, by 3:00 am there was no doubt I was in labor.  I called my mom and told her I thought she needed to pack a bag and head west, then I called my dear friend Angie and asked if she could come to the house and stay with (a) until my mom could arrive in a few hours. 

While I took a quick shower, fixed my hair, and put on my make-up (and if you know me personally, none of that list surprises you about me!) I was thankful that I am a planner and preparer- my hospital bag was ready with everything the baby and I needed.  The infant seat was freshly washed and ready to roll… and then as we got ready to walk out the door (A) admitted that he had taken some of his pain medication just an hour and a half before.  He should NOT be driving.  So… having contractions 5 minutes apart at this point, I drove us 25 minutes to the hospital.  It was one of those laugh or cry moments as I looked at us- we chose to laugh and think about the story we will have to tell our boys someday.

Within a couple hours, they confirmed what I knew in my heart… ready or not (b) was going to make his arrival on July 1^st.  Eight days ahead of “the plan”, without the pre-op appointments that were going to bring me peace of mind, a lot of physical limitations from my normally very helpful hubby, and chasing the clock for my meds to be out of my system.  Completely out of my control and out of the plan- all I could do through my fear was pray and trust that God DID have control of the situation, and He knew the ultimate plan.  As I lay in the hospital bed hooked up to machines and being prepped for surgery the song our kids had learned at VBS just the week before seemed stuck on repeat in my head.  It felt a little silly to me, but as I let myself think through the words a little wave of peace washed over me “I’m trusting You, God, You are good! Life can get crazy, wild, and amazing, I’m trusting You God, You are good!”

At 11:42 am, weighing 7 lbs, 1 oz, and 20 inches long- baby (b) entered our lives with the most precious cry and perfect reminder that even outside of my plan- God is good.  I was surrounded by a great medical team who proceeded with grace and confidence as if all was happening as scheduled.  And on the eve of what was supposed to be his birthday in MY plan, instead we are celebrating a whole week of blessings.  He is precious, ADORED by his big brother, and has multiplied the JOY in our home.  None of it went the way I had planned (and I’ll admit- a few pieces have still been a little trickier because of that), but it has been a beautiful reminder of God’s faithfulness, and to ultimately trust HIM for the plan. 

“A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord determines his steps.” Proverbs 16:9   

The Things We Do for Love

Last night, around 6:00, I was busy putting eye liner on my husband.  If you don’t know us well that statement may surprise you.  But, if you ever spent much time in ministry around us nothing about that statement surprised you- instead you just wondered what crazy costume (A) was dressing up in this time.  (For the record it was Pharaoh)

This morning I will give myself the 234^th shot of this pregnancy (with another 30ish still to go).  The needle is small, it really isn’t a huge deal.  I did it before with (a) as well, so this is “old hat” by now.

In the past week we have watched “Fievel Goes West” 17 times. 

Over the past year we have put thousands of miles on our vehicles driving across I-64 to be back in Indiana for 24 short hours at a time. 

For the past 3 ½ years we have given up countless hours of sleep, sacrificed the last of our favorite foods, turned the channel to cartoons when we didn’t want to, and answered 40 million “why?” questions a day.

The things we do for love.   And most of the time, we honestly don’t even realize we are doing them, because when we do things for love we often don’t think too much about the sacrifice.  Instead, we think of what it will mean for someone else. 

When I mentioned to (A) last night that I brought some black eyeliner for his Pharaoh costume, he didn’t even flinch.  He’s a pretty “manly man,” but when it comes to ministry with kids, there isn’t much he won’t do to get them excited and interested in the lesson or situation.  And because I know what he will do for the love of ministry, I knew he wouldn’t even think twice.  The things we do for love.

When I take my shot each day, I don’t often think about the needle prick or the bruise it usually leaves behind on my lower belly.  Instead, I think about how much I love being a mom, how much I cherish the opportunity to help God create a miracle, and I stop to pray for that little life growing inside of me.  I consider it such a small price to pay for the joy we will meet in a few short weeks.  The things we do for love.

The Cowboy keeps us up at night, always seems to prefer was is on our plates, has his own set of favorite shows and movies, would drive a hard bargain with even the best trained lawyer you could find, and can come up with questions even a bonified genius couldn’t answer.  But somehow (MOST of the time), we barely even notice as we pass over the last of our delicious pork chop or favorite ice cream, stumble to stay awake, or answer the questions and navigate the bargaining table.  The grin on his face, the unprompted “I love you”s, and the blessing of a healthy, growing little boy make those small sacrifices to pay.  The things we do for love. 

We spend more hours on the road than hours together just to see precious friends and family.  We spend money, give up time, go the extra mile, settle for someone else’s favorite, and repeat that decision over and over again without even thinking about it… because we are willing to do those things for love.  And if you are willing to do those things for love, I’m pretty sure it is because you can look back over the years and know someone who showed you that kind of sacrificial love as well.    They modeled it, they set an example.  It wasn’t usually a big grand gesture, it was part of every day life, it was something they rarely thought twice about- instead they just did it.  The things we do for love.

It was ultimately modeled by Jesus, the greatest example of sacrificial love ever.  And though I don’t deserve it, I’m thankful everyday for the continual blessings He gives to me… The things He will do for love.

“We love because He first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

Joy in Every Stage

With baby (b) making his arrival in just a few short weeks, over the weekend we made our last “pre-baby” trip to Indiana.  There was a LOT we wanted to cram in to two days because quite honestly, we aren’t sure when my body will be up to the trip again.  One thing was NOT up for debate as we tried to prioritize what we wanted to do- and that was pony riding time for the cowboy.  Since our last trip, we have heard nearly daily about how much he misses his ponies and how badly he wants to go “back to da farm and ride my ponies!” 

As I watched the huge smile on his face riding out in the round pen on Friday and Saturday mornings, I couldn’t help but marvel at how independent he has become.  In many ways it feels like just yesterday that we brought him home.  I always knew time passed quickly, but it seems to pass even morning quickly as a parent.  While I would sometimes like to slow time down, I also know that I do not want to stop it because if I did that, there would still be so much I would miss. 

It is often our tendency as parents to want to keep them little forever, after all, that sweet snuggly stage is so much fun.  But since we can’t do that, (A) and I have made it our firm resolution to enjoy EVERY stage because there really are incredible milestones at every age and there is joy to be found in each step of the journey.

One of our many stops on Friday was to the saddle shop.  We had decided it was time to invest in a saddle for (a) that fits him correctly so that he can continue to feel independent, and honestly it is safer for him as well.  He was SO proud as they helped him make sure it was a correct size and fit.  He told them he wanted a “sticky saddle” (more suede than smooth leather) and announced this would be for him and his baby brother someday.  When the choice had been made, he insisted on carrying it out to the car himself.   I giggled as I watched him, but couldn’t help but find joy in how confidently he had talked to the owners of the shop and how blessed I feel that (even though it means he is growing up) he is strong enough tackle something that large on his own.  The next morning, he again insisted on carrying the saddle himself as my sister helped him put it on his pony.  He then confidently rode to the round pen and proudly showed off his “skills.”  Skills he only has because he is growing up.  (And I realize I’m totally biased, but I’m pretty impressed at what he can do with a horse for only being 3 years old!)

He is no longer our “baby,” but that’s ok- because there is JOY in this stage too.  There is joy in watching our little boy finding hobbies he loves.  There is joy in watching him speak up for himself.  There is joy in seeing him bloom with confidence as he learns more and more each day.  And I don’t want to keep him little forever, because I don’t want to miss out on those joys. 

I pray that someday, there will be the joy of watching academic milestones, there will be a driver’s license, watching him move out on his own, hopefully even a precious wife and watching him become a parent himself.  And while I hope all these things are a LONG time off, I don’t want to stop time, because I don’t want to miss out on the joy of those milestones too. 

If I choose to focus on the joy of this journey, then I’m also not sad to see him grow.  I think back to the snuggly days with fondness, I enjoy flipping through pictures, it does blow my mind at how quickly it has happened, but it doesn’t make me sad and it doesn’t make me long for the past- because I’m too busy marveling at the joy in THIS day.

“And the child grew and became strong; he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was on him.” Luke 2:40

Marked by His Love for Me

Growing up (and honestly even still) there were things about my dad that I questioned.  We often questioned his choice of clothing (the 90’s was NOT a good decade for his wardrobe), we still question his eating habits (I just can’t fall in love with taco meat on oatmeal), and we girls still sometimes question his idea that ANYTHING could be recycled and used over and over again.  However, there was one thing that we NEVER questioned- and that was his love for us. 

My dad has farmed full-time for his entire life, as his dad did as well.  Agriculture is an industry that I am fiercely loyal to, and SO incredibly thankful for my roots in it.  However, it is also an industry where for many years people just assumed that any farmer who was worth anything would want SONS to work with and someday take over the business.  I truly can’t tell you how many times I heard people say to my dad (with sympathy) phrases like “Oh… no boys” or “Too bad you don’t have any boys to help you.”  It could be a little disheartening to hear people talk about you like you weren’t worth as much because you were a girl- but my dad was ALWAYS so quick to speak up and defend his girls.  He was quick to tell people that he wouldn’t trade us and that he would trust us with anything that a boy could have done.  Never once did he let people talk down to us because we were girls, and we always knew our worth in his eyes.  And he often added humor to his “defense speech” by telling people that his high school dream was to “ride around with a truck full of beautiful women, and I now get to do that all the time.”  It left people chuckling, but he was always very clear that he meant what he said about how much he valued his daughters.

If you know my sisters and I personally, and know our personalities, you might find this surprising, but… contrary to popular belief, I honestly am the daughter who gave our father the most gray hairs- literally.  The summer of 1996 I was a twelve year old girl, and as most twelve year old girls, I struggled with self-confidence.  The night of our 4-H beef show was one of those especially difficult nights.  My show heifer had been a little hard to deal with, and I was struggling a LOT with finding the confidence to continue with my show commitments that evening.  My dad was a firm believer that we did not give up and we did not quit.  In trying to help bring me around he starting joking with me about the cattle clippers and got me teasing him about giving him a haircut of my choice.  That led to him making a deal with me that if I could pull myself together and go be the best me he knew I could be, then after the evening’s show was finished, I could give him any haircut of my choosing.  I didn’t back down from a deal with my dad, so I managed to start pulling myself together.  I went back into the show ring that evening to compete in showmanship.  That is the class where the judging is not about the animal, but the judge is actually judging the showman’s knowledge, presence, and ability to present the animal at it’s best.  Not only did I pull myself together enough to compete that evening, I managed to win showmanship.

 In keeping his part of the deal, my dad cheerfully sat himself down on a feed bucket in the cattle barn that evening in front of 50 or so onlookers as I gave him a haircut of my choosing.  It was reverse mohawk and I absolutely peeled him as close as possible down the middle of his scalp.  We had a great laugh about it that night, and it was a great lesson in what dad was willing to go through to see us do our best.  The next day he was scheduled to grill steaks for the Cattlemen’s food stand which he did while proudly wearing a t-shirt that said “My Daughter Did This.”  Of course he didn’t wear a hat because it would have covered his great “new do” but he also didn’t think to wear sunscreen on his peeled scalp and ended the day with a pretty intense sunburn down the middle of his head.

 It was a haircut we thought would just be good for some laughs for a few weeks and a fun memory.  But, in just a couple weeks, as his hair began growing back in… it became very obvious that there were going to be more lasting effects of this haircut.  The hair that was growing back, right down the center of my dad’s dark brown, was silvery white.  Apparently, something about the sunburn had affected his hair follicles and he was permanently marked with a “skunk stripe” right down the middle of his head.  And still to this day, over 20 years later, he bears that mark.  As the rest of his hair has slowly begun to gray, it isn’t QUITE as noticeable now as it was for many years, but still pretty apparent if you know what to look for.  And he doesn’t let me forget it.  Just a few weeks ago he had a fresh haircut for my sister’s wedding and walked into the living room where I was sitting, bent over, and pointed to show me his head.  We didn’t have to say a word to each other, we both just smiled and laughed.  He will always bear my marks. 

As I think about how incredibly thankful I am for my dad, I think about how much I learned about my heavenly Father through the lessons he showed us.  See, I also have a Father who wants me to always remember my worth to Him.  Over and over in His Word he reminds me that I am loved, and valued, and cherished, and known by Him.  And He is a Father who was willing to bear my marks- they are in his hands, and feet, and side because He was the ultimate example of sacrificial love for His children. 

Both my fathers are marked by their love for me.  I am richly blessed.

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!  And that is what we are!...” 1 John 3:1