That's a plastic fork. In my Christmas tree.
And that's another one.
That is all.
That's not all, though. I noticed, back when I had a measly 3 kids, that on other mornings, I could get all of us ready more easily than on Sunday. It was hard, but Sundays were killer. And, when I finished and we were all loaded in the car, on other days I felt like "phew. ok, now we can get on with _____." On Sundays, though, I was (am?) a crazy person. My mind is my enemy. Here's a small peek:
"I can't believe I couldn't find those shoes. I'm a terrible mom. She's wearing tennis shoes with her dress. Who lets their 2-year-old wear tennis shoes with a dress? No one who has their act together. At least she has on a dress. I should have just put her in jeans since I couldn't find the shoes. But none of her jeans are clean. Because I suck. I can't even keep us all in clean clothes. And, of course, I'm late. If one person says a single thing about how I'm late I'll tell them to shove it. I'll smile and say the minute they think they can get 5 kids aged 8 ready, in addition to themselves, they're welcome to take over, because I'm clearly bad at it. No. I'll just say they're welcome to come help me at any time and leave it at that. Kill 'em with kindness. or passive-aggressiveness, whatever. And if they say something about the shoes..."
Of course, this internal dialogue is punctuated by 47 questions until I finally yell, "I don't know! No more questions this morning!" Which in turn starts a whole new guilt-circle. "Why did I yell at them? I want them to ask questions. That's how lifelong learners are created. Will I ruin their curiosity if I keep this up?..."
Now, you might think that people routinely blast me at church, based on my statements above. But they don't. At least not at this church. So why do I get myself all worked up imagining insults? Because that's how Satan works. I don't believe in "the devil made me do it." I do believe he is alive and well, and does his best work by whispering our own failures into our ears. He makes it sound like it's our own voice (saying I'm a terrible mom) or others (who would bother to say something about my daughter's shoes?).
Almost without fail, I arrive at church on Sunday morning completely defeated. People smile and say, "How are you today?" I very often reply, "I'm here." I'm saying that it took every ounce of my energy and will to get here, but now I'm done. It's part truth and part shield. I am afraid they're going to say something negative; I hope that if they understand just how vulnerable I am at that moment, they won't.
An amazing thing often happens, though. By the time I get to church, I'm already broken. I'm already crying out for God's grace to relieve me from the misery of myself. I worship and I learn. I am made new, over and over again. I am able to say to Satan what Joseph said to his brothers: "You planned evil against me, but God turned it for good."
So, late this Saturday night, I'm doing something I've never done before. I'm welcoming it. Bring it, punk. My heart immediately says, "No! I take it back! Scott's preaching tomorrow! I don't want to be late!" But, I've been learning lessons lately about welcoming, even enjoying the hard times, because they make me stronger; they make me who I am meant to be. I mean, if it weren't for those two lines, I wouldn't be writing this now. I might be preparing to run a half-marathon tomorrow, but I wouldn't have run the marathon required of me this year. As hard as these lessons have been to learn, I wouldn't trade them.
I'm ready for tomorrow.
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| Yes, my mirror is dirty. You got somethin' to say? |
I considered starting a new blog, but I knew that I would never keep up 2 different blogs. Then I realized that reading about the ridiculousness of my daily life can only help people to understand the moments when I come to a new realization. I love Beth Moore. But I can't be her. I do not always have nice hair. I am lucky to have clean hair. I have to be the kind of person who will tell you about the time that her 2-year old would smear poop everywhere at every opportunity he got (and she consequently nearly lost her mind). The kind of person who would love to use cloth diapers but simply can't even keep clothes, blankets, sheets, and towels clean for 7 people. The kind of person who looks at her kid and cracks up because of what just came out of their mouth, leaving the kid standing there looking at her like, "What?" or, probably, "What is wrong with my mother? Are all mothers like this?" Or the one that laughs when she finds a poop trail because if she didn't laugh, she'd cry. The kind of person who sometimes has to abandon her family and head to Starbucks with a Bible and my macbook because I so badly need to hear what God has to tell me... and to write it down.
I have to be that kind of person, because I am her. As a kid and teenager, I flip-flopped back and forth between trying to be the cool girl or the perfect girl (the two stereotypical pastor's kids). Then it was the perfect wife, then perfect mom, the crafty mom, the hippie mom, even the laid-back mom. None of those quite fit. They were like the PE clothes I got in 6th grade. I ordered a size medium because I desperately wanted to be a size medium and I didn't want the other girls to know I really needed a large. All that year, I had to wear too-small PE shorts, when my friends were wearing baggy ones. They were tight, and I felt like everyone could see just how fat I was (I probably wasn't actually fat, but I was a junior high girl, and unfortunately, that's somewhat normal in our culture). I realized that it didn't matter what the tag said; what mattered is how it fit me. So, I'm on an adventure to figure out just what type of writing fits me.
I'd like to invite you to come along with me as I share the stories of the daily life of someone whose cup is so full that it's always spilling over. Sometimes it's a beautiful mess, sometimes it's just a hot mess. Either way, I'll share and I hope we can help each other along the way.
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| This is my actual laundry. Not all of it, of course! |
I was nursing the baby. She spit up on me. I added "to put on clean clothes" to my mental list of defeat. That was the metaphorical straw. Never mind that it was only a bit. Never mind that I hadn't even showered today, so to shower at night is no big deal. Never mind that I wasn't going anywhere. Never mind that I actually had another clean nursing tank (not in my drawer, but the pile on the couch). The tears fell out, unable to be held back.
Then, she looked right at me in the near-dark.
All was not right with the world. But it was bearable. I thanked God for that small (and, at the same time, huge) gift.
I will not be able to keep the house clean any time soon. There will be overflowing hampers for years to come. (I can hear my mother's voice telling me that doesn't have to be true. She's so optimistic. It does for me - my emotions, my kids, my job, it will be true for some time, I'm sure.) But, there will also be smiles and giggles in this house. There will be cuddles and stories read and told. There will be PB&J dinners at the table and tents in the living room. There will not always be baby smiles and coos. I will miss this someday, they tell me. Someday, I will gladly trade the empty hampers and couches, the clean kitchen counters and even uninterrupted writing time to get back a big baby smile and sweet coo in the near-dark.
I try to do all that other stuff because it's necessary. I try and fail and fail in so many categories. But my babies are loved. More importantly, they know they are loved. I'd rather fail at everything else than at that.
God spoke to me today. Little old me. How much he must love me to speak to me personally.
I realized I had been focusing on how much I hated Las Vegas.
Above all the noise in my head, one sentence stood out. God said clearly, "What you dwell on will become your reality."
I don't know if I've heard that before or not. It may not be original. I do know God said it to me this morning. I hope that, perhaps, He's saying it to you right now.
You don't need blogs or music for God to speak to you, but I pray that He may occasionally use me and this blog to speak to someone, some time.
Fast forward to two days ago, a friend posted on Facebook that she had bunk beds she was selling. I bypassed the post entirely, until Scott asked if we should ask about them for the girls' room. My first reaction was, "We don't have the money." and then "Why?" The more we thought about it, the more we realized that if we had bunk beds in their room, #1 could cuddle and read with #4 - one thing we all love about them sharing a room - and then go back up to her bunk where her sister couldn't reach! Brilliant! We worked it out with our friend, and got the bunk beds all set up this evening. What's even better is that a few weeks ago, another family friend approached me to say that she knew her daughter's quilt and my daughter's quilt were the same, and she didn't need hers anymore, so did I want it? I almost turned her down, thinking that #4 would be in her toddler bed, and whenever we bought a house they wouldn't share anymore... but she was excited and I found myself saying sure! [You have to understand how much I like matching and coordinating. Ever since my youngest son was born, they have shared a room, so they have also always had matching blankets. It makes me happy, even if I know it is entirely unnecessary.] Tonight, I put two of my girls to bed in their new beds, with matching quilts, the oldest safely out of reach.
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| Look up top. That is one happy little girl. |
Did I mention these bunk beds have little shelves above their heads? I've always liked that kind (a friend had them growing up). More importantly, it gives #1 a little bit of personal space, something that a young girl with 2 younger brothers and who shares her room with a 1-year old sister doesn't get much of. Something that I have coveted for her for a long time. She had her own room until about a year ago, when #4 moved in, which wasn't too bad until she grew out of her crib. Then, she had nothing. She's had to hide and constantly move her special things, and sometimes throw them out when one of the youngers ruined it. My heart hurts when that happens. It might just be a picture she drew, but it's heartbreaking when she sees that one of them has ruined something her 8-year old heart cherished. What makes it even harder is that she generally has a good attitude about it. She gets this resigned look on her face and says, "Oh." and retrieves what's left. To give her one little shelf to hold and hide all her little girl treasures makes my heart smile. What's better is, I didn't ask for that. God knew it, though. He knew the desires of my heart - and hers, I'm sure - and granted them when I didn't even think to ask. He fixed my problem and threw in the solution to another one as well.
Now, I feel like such a doof. I mean, really. I angrily told God to fix it, and I don't really know if I truly expected Him to do it. I certainly didn't expect to have the answer a week later. The idea of bunk beds never crossed my mind. So, remind me, why do I have such a hard time trusting Him??
My mom asked me the other day, “What is it about having another baby that’s so bad?” And I didn’t really have a good answer. She said it was that it wasn’t in my plans, and that’s a part of it - a big part, even. But there’s something more. There’s something about it that made my faith fall and threaten to shatter into a million pieces, and I can’t place it.
I think I feel like God failed me, which, when I think about the circumstances, is weird. Over and over again I’ve heard from well-meaning mouths, “Oh, well God just wanted you to have another one!” or “God must have special plans for this one/you.” We’ve had surprise pregnancies before - 3 others, in fact (a whole other post). But, with those, I could clearly trace back to some little - or big - thing that could make it my fault (don’t worry, no details forthcoming). This time, we crossed all our t’s, dotted all the i’s. Hubby had a vasectomy. He had a 6-month test. Test came back negative. One month later, I’m pregnant (although we didn’t know for another few weeks). This is weird because this was the time I thought *I* had it all under control. I wasn’t relying on God to not get pregnant, I was relying solely on my decisions. All those other times, when I made mistakes, that’s when it was “up to God” to stop it, right? This time, I was saying, “We got this! No worries, it’s all under control here.”
But this time, it’s either a mistake from the doctor, or God who made it happen. Or, most likely, both - God used a mistake from the doctor to give us Jordan. I had to stop after writing that, and smile at His ways. He gave us Jordan. After we decided on the name (after she was born), my dad told me that the Jordan River is symbolic of obedience in the Bible. Jesus was baptized there, an act of obedience. The Israelites crossed the Jordan River in obedience to go into the Promised Land. So, God gave us obedience when we were trying to control our life. And, once we accepted obedience as the right course of action, we were blessed. (more on her name later, it's good stuff, if I do say so myself)
I look at her now, peacefully sleeping, and wonder why I did think it was so bad. And I remember times when she’s screaming, the 18-month old is trying to pat her too hard, the 3-year old is yelling and fighting with the 5-year old and the 8-year old is yelling “STOP FIGHTING!” in an attempt to help. All those times when I feel like the stress of this many kids is going to swallow me whole. All those times when I look around and think simply, “I can’t do this.” But that’s what He wants, isn’t it? He wants me to turn to Him and say, “I can’t. You go ahead.”
I guess, again and again, it comes back to who is in control. I have to rely on God even more now. I don’t have the resources for 5 kids. I don’t have the time, patience, or money to do all that I want for my kids. So, I have to turn to him and let Him take care of them. Which is what He was wanting all along. I was mad because I wanted to handle life without needing Him. I wanted to manage, like I had been, struggling with my 4, but doing so on my own (and by on my own, I mean, me and Scott). I didn't want to have to rely on Him. Me in control. My plans, my work, my reward. Apparently, God has more for me. HIS plans, HIS work through me, HIS GLORY, His blessings. I keep forgetting that this life is not about me. It’s about Him and what He wants and His glory, not my plans or my control or my ability to handle things. So, maybe Mom was right ... at least a little bit. ;) [love you, Mom!]
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