The Notable Blogger

Father’s Day finds us again. Just us. My man, our children, his favorite pie, a new atlas for the perpetual explorer, a pile of handmade cards reflecting varying degrees of ability and all slathered with love for him.

No other father shares the pie, not his, not mine.

One was carried too soon away; one walked too easily of his own accord. One left memories, the other scars.

I watch my girls with their father, and I smile, and I cry.

There is something beautiful, something touching, something indescribable and wonderful about a father who loves his girls.

There is a hidden blessing in the casual way they take him for granted, knowing he will come home, knowing he will sit at the head of the table, knowing he will lead his family in prayer, knowing he will set them back on the path when they stray, never doubting, never questioning, just knowing.

And I smile, and I envy, and I praise God for him on his day, every day.

And when I miss what might have been, and long for what will be, I remember that, although He takes no pie, my Father is here, loving, leading, setting me back on His path. There is something beautiful in just knowing.

A few of the gems I collect when I really pay attention to the unintentional comedians in my midst, God’s little gifts of laughter:

From a then four-year-old Hannah paging through our now-worn story Bible:

“Look Mommy! It’s a picture of Adam and Evil.”

From Elijah, apparently quite fed up with beans lately:

“There’s nothing that I hate in this food. Cool!”

From my then three-year-old Marissa trying to call her aunt in Wisconsin and getting the phone answerer:

“Mommy, the washing machine is talking to me.”

From my nine-year-old Elisabeth, the philosophical one:

Me: What is discord?

Elisabeth: Unplugging cords.

A conversation among many after a trail ride in Bryce Canyon:

“I’m glad we got to ride horses instead of the plodding mules.”

“Plotting mules? What were they plotting?”

“World domination.”

“I doubt mules would really want to take over the world.”

“It could happen.”

“Nah. They’re too slow.”

From a superhero:

Elijah: Are there any bad guys here?

Me: Nope.

Elijah: Good, ’cause I don’t want to have to fight anyone.

Emily watching the luge:

“If I were in the Olympics, I would throw up.”

Children with goals:

Elisabeth (9 years): “When I grow up I’m going to go through all the corn mazes I can find.”

Hannah: (13 years): I wanna be an old lady when I grow up, ‘cuz old ladies rock!

Elisabeth: Oooo, I want to be an old lady, too, so I can sit in a rocking chair and knit.

My son, eating my food:

“Mommy, I think you really need to get your OWN pancake.”

Elijah, naturally:

“Mommy, there’s chocolate spilled on the table. Should I taste it off?”

Elijah at the chess table for an hour:

“I’m playing chess. The knight is throwing all the bad guys in the lava. I call him Superman.”

I stayed up far too late listening to my then six-year-old Emily read me her entire journal. She ended with a reminder and a warning:

“Remember, Mommy, you’re not supposed to read my journal.”

Whispered by a confused Elijah when visiting a church with a cross hanging behind the altar. The Jesus carving on the cross looked remarkably like the David from his David and Goliath action figures:

“I didn’t know David died on the cross, too.”

And I leave you with these words of encouragement from my husband:

“Just remember, the best is already behind you.”

There is a little voice inside of me that has been a nagging beast to live with, a real fun-sponge, sucking all the joy out of life. It’s the “not-enough” voice.

You’re not good enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You’re not pretty enough.

Your children are not trained well enough.

Your house is not clean enough.

You’re not loving enough.

Your homeschool is not productive enough.

Your writing is not earning enough.

Your habits are not consistent enough.

Your character is not solid enough.

Your cooking is not healthy enough. (And have you even tasted it?)

Your little light is not bright enough.

You’re not friendly enough.

You’re not improving fast enough.

You’re not gentle enough.

You’re not strong enough.

You’re not perfect enough.

Perhaps. Perhaps. In fact, all of these not-enoughs are painfully true at one time or another. But to you, my little voice, I say this.

Christ died for me. He loves me . . . enough.

Not the Hallmark kind of love, which isn’t enough, but the “you can’t imagine the hell I’d go through for you” kind of love. The love that takes all my not-enoughs and sends them on a long walk off a short pier.

I will continue to struggle on in this life, making mistakes, falling short, taking too many do-overs, disappointing myself, disappointing those I love most, disappointing people I don’t even know but who are just looking for someone to get down on, never attaining close to “enough” in anything.

I will never be enough. Period. But He is.

If He forgives my not-enoughs, maybe, just maybe I can too.

So, little voice, little buddy, little pal, little scourge of my existence, you can just take your self-deprecating self-centered not-enoughs and shove ‘em back down your throat, and, while you’re at it, you can take that long walk off that short pier, ’cause I’m listening to another Voice now.

My grace is sufficient for you,
for my power is made perfect in weakness.

~2 Corinthians 12:9

Fans of Stephen Bautista, hold your breath no longer! Stephen’s second Nashville-produced album, A Childlike Faith, is currently in duplication and will be here before month’s end.

And the crowd goes wild!

A Childlike Faith is a call to all Christians to live with a humble, childlike faith while remembering their God-given mission in this life–to gently and humbly spread the Gospel to a hurting world.

Through May 31, Stephen is offering the new CD at a 20% discount as a pre-release special. Because he’s such a swell guy, he’s also giving away a free digital download with each purchase, so you can listen while you wait for the CD. Sweet!

Jump on this deal! The powerful message of A Childlike Faith is something we all need to hear.

I’m not saying this because we want your money so we can buy a smokin’ camera or a playset for the gang. Every dime goes right back into the mission. Every penny is redirected toward “enlightening the lost and encouraging the found.” The mission doesn’t even take us out to lunch. (Stingy mission. Ha ha!)

Take a minute (actually 19 minutes and 48 seconds) to check out the samples at Stephen Bautista’s website.

I leave you with this thought from “You Never Did” on A Childlike Faith.

“you freely took that heavy cross
when you could have easily left it;
you let them pierce your mighty hands
when you had the power to stop it;
you could have flown at lightening speed
when they challenged you to come down off that tree;
but you never did…

you could have left us all
wrote us off as a lost cause
but you never did.

you could have left us all….

He could have left us all. Think about it.

It is wonderful when your best friend is in all your classes, tags along on every family road trip, shares a room with you every night, and totally understands your frustrations with your little brother.

Sisters, best friends, family, a gift.

I recently attended my youngest brother’s wedding. I’m not generally the tearing up type, at least when not pregnant. (If you’ve been pregnant, you know there’s no getting through the touching coffee commercials at Christmas without turning into a blubbering pile of sap. Please tell me it’s not just me. It’s okay to lie…just a little…just this once.)

When I saw my mother dancing the mother-son dance with my brother, the groom, I had a simultaneous flashback/flash-forward experience. (It’s similar to having a split personality juxtaposed on some inverted space-time continuum. Don’t try to figure it out. Nod and smile. Nod and smile.)

I remember when my little brother was, well, little, my darling little tag-along. Now he’s 6’4″ and married and living in NYC doing things like operating a power drill and buying his own groceries. He probably even has a job, although being a musician, I’m never entirely sure. When did he learn to tie his shoes?

And now I have another precious little tag-along, my own little man. He’s still shorter than I am. His power drill runs on batteries and only tickles when he drills his little sister’s forehead. He helps push the cart at the grocery store, which is still as exciting as getting a driver’s license, and his job is making his bed and cleaning the music room for a dollar a month. His musical opus is belting out “Do, a deer, a female deer,” and most of his shoes have velcro. He seems so…young, and the future seems so…distant. But I know better.

At the wedding, while my mother swayed across the floor in the arms of her youngest son, I saw myself in 20-some years dancing that dance as the mother of the groom and then the music ends and I hand those big brown eyes and intoxicating smile and spontaneous affections (not to mention the results of endless hours of training) over to his new bride. I would have hugged my little man a bit too tightly and not let him go had he been there, but he wasn’t, and I had to wait all too long to get back to him. When I did, he got an extra long squeeze and a handful of half-melted M&Ms I had saved especially for him. (They really do melt in your hands. Who knew?)

Too soon the little man in the toddler bed in my bedroom will be a husband, a father, a man, and I will be proud and pleased, but I will always miss the little person he is right now, my very own promise of how great a man can really be.

And I savor the moments and the memories and the words.

Words like these:

“My nickname is Super Fast Muscle Boy, but you can just call me Boy.”

I’ve been bragging about those muscles for four years now. Wow, can that boy carry groceries for his Mama. Won’t the future Mrs. Super Fast Muscle Boy love that?

And won’t she love His heavenly focus?

“God never has to knock on doors, Mommy, because God is everywhere!”

So true, my Boy. And yet, so many closed doors. Perhaps God will use him to open a few.

“I love God, and I love both my grown-ups. Do you love God, too? And do you love me, too?”

Do we ever! And forever!

I leave you with this little family adventure from a couple night’s past, brought to you by Super Fast Muscle Boy:

“Mommy, can you please help me get this popcorn kernel out of my nose?”

Sure, Super Fast But Slightly Short on Common Sense Muscle Boy. Anything for you!

Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer
is too small to be made into a burden.

~Corrie Ten Boom

I don’t often like to read sad stories. If I find myself perusing my shelves looking for a page-turner, I generally skip over anything that will make me sad. Doesn’t life itself offer enough opportunities to cry without intentionally adding more?

So I pass on Anna Sewell, Francine Rivers, John Steinbeck, yes, even E.B. White. Charlotte, after all, does die, and Wilbur never again finds quite as dear a friend as his octopod companion.

It was a light, cheerful read I sought when, in my childhood bedroom for a recent visit back home, I searched the bookshelves, my eyes caressing each treasure, greeting each old friend, looking for a companion. I surprised even myself when I pulled out Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. I had read the book before and knew the story, the heartbreak, the death, the pain, the loneliness. I read it anyway.

And I will read it again.

There are many stories about the Holocaust, but this one is different. This one is about forgiveness, gratitude, and Home. This one is about the life of a Christian, a very real Christian–not a saint–learning very real lessons.

It is more than just a history book. It is as relevant to our lives today as it was when Corrie ten Boom first penned it, including everything from the blind denial of the political state of the day to the necessity of thanking God for all things as part of His providence, however unwelcome, including fleas.

Corrie ten Boom’s message and experiences are valuable lessons worthy of your time. Read it, reread it, and praise God for the fleas in your life.

Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow;
it empties today of its strength.

~Corrie Ten Boom