The Notable Blogger

Archive for the ‘Family Life’ Category

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.”

It occured to me recently that I rarely call my children by their carefully selected birth names. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding, and the pudding in this case is my son:

Me: Boy, do you know what the baby’s real name is?

Boy: Becca Boo’s real name?

Me: Yes.

Boy: I know Becca Boo’s bear name. Becca Boo’s bear name is Boo Boo Bear.

Me: Yes, but what’s her real name.

Boy: Oh, Becca Boo’s real name is Sweetie Pie.

This same boy, when asked to spell his own name, recites “B-O-Y Boy.” He’ll even sign it. I think perhaps I will write his real name on the inside of his jacket in case he gets lost. Better yet, I’ll keep them all safe at home.

The sun warms them. They play, as small children do, in an imaginary world bigger than their own, inspired by the lure of the few simple objects in front of them. I love how children–some–can make a world out of a stone, a stick, a small beetle passing by. I pity those who cannot.

I watch closely, knowing human nature, noticing the trend, wanting the truth. I am right.

Bored with her own, she takes his toy. He asks for it back, nicely, as trained. She says no and that it’s hers. He asks for it back, not so nicely, training slipping. She sits on it, her stare daring him. He screams, training gone. I’ve seen this before, throughout the afternoon. It’s what comes next I wonder about–the knowing.

Her mother: “Well, he sure is emotional.” She and her husband exchange looks, their parenting skills once again proving superior. The knowing I seek is not there.

I want to tell her. I want to say that her angelic baby has been pushing him and testing him and trying him and manipulating him. I want to tell her that he is a fallible human being, a man-to-be, yet in the making. I want to assure her that we are aware of his weakness and are training. I want to tell her a lot of things, not the least of which is the danger growing in the heart of her daughter.

But I don’t.

“My son,” I confess, “needs a little more training.” An understated truth.

I rise to go to him. The movement startles the angelic girl, who hastily shoves the toy back at my boy, now sobbing, over-reacting, broken over the treachery of a pretty girl. She looks at me, faux-innocence on her face. I look back, knowing on mine.

“Come, Elijah.”

I take his hand and we go, he not wanting to because he is (sniff) havin’ (whimper) fun (sob).

There is more training to do. Training in how to respond when the nice does not work, training in Christ-like behavior, training in letting go, especially when life is not fair.

There is much more training to do. Training in what–and Whom– to look for in the heart of a woman.

Charm is deceitful and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

My daughters know it, recite it, try (though fail, as does their mother) to emulate it. Now he, not yet four, must know it too.

Lord, grant eyes that see where my children need Your guidance, wisdom to lead them to Your Word, and a strong jaw to bite my tongue in a blind world. Make me–despite all–an example to my children. Give my children Godly friends, and prepare for them Godly spouses with hearts directed toward You. Perhaps strangers to us now, prepare their hearts and ours in Your ways. Guard hearts, guide footsteps, and let all feel Your arms holding us close. In Christ, Amen, let it be so.

Marissa: Ma, you should keep dental floss in your purse. That way, if you’re falling off a cliff, you can tie it to a tree and pull yourself back up.

Me: Hmm. Good point. It might also be useful if something gets caught in my teeth.

Marissa: That, too.

There is a certain sadness mixed with relief and awe when a child reaches the monumental age of one. Rebecca Anne is the latest to achieve the status of “not being zero anymore,” as Emily says.

Rebecca. It is a name I chose over 20 years ago, a name I placed on the list for all my girls (and even my boy, not actually believing he would be a boy). Finally, after 20 years of waiting, weeks of false labor, three days of real labor, and a lot of dreaming, I have my Rebecca. Actually, we have our Rebecca. And a year has passed.

A whole year. Too quickly gone by. Swaddled baby and sleepless nights too soon change to running baby and…well, sleepless nights. Too soon she changes. Too soon the personality is revealed and true nature shown as an independent person emerges.

We did not hold out hope for long that Rebecca would have a naturally gentle nature, a quiet disposition. Gentleness is an attribute that must be taught in our household, taught and exemplified through exertion, and the youngest is not immune to the absence of this enviable quality.

She also lacks complacency, and for this we will someday be grateful. Her inquisitive personality, vocal expressiveness, and stalwart determination, properly guided through life’s harrows, will eventually serve her well as she self-motivates, speaks for His glory, and stands firm against those who would wrongly sway her. Left unchecked, however, they will make her mischievous, loud, and stubborn.

I see in my youngest daughter a lot of the physical characteristics of my side of the family, something rare considering that in general the most recognizable features of my children can be traced straight through their daddy to his daddy. What I truly long to see in her, however, is not physical. It must be sculpted by the experiences of a Christ-centered life, the guiding hands of a loving family, and ceaseless prayer before an Almighty Father.

What I long to see in my Rebecca is a gentle spirit, tears shed for others more than for self, hands opened to help rather than to take. What I pray for her is a life of purpose devoted unfailingly to the glory of her God and to the fulfillment of the Great Commission, whether in the mission field or in her own home. I pray for the child she is today and for the woman she will become, for her purity and walk with Christ, for wisdom, for a godly husband and children that “rise up and call her blessed.” There is a finite influence a mother has on her child, even more finite when one considers the fallibility of woman. The rest is in the hands of an infallible God, and therefore I pray for this child…pray without ceasing.

Birthday cake, small gifts, photos and songs…it’s just a day, but it reminds us. It reminds us of the blessing that she is and the blessing we pray she will one day become. Just as she folds her small hands to pray, we fold ours on her behalf.

Heavenly Father,

Rebecca's Flower

Thank you for the gift you have given us in Rebecca, the small child you have placed in our hands for this short time. While we long to slow time and hold onto her as long as we can, we know that it is our duty to prepare her for a life of service to you, and that every day we give a little more of her back. Please give us wisdom to train her properly in your service, to exemplify your love, and to guide her on your path. Guard her as she grows, keeping her safe, healthy, and pure in mind and body. We ask the same blessings on her future husband and children, if such is in your plans. Please keep her eyes ever focused on you and her heart ever filled with the true joy and peace that only a life devoted to Christ can bring.

In the name of her Savior and ours we pray,
Amen.

Little Boy kneels at the foot of his bed,
Droops on his little hands little gold head.
Hush, hush, whisper who dares?
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

~A.A. Milne

It was one of those horrible cases of hiccups that, to be brutally honest, sounded a lot like I imagine a hippo in labor would sound…and I was only mildly less uncomfortable than said hippo. It was difficult getting through evening prayers between hics.

When my turn rolled around, I kept it short and sweet, ending with a simple request for God hic to cure hic my hiccups.

Gone. Instantly.

All eyes were on Mama.

“Wow!”

One little boy’s wheels were turning, and out came another little prayer:

“And please give Mommy a boy baby and a girl baby. Amen.”

Pause. Look around.

“Mommy, when is God going to give us the boy baby and the girl baby?”

When indeed…?

I am not a feminist. I am what some may term “old-fashioned” as I cheerfully don my apron, nurture my children, and tend to my husband’s needs. It’s not that I can’t do man’s work. It’s just that my man handles man’s work immensely better than I do. I am a woman, and as such I joyfully assume the roles more commonly associated with “the weaker sex.” I prefer to sew on buttons, bake pies, and change diapers, and leave the tough stuff to someone with muscles!

Why, then, did Memorial Day find me hovering over a huge grill when I usually declare grilling “man’s work,” and retreat to the safety of my kitchen to whip up side dishes and desserts?

A song was in the works. My musician husband was deep in that lyrical realm that ensnares him for days and from which he eventually emerges with a musical masterpiece. Not wanting to interrupt the creative flow of my Music Man, I opted to leave my hubby to his chord progressions and harmonic genius and attempt the grilling myself. So I bolstered my courage, picked up a grilling spatula and some raw meat, and headed out to the grill.

I was spied en route by my eldest daughter. The years had not dulled her memory of the time I exploded a grill and singed all the hair off my arm, miraculously leaving the rest of me and my family unscathed. Read the rest of this entry »