A Horrible Habit

Recently, my husband and I were enjoying lunch at Chili’s with our daughter Maddie. I was wearing my “Gripes Be Gone” bracelet which I created in my “Married to Me” study. These highly sophisticated pieces of elastic string containing three beads symbolize my husband and me with God in the center. Each time I complained, whined or griped, I snapped the bracelet against my wrist, a stinging reminder of my lack of self-control. Our waitress’ chatter was a little over the top. After making a cutting remark to Tony about it, I looked down at my bracelet and snapped it.

Tony asked, “What’s that?” Reluctantly, I explained my lovely new jewelry piece. He laughed knowing the impossibility of this device to take captive my complaints. He asked to borrow my bracelet. Wrapping it around 3 fingers, he stated, “This booth has a really bad odor,” and snapped it. I laughed. Whether Tony was attempting to identify with my dilemma or poke fun, the reality is that a bracelet isn’t capable of delivering me from caustic complaining.

Many of us have developed bad habits that have been deemed acceptable among Christian women. We gripe about our husbands, our children, our jobs and our busyness. We complain about slow service, critique sermons and criticize a person’s clothes or imperfect parenting. Philippians 2:14-15 states, “Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure…” 

That little word, “everything,” is tripping me up, how about you?! God wants me to use my words to bless, to encourage, to lift up others. James 3:10-11 says, “Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My (sisters), this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring?” If we are to be a blessing to others in our homes and our community, we must use our words wisely. We have a choice: we can shut our mouths when we don’t have anything good to say or snap bracelets leaving marks on our wrists and in other’s hearts. Let’s be different than the culture in which we live!

Remembering Summer

During elementary school, teachers frequently assigned a writing topic similar to the title of this post as a first-day-welcome-back-to-school initiation to the class. Apparently, they missed hearing the groaning of their students for no one enjoys writing the first day back in class. My summers as a child weren’t terribly exciting that I recall. Aside from the occasional road trip to California to see relatives, playing outside with my brother and sister and reading 10,000 library books to earn the movie prize at the end-of-the-summer, our lives were fairly uneventful. Still, I wish those ancient papers still existed somewhere in the depths of mom’s storage boxes. My kids might actually get a glimpse of a summer without texting, video games or computer! Perhaps teachers rarely give students this assignment today because they don’t wish to read 30 papers filled with video game escapades, Barbie computer games and the TV tales of Phineas and Ferb.

While my summer papers are long lost in la-la land, I could relate their contents with some accuracy. Road trips with my family consisted of playing the “ABC” game in which we silently collected letters on road signs until we found the letter “z”. The object was to be the first person to yell the final letter. When we grew tired of playing (or were traveling the long stretch of flat freeway between Stockton and Bakersfield with no signs anywhere), mom started “Categories.” I think she created this game when she was fed up with the three of us asking, “Are we there yet” every five minutes. Someone would pick a category, such as “pies,” “outside games,” or “boys’ names that begin with ‘Q’,” and we’d take turns coming up with a word that fit. One was disqualified when a word was repeated or someone was stumped. When bored with a category, we would “accidentally” repeat a word to get thrown out of the game.

Next on the list of things to occupy us was auto bingo or tracking license plates from different states. With no dvd players, dsi’s or cell phones to keep our eyes glued, we stared for hours at farmland with acres of vegetables or fruit trees, pastures with grazing cows and horses and giant snow-capped mountains. Sometimes we asked our parents questions about the scenery because we had nothing else to do, nowhere to escape. GPS and MapQuest were nonexistent, so we used the old-fashioned paper map to follow the towns until we arrived at our destination. I loved to trace my finger along the map as we passed each city and then call out the next town and number of miles. Aside from an atlas we own, I’m not sure my children have ever seen a real live map. I chant, “Whatever happened to the days of map-reading, auto bingo and being bored for hours on end?” I sound just like my grandma, lamenting the good old days of horse and buggy.

When we weren’t road tripping concocting our own entertainment, we’d play “Red Rover, Red Rover,” “Red Light, Green Light” or “Mother, May I” with the neighborhood kids. Wii was you and me playing together making our own fun. We rode our bikes and played on the swing set. And if we tired of that, the library reading program was an option in which we loved to participate. Reading 20 books over the summer entitled us to watch the latest movie at the Venetian Theater. Who didn’t want to watch a free movie with the price of movies at the exorbitant cost of $2.50 per ticket?! With my Flicks candy in hand, I was a happy camper.

While my children are growing up in an entertain me world, fortunately some things are still the same. We plow our way through books in the library reading program and win a free book after we accumulate enough reading points. Bike riding, pool and play dates continue. Still, I lament that video games, texting and online games threaten a family takeover if I don’t regulate its usage. Taking road trips is vastly different as we’ve traded looking-out-the-window scenes for viewing the movie screen although we still enjoy a couple of rounds of the “ABC” game. Wearing ipod earbuds, our children don’t even hear us when we ask them to notice mountains, cows or road kill.

Hope is on the horizon, however. A day will come when these same children will be driving inside yellow and white lines, passing road signs, and noticing cantering horses in wide grassy fields, dvd watching a distant memory. They will combat with the latest technical gadget, begging their little ones to look up and see the beauty around them.  Some new fangled gizmo will menace their family togetherness. I can hear the cry for the good old days.  “Ah, whatever happened to ipads, ipods and iphones?”

The Nearly Perfect Man

I can’t recall when he first coined me “Blondie,” but it’s stuck for the past forty something years—only now, I pay for the blonde to hide the gray lurking beneath. This man who oozes love, gentleness and acceptance is nearly perfect in my estimation. The faded shirt on the fence for incalculable years unfortunately hinders his ability to win Perfect Father of the Century--and maybe the doorless kitchen cupboards.

Always humble, honest, hardworking, Dad centered his life on family from day one, a miracle as great as God parting the Red Sea. Losing both of his parents by the age of 10, Dad shuffled to various relatives until his teens when he finally landed with his oldest newly married brother. In spite of so much tragedy and transition, he graduated high school, married his high school sweetheart and successfully raised three children in three states. Perhaps his days of bouncing to aunts and cousins sealed his nomadic tendency to wander. Although we resided fourteen years in one city, we transferred homes five times.  At least his transient itch never extended into marriage for he recently celebrated fifty years to the same woman. Many men, raised in more ideal situations complete with two Godly parents, possessions and a pet, don’t fare as well as my dad. How does an orphaned boy parent three kids with no role model to speak of? What’s the secret to my dad’s success as a father?

Most men learn to parent from their fathers whether positive or negative. However, my dad has little memory of his father, yet he doesn’t appear to have suffered from his lack of parental influence. From my perspective, a poor father can be more detrimental to a son’s future parenting than a father absent through death. Then again, my dad may be one of those extraordinary fathers who rose from adverse circumstances to become a stellar example.

Dad invested in his kids. I’m not just referring to handing us a few bucks now and then although he did that too. He was not only present, he was involved. A participating parent, he cuddled with us, changed our diapers and corrected us. While he never spanked us, he occasionally would admonish us if we disrespected mom.

“If you do that again, you will find out what will happen,” he’d warn.

We never wanted to find out exactly what he meant, so we stopped.

He coached our teams, cheered our games and came to our band and choir concerts. He knew our friends and our dates. We attended church together on Sundays and every other time the doors were open. He volunteered as a youth worker to keep track of us. During tough times, he encouraged us and was our biggest fan (alongside mom).  For a few years, my dad traveled quite a bit with his job. One Mother’s Day dad had just returned from travel, and we dined at a Chinese Restaurant. When the waiter seated us, the three of us yelled in unison, “I want to sit by dad!” To this day, we occasionally joke about who gets to sit by dad, much to mom’s chagrin.

The experts say the best thing a dad can do is love his kids’ mom. It’s true. Not only did we see dad’s love through his actions, he voiced his love out loud—in front of us, causing us to grimace. Some dads are stoic and barely show affection to their wives in the presence of their children. For their kids’ sake, they need to demonstrate love for their wives in behavior and words. Kids feel more secure. We did. Even though my parents bickered, because of their outward show of affection, we knew their love was strong. My dad defended my mom and was devoted to her. Many times, we attempted to pit one parent against the other until they figured out our game. We’d ask dad first because he most always said yes to whatever we asked. Somewhere along the way, they conversed and clamped down. From then on, dad backed whatever mom said. Bummer.

Unconditional love, especially for his family, characterizes my dad. Many of us tend to treat others with more kindness than our own families. My dad is an exception to this. He always had less tolerance for others outside the family.  While the three of us are as imperfect as hot chocolate without marshmallows, I’m certain he believes we are nearly perfect. He overlooks our faults as the Good Book advocates. “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8)

Many men are duty-driven, churchgoers; not my dad. His most important success as a father, by a mile, is his Godly example. When I was about two, Jesus transformed his life. He’s never been much of a Bible-thumping, preachy person; he just lived it. Kids can spot a fake a mile away. When dads act all spiritual on Sunday, but the rest of the week cut people off on the road, use the tall finger and treat people they work with rudely, their kids desire to follow Christ as much as toddlers like to nap.  Fathers don’t have to follow Christ perfectly; they just need to follow Him truthfully.

My dad stumbled, slipped, staggered. But, he also scaled, surmounted and soared. Just like all of us. He’s transparent and truthful. He doesn’t excuse; he owns up. He’s someone people can talk to and be real with. Never Pecksniffian, he exemplifies the attitude of the woman that pours her expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet at the pious Pharisee’s home.  When Simon rebukes her actions, Jesus tells him a story about two men who owe different amounts of money to a lender, one more and one less. The moneylender forgives the amounts they owe and Jesus asks who loves the lender more. Simon replies that the one whose debt is greater loves him more. After some explanation, Jesus finally says, “Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.” (Luke 7:36-50) My dad loves much because he realizes how much grace he’s been given. During any given Sunday sermon, tears slip quietly down his face as his fingers gently brush them away. He’s not afraid to show his emotion as he recalls all that God has done in his life.

Recently, I was conversing with my sister-in-law who shared with me a poem that her daughter, Taylor, wrote about her daddy. I listened to her read a beautiful metaphorical tribute to this man, my brother, as my eyes dripped like a leaky faucet thinking about my father. My brother, fathering his own three children, resembles his father in all the ways that count. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My orphan father raised a son just like him.  

My Daddy

 by Taylor Weston

He is like a tree,

standing tall and strong.

He has been there,

as long as I’ve known,

and I know he always will be.

With his roots in the ground,

and his branches held high,

he shows me what is right.

Always patient, always calm,

he teaches me respect.

With the wind, the rain, the sun,

he continues to stand firm.

I learn from him what it is to be free,

to stay true to my beliefs,

yet still respectful and kind.

His arms spread wide,

like branches are,

for warm embraces

whenever there is the need.

And I know he loves me.

While I can’t claim authorship of this appropriately penned poem, I can adopt its words as a tribute to my own father, who at almost 70, has been an immovable tree in my own life. Over the years, I have watched my dad grow as a leader, a teacher and a mentor. His life is an exemplary act to follow. Recently, I heard a man approximately my father’s age say about him, “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Me too!

A Completely Fluffy Tail (Tale)

“A dog owns nothing yet is seldom dissatisfied.” Irish Proverb

I’d like to tag onto the above referenced proverb with one of my own: A dog does nothing and is completely content. Almost every morning when I let Bella, the Wheaten Terrier, out of her crate, she stretches her front legs then back legs, yawns and scurries to me, tail wagging. A couple of strokes later, she jumps over the back of the couch, circles three times and positions herself near soft pillows. A full night of sleep and she’s all ready for her early morning nap. Gazing at her curled up, I wish I could join her in her sweet repose. Must be nice to not feel a sense of urgency to do anything all day.

In stark contrast, my morning is brimming with all manner of doing--awaking contrary kids for school, getting Crunch Berries and chocolate milk, bagging lunches, prodding said kids again. Rushing, hurrying, always doing. Miss Daydreamer finally sleepwalks into the kitchen.

“Maddie, you have 8 minutes to eat your cereal. When the timer goes off, get your teeth brushed and hair combed so you can practice your piano for 30 minutes.”

Yes, I set a timer for the girl that tends to dilly dally and daydream, the girl who hasn’t perfected the art of time management, like me. In the meantime, Bella snoozes contentedly, on her back with her form fully extended and legs stretched. Jealous, I check on laundry then head to the powder room for a little freshening up. The timer beeps, but I’m convinced Maddie doesn’t zoom off her stool just yet. Ten minutes pass, and I don’t hear the pounding of the piano. Another typical day. Sigh. Time for nagging and nudging.

“Maddie, you need to be playing the piano now!” I yell from my bathroom.

“I know,” she responds. Alas, she always knows. Why doesn’t she do? Bella’s the only one that can get away with sprawling and doing nothing. Ten to one Maddie is still in the bathroom primping. As I venture toward her bathroom, she emerges, hair pony-tailed, lips glossed and hands lotioned.

Setting the timer for piano practice, I say, “You only have 20 minutes now since you took so long in the bathroom.”

Maddie bangs piano keys, stumbling through scales and a song. While wasting several minutes making up melodies, the bell beeps and we bee-line for the bus. I breathe relief as I reenter the house noticing Bella lying on the couch, serene except for exuberant wagging. She jumps down, following me into the kitchen while I grab water bottles in preparation for the merciless cardio machine. A girl of routine, Bella recalls my schedule, soars over the back of the sofa, snuggling once again on top of fluffiness. When I return from doing, she will be napping in the same place, body elongated, tail wagging wildly.

Ahhh, the sweet bliss of simply being, content to do nothing but twitching tail.

Mr. Fix-It Man

The shirt draped over the fence for months, its color fading in the sunlight. As summer turned to fall, rain saturated the nondescript hue. Seasons changed, and the garment stuck like glue to the wood. After a year passed, the jokes began. “Hey dad, how long is your shirt going to stay on the fence?” Dad smirked along with us but didn’t remove the shirt. Through our kitchen window, we watched the fence begin to bend backwards like a person doing the limbo. It leaned until it broke, the shirt falling with it.

We reminisce about those days when my siblings and I reunite, remembering kitchen cupboards with no doors because dad was repainting them—for months! When we put our house on the market, it sold with doorless cabinets displaying pots and pans, Tupperware, and canned goods. We had nothing to hide. When Dad showed the house, he liked to pontificate his future plans for renovation. “Yeah, if we lived here much longer, I was gonna knock out this wall and extend this room.” The first time we had heard of such plans, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows and question marks, stifling giggles.

It’s not that Dad wasn’t a Mr. Fix-It Man; he was just too busy to complete the projects he began. Holding down a full-time job and being a full-time parent to three children kept him too pooped to even pick his shirt off the leaning fence. Taking kitchen doors off the cabinets took a fraction of the time it required to paint and put them back on. Consequently, projects remained unfinished.

I guess he was just too busy being a dad, coaching our basketball teams, attending our band and choir concerts, watching t-ball, volleyball and softball games, participating in daddy-daughter events and making pinewood derby cars with his son.  Dad was the resident math homework expert and specialized in story problems which were my weak subject. He quickly became impatient with my confusion and almost shouted the problem. He seemed to think that the louder he read it, the more likely my brain would compute it.  This rarely, if ever, worked.

Thirty years later, some things don’t change. My mom tells me that for almost a year, a cabinet door has been awaiting proper placement.  Eventually, Dad will attach it, but it’ll be in his own timing. I married a guy just like that.  He’s a fix-it-guy just like my dad, but he’s primarily a provider and a participating parent. 

Several months ago, the canned lights in our bookshelf burn out. Hubby drives immediately to Lowe’s to purchase the products he needs to fix them. However, he soon determines that he needs something different to repair the lights which requires another trip to Lowe’s. The box of lights sit on the shelves for a month, then two, then three. I ask about the lights. “Hey, when do you think you’re going to fix those?” He doesn’t have time right then. I move the eye sore behind closed doors. Every so often, I ask about the lights—nicely, of course. He moves them back in his line of sight to remind him of a project still unfinished.

Other things seem to claim his attention: choir concerts, gymnastics meets, school carnivals, National Honor Society inductions, piano recitals, game nights with family. Meanwhile, the package sits, longing for the attention he’s giving to everyone else.

After months of no progress with the lights, I jokingly ask, “How long do you think those are going to sit there? I’m kind of tired of them sitting on that shelf.” I don’t understand why he doesn’t appreciate my comment. More days go by until one weekday evening, at 9:30 pm to be exact, hubby heads to the garage returning with the ladder. He sets it up and fiddles with some cords on top of the bookshelf, casually commenting on the exorbitant amount of dust accruing there.

 “Hey, maybe while this ladder’s up, you could dust up here.” Ahhh, hubby enjoys adding to my list as I do his!

I ask, “Why are you working on this project NOW? It’s 9:30!”  He climbs down and states he’s going to bed. I follow. The next morning, I notice the ladder is still set up in the middle of the living room.

When hubby awakes that morning and enters the bathroom, I smile mischievously. “So, how long do you think the ladder is going to stay in the living room? Until the lights are fixed?!” Two long work days later, he folds the ladder up and sets it against the wall. Judging by past history, I believe it’s going to be there for awhile…  

If the worst fault these men in my life have is failing to finish projects around the house, we’ll cite them for a few counts of procrastination and let them off for spending time with their active children.  After all, relationships are built over days, months and years and can last forever. And the fence, the cabinets and the lights? Well, those can be repaired any old time. “Lord, just give me a little more patience in the meantime…”

Just a Little Bit of Magic, Please?

When my sister and I were in elementary school, we believed we had magical powers. One day while plodding down our street during a drizzly Oregon rain, we chanted the words, “Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day. We want to play.” Magically, the rain stopped, and we knew we had power. Desiring to use our newfound magic to good use, we ran upstairs to our shared bedroom and began pillaging through Barbie dresses. We each chose a beautiful dress, placed them on our bed and cast a spell to enlarge them to our sizes. Nothing happened, so we determined we must have to leave the room and reappear at a later time. Sadly, when we reentered the room, those Barbie-size dresses had not grown one inch. Our hopes were dashed.

Haven’t we all wished for wonder working power at some point? Hoping for life size Barbie dresses pales in comparison to being rescued from a crisis or a stinky season in my life. Wouldn’t it be nice if stores carried a magic potion that transported us to life without heartache and trouble? Life rarely happens exactly as we’ve planned it. Even our days are often replete with unplanned events. Just this morning lunch with a friend was moved back an hour and another appointment was cancelled. While this isn’t a catastrophe, many times life’s occurrences are. Tragedies can sideswipe us in the blink of an eye, a moment’s notice.

                These Plan B’s as Pete Wilson calls them in his book titled Plan B, can either happen to us because of someone else’s choices or occur because of our own poor choices. Regardless of the reason, we must decide how we are going to react. Are we going to allow this situation to make us bitter or better? Most likely, these crises have the potential to bring us closer to Jesus, if we allow Him to transform us. The question is, will we let Him have access to our hearts?

                Thinking we’ll travel through life with smooth sailing, following our to-do lists, is as likely as a year without rain in Seattle. I graduated with an English degree, planning to teach secondary students for the rest of my life. I taught for a few years and have been swabbing kitchen floors and doing laundry ever since. I never imagined I’d live anywhere else but the northwest side of the country. What am I doing in Indiana, where Hoosier Hysteria reigns, in a town I never even knew existed before 10 years ago? My plan also didn’t include getting divorced and being a single parent to two small children.

                Many of us dream about a life of ease, with financial comforts, happy marriages and well-behaved kids.  We work hard to fulfill our dreams, our plans, our desires, yet oftentimes neglect to commit those plans to God. Proverbs 16:9 says, “In his heart a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps.” I like to plan my course; I just occasionally forget about God in doing so. I assume that God wants what I want for me. Yet, over the years, I’ve learned that He cares more about my character than my comfort.

                It seems like God has allowed me to experience a lot of those character-building field trips. Going through a heart-wrenching divorce was the biggest by a mile. My plan was to stay married forever; divorce was never an option. But, unexpected circumstances caused such calamity that what I thought I’d never consider became a topic of conversation and then a reality. My dream shattered, my heart broken, tears flowing, I clung with dear life to my Savior, my Rescuer, my Protector. Psalm 126:5-6 says, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.” I sowed a lot of seed during that period of time that reaped a harvest of joy years later.

                Satan sought to destroy, derail and distract me with this tragedy, but God planned beauty, blessing and a bright future. I chose to believe in His goodness for me. There isn’t anything that happens to me that He doesn’t know about. A friend of mine once said, “It’s comforting to know that God knows my story. And, whether He allows something to happen or causes it, He will be with me. He must know I can handle it.”

                 Eventually, God restored my dreams of marriage to a godly man who had also been broken by divorce.  How grateful I am that my God can take our plan B’s and bring beauty from the ashes, healing from the heartache, deliverance from destruction.

                “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3:22-23           

Welcome Summer!

My latest article on Sanctified Together is posted! I hope you enjoy reading my article as well as all the other fabulous writing about summer...