Abraham Lincoln, the Rebel South, and Real Forgiveness

In 1861 Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States, prompting, over the next few months, eleven of the thirty-four existing states to secede from the Union. War started. The Northerners called it The War of Southern Rebellion. Southerners called it The War of Northern Aggression.

President Lincoln's plans were straight forward - win the war, bring the South back into the Union, and rebuild the nation. He was an intelligent man; I am sure he knew that it was not going to be that simple, and I have no doubt that he understood the complications and nuances of the culture far better than you, I, or any historian can. Still, it's what he wanted. He wanted the country to heal. He wanted the South to be forgiven. He wanted Americans to be brothers again, without bitterness or resentment, without wanton punishment or humiliation. He instructed his general to extend bountiful grace in victory. Like the father of the young man who squandered his inheritance, he wanted to welcome his Southern sons back into the home with love and forgiveness.

He didn't get what he wanted, of course. Northerners were M - A - D - MAD. They felt like the South "started it" and they shouldn't get off easy at all. President Lincoln's death only fueled the anger that many Americans already felt toward their Southern "brothers." They did not grasp the forgiveness that the President had decided in his own heart.

I find myself in sympathy with some of those Americans - not in regard to the Civil War, but in my personal life. I find that I do not extend grace in victory, or grasp true forgiveness the way I sometimes think I have. I can't even say how many times I have been angry at Bella for some sort of disobedience or another, and after she apologizes or shows remorse, I say to her, "It's forgiven. It's okay, I'm not angry, let's move on."

So she does exactly what I say - she moves on. She accepts my forgiveness as a statement of fact, and she goes skipping about the house. (Often literally skipping about the house.) So what do I do? Do I smile and tell her I'm glad we're at peace again? Do I think what a delight it is to have such a happy girl? Do I say a quick prayer thanking God for helping me keep my relationship with my daughter strong?

Of course not. That would be far too sensible.

No, instead I stew. I look at her and think, "Why is she happy? Is she even sorry? Was that whole remorse thing just an act so we could be done and she could get what she wants? Doesn't she know she just messed up in a big way? Why isn't she acting SORRY?"

I realized why one day. It's because I was SUPPOSED to have forgiven her. Because I TOLD her she was forgiven. Because I assured her that I was not angry. And then I realized something else - I thought I was good at forgiving, but I was wrong.

I started imagining what my life would be like if, every time I messed up at something, God's voice was in my head going, "Keep saying you're sorry. Keep a sad look on your face. Stay quiet and act remorseful. Don't smile. Don't laugh. Don't forget that you just screwed up." I have never believed that's what God wants for us. I have never taught my daughter that God wants that for us. I have always told her that God wants to take our guilt from us, because our sins have been forgiven, and give us unending joy in its place.

But I realized that what I wanted was for her to keep feeling bad about what she had done so that I could feel vindicated. I didn't fully comprehend what real forgiveness meant - the kind of forgiveness that casts sin as far as East is from West, and that keeps no record of wrongs. The kind of forgiveness that would prompt a father to welcome his estranged son home with celebration, or a Father to offer his kingdom in return for something as simple as love.

In his second Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln said, "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the Right as God gives us to see Right; let us strive on to finish the work we are in."

I'm striving on in the work of learning forgiveness. The Right kind.

The Night Gypsy Got Lost

God has been teaching me something recently. It started the night Gypsy got lost.

Gypsy, our kitten, is about 5 months old now. He is extremely lovey and sociable, and every single night he comes to bed and cuddles and falls asleep with us. To my remembrance, he had never once missed whole hours away from us and all the sleepy cuddle time that would bring.

One night, a few weeks ago, Gypsy disappeared. By around 7:00 p.m., we noticed he was gone. It was odd, but Josh and I weren't worried. We knew he had to be in the house somewhere; we figured he was sound asleep under a bed.

By 8:30 when Bella went to bed, it was very unusual for Gypsy not to be in the living room with us. We all made a quick look through the house, but again, Josh and I weren't worried. He had to be there somewhere.

Josh went to bed at maybe 9:00 or 9:30, and by the time I followed at 11:00 or so, he still hadn't turned up. Now I was getting worried. It was entirely unlike him to isolate himself from us for that long, and to miss sleeping on my lap or the bed? It just wasn't normal. Josh had spent a good 20 minutes looking for Gypsy before he went to bed, and I did the same at 11:00. I opened every closet door, looked under every bed, went outside and poked around in the bushes, walked all the way around the house. I tried to imagine if there was any possible way he could have gotten outside; I even checked in the dryer, since it had been running earlier that night. (HUGE relief when I was sure I hadn't accidentally killed the kitten.)

I went to bed worried, praying that Gypsy was okay. I went to bed imagining all the ways Gypsy could have gotten sick or lost or hurt. (I have, unfortunately, an excellent imagination and an impressive ability to suspend the laws of reality.) I went to bed completely forgetting all the Bible verses I have taught Bella about not worrying and taking your thoughts captive. I went to bed, sick with fear over my cat.

I will note that, at this same time, a very dear friend was also holding back fear over the fact that her husband is literally fighting for his life. I even thought of that as I was lying in bed, and I thought how small my own situation was compared to hers, but it didn't make the worry go away.

By early morning, when he hadn't shown up on our bed, I was certain the worst had happened. I didn't know how it happened or where he was, but I couldn't fathom a reason he hadn't appeared that didn't involve something really, really awful. Josh felt the same way. He, too, had been worried the whole night. And then, Josh opened a closet. And out came Gypsy.

He had been there all along. Why he never meowed to get out, clawed at the door, or made a dash any of the numerous times we searched that closet, I will never know. But he was there, somewhere, and had been the whole night. Even when we couldn't see him, he was there. His first two stops were his litter box and his food bowl, and other than being uncomfortable for a good part of the night, he was fine. Our joy was immediate and immeasurable.

A few days later, I spoke with the above-mentioned dear friend. Her husband had gotten worse. Again. He was in pain, again. He had gotten a bad prognosis, again. And it was scary, again.

And this is what God said to me, very suddenly, and very clearly:

You know the other night, when you thought Gypsy was gone and you were scared? I was with him the whole time. You prayed and prayed and worried about something because you didn't know the outcome to it, but I was already there. I already knew. You were so focused on not knowing, you couldn't see that I was already there.

 I have repeated that to myself several times in the weeks since this happened. I know exactly what God was telling me. My friend is still going through a very, very rough time - at this very moment, as I write this, they're in the hospital, and it's one of the worst times she's had with her husband. And on top of that, my sweet sister in law is concerned for the health of her sister, who had sudden complications with her pregnancy. For the past 24 hours, there has been much grief and uncertainty over both the baby and the mother.

I am powerless to help them. I am powerless to change their situations. If I knew God was giving me specific instructions regarding either of them, I would do it; in that absence, I simply pray. But now, I remember that God is already there. I don't have to beg him to care. I don't have to coax him into taking an interest or hope that he'll take me seriously when I say my friends need help. He's there, guarding and protecting, and he already knows the ending. He knows exactly what's going on, and none of it caught him off guard or goes beyond his abilities. My job is to keep the lines of communication open between me and Him, so that when he DOES want to comfort me, I can receive it; or if he DOES give me instructions, I am ready to act.

Bella would say that I found the silver lining. Gypsy is currently curled up on the couch next to me, covering my legs with his body and making my feet quite hot and uncomfortable. I would not have thought something good could come of the night he got lost, but I never will forget the lesson I learned because of it.

All My Little Secrets

I am not going to dish out all of my juiciest secrets here. Truthfully...I don't think I have many secrets, let alone juicy ones. Rather, I am making a determination for myself to HAVE little secrets.

We're coming up on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The- next six weeks are FULL of emotion - joy and loneliness, stress and busyness, gratitude and selfishness, openness and self doubt, all rolled into one delightful package we call the Holiday Season.

At this time of year, it's common for people to want to "give back" - to purposely take time apart and do something kind and selfless for others. Some people enjoy giving time more than money, so they volunteer. Others would rather write a check, so they give to the Salvation Army. Shopaholics love things like Angel Tree and Christmas Shoeboxes because they get to buy AND give. (You don't need to be a shopaholic to enjoy those things. I don't care too much for shopping, and I love doing shoeboxes.)

Last year in particular, there was a big push in Waxahachie during the Christmas season through a community effort among churches called "He is Greater," It's a good concept. The whole idea is doing something every single day that was NOT about yourself - something for which you received absolutely no reward whatsoever. It was just about doing something nice. They even handed out little half sheets of paper with a list of things to do each day - everything from buying coffee for the person behind you int he Starbucks drive through to donating a pair of pajamas to a homeless shelter. And they were all good, worthwhile things to do.

But then, there came the hashtag - #HeIsGreater.

I totally understand the logic. A hashtag on social media creates interest, and what is more worthwhile than individuals helping others, with the intent that God gets the glory for it? For weeks last year, facebook was full of friends and acquaintances who were so excited to have had their coffee paid for by a stranger. (That seemed to be the most common one. I have theories about why.) But I wonder at the effectiveness of it. Who got the glory and thanks? It was nice, please don't take me wrong...random acts of kindness are wonderful, and kindness is an incredibly large part of how God has called us to live.

But for me, just me, it didn't sit quite right. So this year, I am keeping all of my secrets. I WILL do kind things. Every chance I get, I will make an effort to love. But I will not tell anyone. I'm not trying to be a martyr and I am not telling everyone that they have to follow suit - I'm just saying that for me, this is a matter of conscience, and I must follow it.

5 Things in My House I Use Much Too Often

(And my quest to change it all.)

1. The Internet

The world wide web is a grand thing. We all know the pros and cons because, like many good things, it can quickly be turned into a bad thing. For some, it can feed addictions. For others, it allows them to indulge in a feeling of escape. For me, it’s a time suck.

 I don’t want to cut the Internet out of my life totally, because I do use it for a lot of good things.  It helps me learn Spanish.  (Hola, amigo! Como esta? Mucho gusto! No se como hacer el acento con el ordenador!) I totally googled that last one.

The Internet is where I turn when I want to look up the chords to a new worship song, or when I want to see pictures of my friends and family and find out what they’re doing, or when I want to chat with my mom. (We’re type-chatting right now. She’s coming to visit in three weeks, yay!) And I LOVE looking up copycat recipes. I’ve found a whole lot of great recipes from cooking blogs and recipe sites. So it can be good, but let’s be honest – it can also suck away vast quantities of time. I often find myself staring at “20 Amazing Animal Pictures That Will Change Your Life” or “31 Celebrities That Raise Chickens.” I click on links to articles that I see posted because, “Hey, my friend thought it was interesting, so surely it must be interesting!” One thing inevitably leads to another and before I know it, I’ve spent an hour on the Internet and don’t even remember why I sat down at my computer to begin with.

Well sir, no more. I’m putting on my perspectacles (blatantly stolen from a great blog post by “G” at momastery.com, one of the ones worth reading!) and seeing what I could be doing with all that time. Laundry. Reading to Bella. Bible studies. Prayer. Crafts. Talking with my nieces on the phone. Playing music with Josh. Writing blog posts that will challenge people to change their lives….er….you get the idea. I can be using that time a lot more productively.

2. The trash can

Bella and I have been reading the Little House books this summer, and one thing jumps out at me over and over again – how little they wasted. An animal that was killed was used up, piece by piece – bones, meat, fat, hide…everything had a use. When crops were harvested, the fruit went to the house, the tops and roots and chaff were used for animals. Scraps of food were fed to the stock. Apple cores were saved for the entire year and made into vinegar. Laura and Mary ran around picking up nails from the ground when Pa was roofing the house. If a nail was bent, Pa straightened it and used it. “It wouldn’t do to waste a nail.” Nothing was wasted, because waste was a sin.

Last week, I cleaned out my refrigerator on trash day, and threw away an entire bag of food. A whole bag of things I forgot about, thinks I never got around to, things that I meant to make but never did, things that had spoiled or turned. It was much more than I usually throw away because I had a terrible time keeping up with anything this summer, but as I hauled that bulging bag to the curb, I felt appalled, remorseful and shamed all at the same time.

Usually, I feel like I waste less than the “average person.” (I put it in quotes because really, I don’t know what the average person wastes. But I know that when I take my trash out on trash day, I usually have fewer bags than most other houses, so there’s that.) I recycle everything that can be recycled in our city. I collect all paper and lightweight cardstock in a basket in my pantry, and when it’s full I take it to school to the paper recycler. I give all of our recyclable paper to Bella to draw on and craft with before I recycle it, so that she has a constant supply of paper without using up new paper. I compost and save food scraps for the chickens. And yet, there I was, dragging at LEAST $50 (I nearly choke thinking about it) worth of bad food out to the trash because I just never got around to it.

That is not pleasing to God. It shows a lack of respect for the bounty that he has given to me, and my goal is to stop that. I want to be diligent, to show good stewardship with all of my resources – time, money, food, everything. No more waste!

3. The dishwasher

No, I don’t have anything intrinsically against a dishwasher. It’s more about what the dishwasher represents. When Josh and I were first married, I never used this particular appliance. It came with the house, but I just didn’t use it. I use it to store my pots and pans. I washed my dishes in the sink, which is what I had done my whole life, because growing up, we didn’t have a dishwasher. Occasionally I would have a pile of them to do, but most of the time, I got them done in a reasonable amount of time.

Now, the past three years, I use the dishwasher because I feel like it is the only thing helping me keep my head above water. Some days I look at my counter and I am appalled at the pile of dishes everywhere. The past several months, actually, Josh has been doing the majority of housework and that is the only thing that has kept my head above water! I’d like to say that I just don’t have enough time to do what needs to be done, but that’s not entirely true. The truth is, I don’t use my time in the best way possible, resulting in a pileup of housework. If I were more diligent, and finished things as they came up instead of putting them off, I would not need to load up three loads of dishes. Again, it’s not the dishwasher that I want to cut out of my life, it’s the way in which I use the dishwasher – namely, to dig myself out of a hole that could have been avoided had I acted more wisely.

4. The scale

When I was 20 years old, I never weighed myself. I don’t think I even owned a scale for the first several years we were married. Ah, the good old days, when I could binge on Coke floats and Kit Kat bars with absolutely no ill effects. Not so, anymore. At 26 my metabolism suddenly changed (curse you, genetics!) and, to quote a dear departed German friend, “now I’m spreading out all over the place.”

Sometimes it’s like a weird mole or a nasty bruise. You don’t actually like to look at it, yet you feel compelled. The number on the scale never used to mean anything to me. I would step on and step off every now and then with this breezy little air. “Oh, I see I am still a twig. Excellent. Well, I’ll just be on my way then.” No relief, no burden to know….just idle curiosity.

Now, that same act is performed with trepidation. Where will the number be? I dare not hope it’s gone down, but has it gone up? The result of this auspicious moment in time can make or break my day. I must see. I simply must know.

And now, I resolve to stop. I am trying, every day. And some days are fantastic, and some are not. And I realize that I am not perfect, but I also realize that as long as I keep trying to be healthy, I’m never truly beaten. I’m not going to stop caring, I’m just going to stop being saddled to a number. The number is not me; it’s my daily decisions that define who I am. So I am going to focus on those daily decisions, and not whatever result they may bring on a scale.

5. The rinse cycle on the washing machine

Quite often, I throw a load of clothes into the washing machine. I go on about my business and realize, sometimes an entire day later, that I never put them in the dryer. After that length of time, I can’t just throw them in – they’d reek of dryer funk, as I like to call it. (You know, that nasty mildew smell clothes get if you wait too long to put them into the dryer.) So I have to rinse them again.

Then I go about my business, and sometimes, an entire day after that when I can’t find my favorite jeans, I realize that I never threw them into the dryer. Again. So they have to be rinsed. Again. Our washer is not the new breed of quiet, efficient washers. It takes 45 gallons of water for a load, or some obscene number like that. I’m wasting electricity and resources every time I fail to remember a simple chore.

Again, I am not lamenting my washer’s rinse cycle. What I am concerned about is the amount of carelessness that I allow in my daily life. I just don’t pay attention to something, even something easy, and it ends up costing me time, energy and resources. Not the way I want to live my life. There are other areas in which I struggle with carelessness too; the laundry is just an example. So my goal, ever moving forward, is to have a care – to focus on tasks at hand and see them through, so that I don’t end up with unnecessary waste and having to redo tasks that have already been done.

Obviously, a lot of the things in this list overlap in a very definable cause-and-effect type of way.  This is not a soap box or a rant. I’m not full of righteous indignation, thinking that you all need to be more like me and take up these same causes. But for me, they are specific areas of my life that the Lord has been dealing with me about, so they are things that I am forever working on.

The Ten Commandments (for visiting a waterpark)

The Ten Commandments

(for visiting a waterpark)

((or any other public attraction))

I. Thou shalt not leave thy cherry pits on the earth.

Or your peanut shells, or your pistachio shells, or your watermelon seeds. Yes, I know we’re technically outside, and so the urge is strong. “Hmm, I can just throw my shells / pits / seeds on the ground.” But no, you can’t. People walk there. It hurts when they step on hard pits and sharp shells. And other people have to go behind you sweeping up all that trash you left on the ground. Perhaps you think, “Hey, it’s all natural. It’ll compost!” Well…no again. See, whatever micro-organisms lived on the ground before the park was there were probably covered up when seventeen thousand tons of concrete was poured over them. Our paved walkways and fiberglass pools lack the proper biological life forms for composting anything, so that’s a bust. Do you throw shells on the floor at your house? I’m guessing probably not. So please don’t do it at the park either.

II. If thou hast thy kin at the park with thee, and the youngest of these must yet wear diapers, thou shalt use swim diapers.

Because regular diapers are NOT made to be soaked through, and definitely not for extended periods of time. I know, they’re a little more expensive than regular diapers, and store brands don’t usually make swim diapies, so you’re stuck with the price tag for name brand. But seriously, regular diapers are NOT made to be soaked through. They will fill with chlorinated water. They will swell to three times their normal size and make your child forty-two pounds heavier. And at the most inconvenient moment possible, they will burst, and their ooey-gooey sticky bead crystal thingies will spill forth onto the ground or the bathroom floor, and sit there like a ginormous pile of stinky shaved ice while you flee the scene of the crime. There is a distinct possibility that before I see the offending mess, someone will have complained to the manager about the state of the restroom, and I will have to make the walk of shame to clean up the diaper disaster not ten minutes after I left the restroom clean and sanitary.

III. Thou shalt use the little silver boxes in the restroom stalls only for their intended purpose.

This one gets gross, so I will not go into detail here. But, should you ever be tempted to stuff something in there that was clearly never intended to be stuffed in there, please refrain, for the sake of the custodian and for the sake of every person that uses that stall after you.

IV. Thou shalt wash thy hands after availing thyself of the facilities.

I know you’re about to jump back into water so loaded with chemicals you’d probably faint dead away if you knew about them all, but I can’t help thinking that if we were all dependable to be a little cleaner, maybe we wouldn’t need so many of those chemicals….?

V. Thou shalt choose a bathroom stall in ten seconds or less.

Ladies, this one is for you. There is no need to wander up and down the stalls, swinging the doors open, peeking inside, contemplating and wondering. They are all in a relatively similar state of cleanliness or uncleanliness. If you’re there when we open, there’s a good chance that your toilet of choice is sparkling clean. If you’re there in the middle of the day, then I’m sorry, but there is no way around it – at least a thousand butts have touched those seats. And I get it – you want the one that has been touched by the fewest and cleanest butts; there is, however, no way to tell. And honestly, I know we all like to think everyone else’s bottoms are gross while ours is sparkling clean, but it’s just not so. Hiney is hiney, and there comes a point in the day when every single toilet has been touched extensively by it. So as long as the toilet is flushed and there’s nothing gross on the floor (see Commandments Two and Three, above), just pick a stall and sit, and leave the rest to fate.

VI. Thou shalt not address the maintenance staff using combinations of adjectives and nouns.

I am not “Sweeper Girl.” I am also not “Blue Shirt Lady” or “Helper Person.” I’m actually wearing a nametag. Required. I have to have it on before I can even clock in. It’s there so that if you need something, you can tell me so without resorting to strange and awkward sobriquets. If I have my back turned to you, or in the event that you are near sighted and I am far away, a simple, “Miss?” or “Excuse me, ma’am?” is perfectly acceptable.

VII. Thou shalt not tell the custodial staff that you feel sorry for them.

This is unnecessary but it doesn’t actually bother me – I truly know you mean well. After all, I am crouched over the toilets for the second or third or even fourth time that day, and I know your sympathy is meant to be a kindness, so I take it as such. However….you needn’t feel sorry for me. I knew what I was signing up for when I took the job. I knew it would involve a lot of toilets and a lot of trash and a whole heckuvalot of sun. I don’t do my job in silent pity or shame. I hold my head high. (That’s technically untrue. I am nearly always looking down, either cleaning in the bathroom or scanning the ground for trash that needs to be swept. But you know what I mean.) When the park opens, I am proud that it is clean and safe. When you walk into the restroom and I have just cleaned it, it makes me happy (even though I know you’re going to wander around looking for just the right stall anyway). When I am there, I take ownership of the park. I invite you in, I greet you and smile at you and when I tell you that I hope so much that you enjoy your day, I really mean it. I am proud of the stage I set for your enjoyment – I take care of the trash and the bathrooms and the walkways so that you don’t have to, so that you can have fun with your family. So please don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t let sympathy for my plight interrupt the happiness of your day. Trust me, I don’t feel sorry for myself.

VIII. Thou shalt tell the staff when you need something.

Are you unhappy about something that happened? I can help you with more than you think. Most of the time, you don’t need to go directly to a manager. I’ll get him for you, of course, if you absolutely must see him. But try me first. Some things are a very easy fix, and you know what? I like helping you out. I really do. If I don’t know the answer to a question, I will know how to find out. I will put up your umbrella for you, take your glasses back to your table so they don’t get lost in the water, help you find the right size life vest for your toddler, clear away your trays and drinks. I want your day to be GREAT, because you spent a lot of money either on season passes or general admission tickets to bring your whole family to this park, and you’re probably still spending money, what with food and treats and such. I’m a parent on a budget too, and I understand your perspective. I want to help you. No, I can’t refund your money if you’re completely dissatisfied with the birthday party package you paid for; but, I can blow up more floats if there aren’t enough, and I can fix your chair when it breaks, and I can run and grab a new ice cream cup for your son who is wailing like a banshee because his just spilled all over the ground. I can do a lot for you, and I want to, so don’t let a relatively minor mishap ruin your experience here. Just ask me for help.

IX. Thou shalt wear shoes everywhere in the park.

This is for your sake, not mine. Just trust me on this one.

X. Thou shalt leave when the park closes.

We close at six o’clock. Six o’clock is when the park closes, not just the rides and attractions. Six o’clock is not the proper time to get one last drink, buy one last snack, have a refreshing rest at your shaded table, then head to the bathroom to shower and change all thirty-two of your children, and finally gather up your things to leave by ten ‘til seven. The park closes at six. All of that other stuff should be done by six. And for goodness’ sake, you just got out of seven hours in the sun and you’re heading home…do you really need to wash and dry your hair and put on makeup? I cannot clean the bathrooms fully until everyone is gone. I can try, but every time I clean a toilet, it will get dirty again; and every time I wash a sink, it will get used, and every time I wipe the mirrors, they will get splattered, and every time I sweep the dressing rooms, tags and brushes and discarded clothing will be left in it. So for all practical purposes, it is correct to say that I cannot fully clean the bathroom until you have left it. Chances are good that I have been working for the past nine hours in ninety-seven degree heat, cleaning up after and waiting on your family. And I’m okay with that, because that’s my job while I’m there. But now we’re closed, and it will take me another hour or so to get everything clean after you’re gone, and I would really like to go home to my family. So please leave when the park closes, not thirty to sixty minutes after. 

How My Mom Made Me a Better Parent

I firmly believe that our memories from childhood are key in shaping our lives as adults. Our experiences at six years old can impact our choices at twenty-six years old, positively or negatively, depending on whether or not we are aware of their importance in our lives. They can prompt us to act in a certain way, or they can convince us that we will NEVER act in a certain way. They can show us the good we want to be, or they can show us what we don't want to be.

On this day of recognition for madres everywhere, I thought it fitting to share some of my experiences as a child, specifically with my mom. I did not know when I was eight years old that she was shaping my views of motherhood - it's possible that she didn't think about it either, but she was. Most of these things are after-effects. I never knew that I felt this way or why until I became an adult, sometimes through conversation with other people about their own childhoods, and sometimes watching Isabella grow. And I am so grateful for the lessons that she taught me, knowingly or otherwise.

1. She never, ever talked badly about my dad.

My parents are still married after 35 years, and like all marriages, there have been times in their journey that were not as happy as others. They don't try to hide the fact that the beginning years of their marriage were difficult, and that sometimes, having four young children was the only thing that kept them together. I remember them fighting. I remember them being so, so mad at each other. I remember that occasionally my mom would come out of the house, pile us all into the car and take us to a playground for a while, which was a special treat. I realized later she did that when she was mad at my dad and needed to be away from thue house to cool down.

But in all that, one striking thing that was missing was any negativity about our father. Even when she was mad at him, so mad she had to take all of us and leave the house, she said not one bad thing about him. At the time I didn't realize it - I noticed only what was there, not what was lacking. But as an adult, I began to see other people and hear their stories of growing up, and I was shocked when I learned that some parents feel no qualms about trashing their spouse in front of (or even to) their children. My mom never did that, and incidentally, my dad never did that about my mom either.

Now, as a wife and mother, there are times when Josh and I drive each other just a leetle bit cRaZy. But that lesson sticks. Whatever frustrations we have are between each other. It's okay for Bella to know we disagree, and it's okay for her to see us argue a point. (Her experiences watching us handle arguments will guide her in learning how to deal with differences in her own relationships.) But I have vowed to always, always be aware of what I say about Josh and how I say it. I don't want her to ever feel that I don't respect him, and I especially don't want her to copy me and exhibit that same behavior.

2. She never, ever talked badly about herself, her abilities or her body.

Again, never realized this until I was an adult. I have moments when I feel like the worst mother in the word. I have moments when I look in the mirror and think how tired and old and worn down I feel. Sometimes I don't feel pretty. Sometimes I feel like I can barely keep my head above water. Sometimes I look at moms around me and marvel that THEY can somehow keep it all together when I can obviously not. Sometimes I am overwhelmed and upset and basically, a mess.

My mom had four kids, and reason tells me that she must have felt this way. Every mom feels this way, at least at some point. I don't think it was any different for moms 30 years ago. But my mom never called herself names. She never called herself fat or ugly, a failure or a mess, even if she may have been feeling that way. Whatever she was feeling about herself on the inside, on the outside she let us believe that she thought she was smart and creative and beautiful and confident. It never occurred to me that she might feel otherwise.

Now, I have a little set of eyes watching me, and little ears taking in every word I say. Whatever I say, Bella believes to be true, and that is a very serious responsibility. She believes everything I say. So if I tell her that I'm fat and old and ugly, and that she is young and beautiful and thin, then she is going to believe me. I would inadvertently teacher her that the reason she is beautiful is because she is young and skinny...and how badly that could mess her up! How that could skew her perception of beauty and self worth! Instead, I make a conscious effort to see myself as God sees me, to be mindful of my beauty and not just my failings. It's okay to know your weaknesses, because that's what we need to acknowledge before we can actively work to correct them. But God does not want our self worth to be defined through societal standards, but through his eyes of love. And like my mother, that is what I am trying to show my daughter.

3. She let me and my sister try absolutely everything she did.

My mom is extremely artistic, resourceful and creative. She always has been. And growing up, she let my sister and I try everything she did. If she took up cake decorating, she let us try it too. If she was painting, we got to try with her. If she learned needlepoint or cross stitch or sewing, then we had our own small projects that we got to make alongside her.

At the time, it made perfect sense to me. Why would I not be allowed to use paint or play with icing? What reason could there possibly be to keep me from using resources, taking over the kitchen table or handling sharp objects? Now, of course, I have a daughter of my own and I realize how exasperating it is to include your child in everything you do. First of all, she makes a total mess of everything and then of course, she doesn't want to clean anything up, so that's a battle. And I get so much less done of my own project because she constantly needs help or supervision. It takes twice as long to teach her something as it would take to just do it myself. And it's a real test of patience when you are trying to teach someone who has the attention span of a carrot.

And yet, my mom survived it. Multiple times. And I am grateful for it, because I got to try so many things when I was little. I did art and crafts and building projects of all sorts, and some of them never amounted to anything, and some of them did, and some of those experiments turned into lifelong loves, and some were tossed away as quickly as they were started...but I got to try. My mom always let us try, and now, I try to do the same for Bella. I let her cook with me, chop vegetables and stir the pots on the stove when it would be much faster and easier to do it all myself. We get out paint and glitter and paper and glue, even when it means that I have to sweep and scrub when we're done. I want her to look back on her childhood and say, "My mom did so much cool stuff with me." Because for me, a lot of the benefit was about the memories of my mom, and I want Bella to have those same good memories of me.

There is more. I could write more, but I am running out of time and space. I've told all this to my mom before, but I feel like it was time to tell everyone else about it. Happy Mother's Day, Mimo!

Easter Birthday

If you know me at all, then you probably know that one of my biggest pet peeves - one of the things I dislike so intensely - is the commercialization of all things good and sacred. I have written multiple blog posts about ridiculous gift giving standards at Christmas that promote feelings of inferiority and entitlement at the same time. I have done more than I ever intended at Valentine's Day because I have been gone the last three years, and so I usually leave Bella presents to try to "make up" for it. But if I were at home, there may be a Valentine's Day present, or there may not. There certainly wouldn't be many.

Along those lines, I have never liked the idea of giving actual presents at Easter. A basket is fine, throw in some plastic eggs with a few treats inside, and possibly a little stuffed bunny or something, and that's okay. But extravagant gifts at Easter bothers me. At Christmas, I get it. It's tradition based on history dating back centuries. But at Easter, it seems like another attempt for commercialism to invade my life.

I'm not pretending to be immune to media. In fact, I am susceptible to it, which is why I try so hard to be aware of its influence on me. I walk past store aisles full of must-have Easter essentials and I am tempted to try for the perfect Easter meal, the perfect baskets overflowing with the perfect gifts, the perfect cookies and treats and crafts that make me look like the perfect mom who always has the perfect activities to do with my daughter; and in the process I spend $150. That's $150 to perpetuate a lie (I am NOT perfect), and $150 spent that has absolutely nothing to do with the reason we actually celebrate Easter anyway. So I'm not immune. I'm always tempted - every year, for every holiday - to go overboard. But I rein it in, because I don't want to lose sight of what is really, really important.

That being said...

This year was special because Bella's birthday also happened to be today. This coincidence of happy events is not likely to be repeated very often - if ever - in her lifetime, and so in spite of my aversion to gifts for Easter, I did want to make it a little bit bigger celebration. Finances at the moment are on pretty strict rations, so I couldn't go too big anyway, but I did do some things.

Every year I hide maybe a dozen eggs or so. I usually only put one little treat inside each egg. (Most of the candy we get at every holiday ends up sitting on top of the refrigerator for indefinite periods of time before we throw it away, anyway.) So today I only had 12 eggs, and 6 of them had treats in them. The other six were tied with a pretty ribbon and had a miniature pony inside. She LOVES My Little Ponies, so I knew it would be a big hit. I also found, in the "Easter Basket stuffers" section, a few little medium sized ponies that I hid around the yard as well.

I got her three semi-small birthday presents and wrapped them with pretty Pony paper. I hid those around the yard too. See how the ribbon is light and dark pinks? Those are Pinkie Pie colors. I had another one that was blue with red, orange and yellow curls for Rainbow Dash, and the other was pink and purple for Twilight Sparkle. I spent 20 minutes doing it, and they were SO cute. And in true kid-fashion, she totally didn't notice.

She loves to hunt for eggs. Every year, it's this fun thing we do. We hide the eggs multiple times through the day and take turns hunting for them. 

The dress this year was a blessing from our good friends, the Landry's. I had refrained from buying a new dress for Bella, and Heather just happened to be getting rid of her daughter's size 5 pretty dress. Bella came into our room at 7:15 this morning, already dressed in her outfit. I hadn't even gone outside to hide everything yet!

Since it was Easter AND her birthday, I did buy her two separate cards. Our school, a few weeks ago, had a couple large boxes of beautiful, overstocked Valentine's cards donated to us. I laughed because there was a whole stack of cards that were for Valentine's birthdays, and I thought, "Surely that can't be in very high demand!" When I was looking for cards for Belle, I thought, "Man, I wish I could find a card that was for Easter AND birthday!" Ironic, yes? It made me chuckle.

She actually read both the cards herself. So proud.

The Pinkie Pie headphones were her favorite, I think. We also got her the Frozen soundtrack, which I had forecasted to be the big winner, but she seemed to love the headphones the most.

And she was delighted when she realized that the ribbon eggs were special.

And I did a bunny. Because it was so cute, and I love pink bunnies. How can one NOT love a pink bunny?

And really, that's all we did. We did let her choose a restaurant to eat for lunch, and she chose Panda Express. (Absolutely no surprise there. The surprise was only that she briefly contemplated Olive Garden. That was a first.) After church, we got home and she played outside with her ponies and her fairy house. We rented The Pirate Fairy, and it was a lovely day. 

I am so grateful for this little girl, for the wonder and the blessing she is to me. She has enriched my life in so many ways - not just because of how I love her or how she loves me, but because she has helped me understand my relationship with God the Father on such a different level. I believe that was part of God's design - but that's another post. For now, happy Easter and happy birthday to my sweet, six year old girl!