Spur

This sounds like it’s going to be a post about incontinence, but I assure you it’s not.  That day may be a-coming, but thankfully it has not yet arrived.

Anyway, yesterday Sam and I did drop-off for baseball.  The pre-game for this league is almost as long as the game, so we had lots of time to go home.  I left the field and cut through a residential neighborhood.  Out on the sidewalk was the tell-tale sign that someone was renovating: right there, next to the curb, was a fully intact toilet.

I smirked as we passed by, “Sam, did you see that toilet?”

“No,” he answered, whipping his curious little head around.

Well, that was never going to do.  At the next intersection, I turned the car around and drove past the toilet again.  Then I turned around again to head back in the right direction and pulled right up to the toilet and stopped.

I steadied my expression to stone serious, and turned around.  ”Do you need to go?” I asked  Sam.

“No,” he smiled, perplexed and amused.

“Well, you need to at least try,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” Sam said, eyes dancing.

“No, Sam.  You need to try,” I said.

As he gestured to get out of the van, I died off laughing.  Sam was cracking up too.

“I knew you were kidding,” he said.  And of course he did know.  It’s not the first time he’s been teased after all.

But a couple things about this fun and brief little exchange are truly important.  First of all, we must tease our kids.  It’s vital to be able to laugh at yourself.  We all know adults who can’t, and they are painful to be around.

Secondly, the Don’t Carpe Diem thing led to instant fame for one blogger — and so many friends of mine identify with that, but I think it’s all wrong.  Not only do I think we should seize every day and every moment, I think we should seize every roadside toilet.  I am so glad I turned around.  We are all busy.  I don’t know anyone who keeps up with laundry or commitments completely — although pretty much everyone I know does a better job than I do.  But how tragic if we have the mindset that we need only cherish those special moments.  Because every breath is a gift (Acts 17:25), and living in the moment doesn’t mean that we live in denial.  Some moments are ugly.  I’ve had my share.  Like that time in Heathrow when I was traveling internationally without Will and was changing one-year-old Nate’s horrendously disgusting diaper and three-year-old Dub decided he’d just venture right out of the restroom into the British throng.  But so what?  Does that mean I didn’t have a trillion things to be thankful for even in that moment?  Besides, a taste of ugly makes us acknowledge and appreciate the beautiful all the more.

May I give thanks in all circumstances (1 Thessalonians 5:18) , and may I seize every moment.

On the drive home from Richmond this morning, we heard that catchy and wise song from Kris Allen, Live Like We’re Dying. It’s all about making every second count, and this is one of my core beliefs. Maybe it’s from losing my dad and my brother before I turned thirty-one. Maybe I was born this way. I don’t know, but I have sort of an insatiable, probably unhealthy, propensity to pack it in.

Can I tell you about my last twenty-four hours? Yesterday I picked the boys up from school, dropped our carpool buddy off and hopped on the beltway to beeline it to Richmond. My husband was there for work, staying in an historic hotel. We had a sports-free night and decided to hang out with Dad and make our NCAA picks in person (Sam ended up picking Bucknell to win it all. I think he just likes saying Bucknell). I had some Bible study to finish up so I had little Will reading it to me, and writing out my answers en route. When he complained that this was a lot to do, I said, “No worries. I’ll buy you lots of snacks when we stop.” But then I had a pang of panic. My WALLET! Where was it? Oh dear. 37 miles to empty. 70 miles to Richmond. I had a vision of my wallet on the desk at home. Little Will started searching for money around the van. We came up with a checkbook, my license (By God’s grace, it was in my purse instead of wallet where it belongs), and $9.67. When we stopped I got $8.50 worth of gas (which felt about like high school), and a Caramello for Will who had declared himself starving! I tried to convince the gas station lady to accept a check or let me pay by credit card which I know by heart (kind of weird, but I do, including the extra security numbers and expiration date). Since we were out of Northern Virginia, the gas attendant was just as sweet as she could be, but despite the “darlin” and “honey” coming my way, “rules are rules.”

We made it to Richmond unscathed by my idiocy once again. Although some of the boys’ comments left a mark. Will warned, “You have got to start keeping track of your wallet!” And from Nate, a highly irresponsible person himself, “maybe I can keep track of your wallet for you.”

But the wallet left behind was only the first…shall we say, hiccup. The second hiccup was more substantial. The concierge at the hotel recommended a restaurant a few blocks away that served squash casserole, shrimp and grits, mac and cheese, along with steaks and catfish. It had a most-fitting name: Comfort. The five of us scooted into the booth at Comfort and commenced drooling over our options. Well, Nate didn’t start drooling exactly. What he ultimately did, a half hour later, was more voluminous and required a trip to the bathroom.

“Maybe he’s carsick,” I reasoned, optimistically.

My husband clarified: “He ain’t carsick! He threw up five times.”

“Mmhh,” I said, “well, he hasn’t really eaten anything.”

I was corrected again: “He ate something!“

Little Will, Nate and I scampered back to the hotel, while Sam and Daddy Will paid and hopefully downed some more of the yumminess.

As we entered the lobby, the concierge looked surprised to see us. “How did you like Comfort?” he asked.

“Oh very good,” I said, “just my son started not feeling well.”

In the hotel room, Nate felt better. We all hung out and had lots of big laughs. I had planned to get up early to make the drive back to DC. My full intention was for the boys to be on time for school, and for me to be on time for Bible study. Instead, I let the boys sleep in and we took our time getting ready to go. I wasn’t sure how Nate would wake up feeling.

I still drove straight to school and dropped Will and Sam off before eleven, then headed home.  Nate looked great and claimed to feel great. This is silly, I thought.

“Do you want to go to school?” I said.

“Yes.”

I packed lunches. Nate showered and got ready.  I made a second trip to school and checked Nate in, just in time for lunch. I then dropped my minivan off at the Toyota dealership to be assessed for a trade-in. I had the shuttle lady drop me off at Bible study, the afternoon portion was just set to begin. I went in, prayed with a couple ladies, heard a testimony, and answered the first question of the study. Then my phone rang.

“Nate is the same color as his shirt,” the school secretary vividly described.

Oh dear. No car. Green kid. Call husband. Live Like We’re Dying?

Hardly, my struggle. My struggle is being still.

The song isn’t quite as catchy. It’s somber, really. But that’s what I need to do: “Be still and Know.”

These words of Steven Curtis Chapman, paraphrasing Psalm 46:10, don’t make me want to dance.  They don’t make me want to run or sing or jump around.  But they remind me that I need to be still, to sit quietly before the Lord.  There’s a balance, and I know my live-like-I’m-dying pace is not striking it.

Be still and know that He is God
Be still and know that He is holy
Be still, O restless soul of mine
Bow before the Prince of peace
Let the noise and clamor cease

Be still and know that He is God
Be still and know that He is faithful
Consider all that He has done
Stand in awe and be amazed
And know that He will never change
Be still

Be still, and know that He is God
Be still, and know that He is God
Be still, and know that He is God

Be still; Be speechless

Be still and know that He is God
Be still and know He is our Father
Come rest your head upon His breast
Listen to the rhythm of His unfailing heart of love
Beating for His little ones
Calling each of us to come
Be still, Be still

Beautiful words, hold me accountable for them, will you?

Some friends and I were talking recently about someone who was betrayed in a horrific way. This person was publicly humiliated, heartbroken and never saw it coming.

One of my friends said, “You just never know what someone is going through.” And that is a tremendous truism. You really don’t. You probably passed by all kinds of hurting people even today. People who are facing illnesses that are hidden from view. People who are heartbroken by the cruel and selfish actions of others. People who are grieving. People who are burdened by regret. People who live in fear. People who may put on a smile, but carry heavy hearts and tremendous worries. We aren’t seriously fooled by people who look put together and act like life is a bowl of cherries, are we? Because as the best-book-title-ever says, “Everybody’s Normal Till You Get to Know Them.”

A safer assumption is that even that person who struts and laughs and has all the right answers struggles with something. And some of the people you’d least expect struggle a lot.

It’s important that we live in community enough to share how we struggle. Sometimes when I’ve shared the heavy concerns of my heart, I’ve seen relief wash over people’s faces. I’ve watched shoulders literally relax. You can see it, before they say it: Me too. I know exactly what you mean because of this, and this and that. And boy does it feel good to tell someone!

I hope you have friends who are willing to listen, friends who can talk you through, pray you through and love you all the while. We all need love like this. And Jesus said that His followers would be known by their love for one another (John 13:35). Is that how I’m known? Is that how the community I live in is regarded?

Because Jesus sets a high bar: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:34-35).

Praying tonight that I’ll be sensitive to those hurting around me. May there be evidence that I am a disciple.

On President’s Day I took the boys skiing. We got up early and arrived at Whitetail when it opened. Of course, arriving marks the onset of one of the worst half-hours in all of motherhood. I’ve given birth with less effort and pain than getting three boys in boots and skis. Will, by God’s grace, is now able to put everything on himself, and even carries others’ equipment. This past week he was a little pack mule, carting gear and our cooler from the drop-off area to the lodge. He made multiple trips without a single complaint. When I thanked him again that night, he said, “I like to help.”

But Nate and Sam still require assistance. Lots of it. Nate can barely don boots without approaching tears. And of course, the best way to have children keep track of the gear (coat, gloves, balaclava, helmet) is to wear it (well, actually this applies to me too). When they are all dressed, and click those boots into the skis, I think that beautiful, locked-in noise produces some kind of high, not dissimilar to the postpartum hormone. Because I can barely keep from smiling. Yes! We did it!

Will and Nate headed off, with Will’s cell phone at the ready. Sam and I went over to the gentlest green. It wasn’t long before my phone rang.

Oh boy, I thought, when I saw it was little Will. But he wasn’t there.

A little while later he called again. And again. All by accident. One time I didn’t hear it, and he left me an accidental two minute long message, which of course I listened to in its entirety to see if he was yelling at Nate for slowing him up.

But the message only contained three words: “Are you okay?” I don’t even know who Will said this to, but it made me happy to hear it.

Clearly we are not be making much headway in the phone etiquette department, but I am so grateful for many opportunities to teach my boys all kinds of lessons. Time with them is such a gift. May I never take a single second for granted.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12.

Sometimes when I tell really sweet stories about my boys, I feel compelled to say that they are also human and therefore fallen.  Little Will Jackson is indeed about the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful child in the whole world, except when he is being a selfish little ingrate or a brother-teasing monster.  I need to say that because I am about to share a story about him that is amazingly sweet and reveals how profoundly insightful he can be.

About two years ago, when we lived in a much bigger house with an amazing basement, Will and Nate spent hours upon hours playing downstairs.  They are the kind of brothers that regularly make up new games and get obsessed with said new game for weeks.  The problem is that one child is much more accommodating than the other.

One day Will came upstairs with tears streaming down his face, utterly heartbroken.

“He never ever dies to self,” he sobbed on my shoulder.  Truer words could not be said.  At seven, Nate never ever died to self, and progress at nine is still painfully slow.

As I tried to comfort Will and counsel Nate about why his selfishness was so hurtful, I was struck by how much Will truly understood the importance of dying to self.  He wasn’t just throwing the phrase out there.  He wasn’t just mimicking what he’d heard in church or read in a devotional.  He knew in his soul how hard he’d tried to make peace with Nate, how he’d given in, and accommodated over and over and over again.  Nate’s unwillingness to reciprocate communicated a total lack of love, and crushed his brother’s heart.

We live in a hopelessly misguided world that touts a “look out for number one” philosophy.  But the message of Jesus is (and always has been) completely countercultural.  He says that we are to die to self, to take up our cross, and follow Him. (Luke 9:23).  Whether you follow Jesus as Lord and Savior or not, the health of your relationships depends on your willingness to deny yourself, to put others first.

So how does this look in your marriage?  How does it look in your relationship with your children?  How about with friends?

This morning I am praying that I will be willing, through the power of the Holy Spirit, to put others first.  May I know the blessing that it is better to give than to receive.  And may we all know the truth of  the paradox: dying to self is vital to an abundant life.

I need to find a cute pair of flip-flops for a wedding gift.  Yes, a bit unusual but trust me, totally appropriate.

In the Fall of 2008 I was in a bind. Will was then doing his MBA at UVa, and was out of commission for Friday and Saturday. My sweet and faithful mom was going to come stay with the boys while I went on the retreat that kicks off the C.S. Lewis Institute’s fellowship program, but something came up. I don’t remember the details but I think my mom was feeling poorly. Anyway I needed help.

I was striking out every which way. It’s no small commitment to watch a seven year old, a five year old, and a one year old for a solid thirty-six hours.

I was brainstorming with Caitlin, who was going on her own retreat that weekend. She said that maybe her friend Liz could do it. I ended up flying Liz in from Grand Rapids. She flew in on a Thursday night. I met her for the first time at the curb at BWI. By the time we made our way back to Falls Church, VA I knew and loved a LOT about her.

I’d made arrangements to take the whole crew along with me to my retreat in Wintergreen, VA, which was complicated, but seemed better than the alternative.  That Friday morning I had a breakfast and lecture with my group from the Institute, then I raced over to pick up little Will from school. Back at our little condo I threw our things in my minivan because I was meeting with my group for lunch en route down to Wintergreen.

As we piled into the minivan I knew I was forgetting something. I asked the boys do you have this and do you have that. Do you have shoes? Does Sammy have shoes? Finally we pulled out and hopped on the beltway. After a few minutes I looked down and realized my feet were bare! Unbelievably, in the confusion, I didn’t bring shoes. Since we were running behind (no one else was grabbing kids from school or the weekend nanny from out-of-town), I decided not to go back home.

“What size are those flip-flops?” I asked Liz.

Eight. I think she answered.

“Well, can I borrow them for this lunch? Then I’ll stop and buy shoes on the way.”

What could she say, right? So my size ten feet pranced into the restaurant hanging off the back of Liz’s flip flops. Meanwhile she took the boys through the McDonald’s drive-thru barefoot. Since she’s a good sport, we cracked up about the whole scenario.

I can’t really explain why I never did buy another pair of shoes. We surely must have passed a place or two. I think Sammy was sleeping and I knew he’d wake up if we stopped. My optimism that we’d see another place proved erroneous and we ended up arriving at Wintergreen with a size 8 pair of flip flops and a size 10 pair of three inch heels I had packed to wear on Sunday.

Mostly we just shared the flip flops. At one point I did take the boys to the indoor pool in my heels, allowing Liz to visit the coffee shop in the flip flops. It was a GREAT look, I’ll tell you. Shorts and snazzy heels, chasing my toddler around.  Liz and I had some great laughs that weekend.

About a year later Liz moved to India to work for the International Justice Mission (IJM). When her time in India came to a close she came to Northern Virginia to work at IJM headquarters. One night we had Liz over for dinner.

“You don’t happen to know Sandy Gavin, do you?” I asked.

“Sandy!” Liz exclaimed. “Of course, I do.   I prayed with Sandy this morning.”

“Liz, Sandy was on that retreat with me at Wintergreen!  She was there for the flip flops!”

It’s a tiny, crazy world. And I love that. I love that my own embarrassing idiocy has formed connections that are so very memorable.

So Liz is marrying Matt this weekend just over the hill from Wintergreen in Staunton, Virginia. She may not be wearing flip flops down the aisle, but she is getting a pair as a wedding gift.

Giving thanks today for this beautiful bride and the amazing way that God allows us to experience and love one another.

How will you rejoice with those who rejoice today? (Romans 12:15)

I’m not a person who spends a lot of time talking on the phone. I don’t get a lot of calls, and I don’t make a lot of calls. I talk to Will multiple times a day, but we are efficient and rarely chat for more than a few minutes. I’m learning though, that this limited phone use has its downside: my boys have no idea how to use the phone. I mean none.

The other day, little Will answered the home phone, which rings about once a week, at the most.

“Hello,” he said, “May I ask who’s calling?”

We counseled him about maybe letting the caller speak before requesting they identify themselves.

Then on Tuesday Nate called me from an unknown number. He had ridden to swim practice with my ever-faithful carpool buddy, but it wasn’t her number and he should’ve been there for about a half hour at that point.

When I answered, he yelled into my ear, “MOM!”

“Hey buddy,” I said, eager to hear the urgent news.

“MOM?!?” he yelled again. There was lots of background noise.

“What’s up, Nate?” I yelled back.

“MOM!!!”

“MOM?!?”

“NATE STOP SAYING MOM! And tell me what’s going on!”

“Oh, are you bringing the entry form for that meet?”

Holy cow I’ve failed. What kind of a mother so neglects phone etiquette that this is the angst ridden conversation I have about a swim meet entry form? So later we talked about how that exchange could’ve gone better.

But I guess it didn’t sink in because less than twenty-four hours later I got another call, from another number I didn’t know. And I got the call slope side with Sam, while Will and Nate were skiing harder runs with friends.

The caller was screaming and crying so hysterically that I couldn’t make out any communication at all. Yet I was certain that the caller was Nate. After quite a few seconds had passed, and I asked with increasing desperation, “Nate, where are you?” I did finally understand three words: double. black. diamond.

It ended up that the whole crew they were skiing with went down a double black diamond (which may sound worse than it was — a Ski Liberty in PA double black and an Alta in UT double black are in no way congruent). But regardless, Nate fell, got freaked out and slid down the mountain. His brother was so far ahead of him at that point that after waiting at the bottom he decided to ride the lift up and ski down to check on him. In that window of Nate’s panic, Marco from ski patrol came by and offered to let Nate use his cell phone, which of course, was very kind, at least in theory. In reality it took about ten years off my life.

On the way home we covered all kinds of potential phone calls. We even role played what a conversation post-car accident should sound like. Begin with assurances that you are in fact fine!

I’m hoping we are making progress, but parenting is hard work. It’s an all day, every day job. I love it with my whole heart, but sometimes the gravity of it is freshly daunting. I do not have a newborn at home. My little mouths feed themselves. They don’t require minute by minute attention for their very survival, but the responsibility is still weighty. Even in the midst of a magical afternoon spent skiing, there are vital lessons to convey.

I’m reminded once again of one of my all-time favorite verses: “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” Hebrews 12:11.

Peace on the phone? With Nate? Later on. Yes. I’m counting on it!