The Mothering Chronicles 11: When Homeschooling Mommas (and all the other mommas too!) Hit a Wall

I homeschool my boys.  Essentially what this means is I'm a lunatic.  Who, might I ask, in their right mind would give up a paying career to teach children at home . . . unpaid?  There are several obvious flaws with this choice.  1.  No pay.  2.  It's hard.  (If I taught in regular school, I might get to teach the same subject to the same grade each year.  In homeschool I have to learn new material every.single.flipping.year.  And that was all well and good, pie-in-the-sky, happy-happy-joy-joy when we did faux-archeological digs and attempted to make hot air balloons.  But Algebra?  Really?  Somebody stab me in the eyeballs with a thousand sewing needles and relieve me of my misery puleeeeze! )  3.  You have to fold laundry WHILE you teach.  4.  I no longer have a justifiable reason to buy cute new clothes every fall because the official homeschool teacher's uniform is track pants, fuzzy socks and a sweater.  5.  Did I mention the part about no pay?  Yeah, okay, moving on then.


I also run.  Years ago, when I first began running, I used to pray that God would send me a butterfly, a deer, a fuzzy caterpillar, ANYTHING to distract me from the jog.  I'd go for about five minutes, then all of a sudden, my legs were cement.  You could not have held a gun to my head and gotten me to jog one step further.  I was lamenting this dilemma to a girl with uber cute running shoes and very tidy-hair who pertly replied, "You're just hitting your first runner's wall.  It's normal.  It happens to everyone . . . even me.  You have to run longer than seven minutes."  She said some kind of scientific-smart-runner stuff about how your mind doesn't tell your heart to adjust its pace until the seven minute mark.  My eyes glazed over.  All I heard was, "You can do this.  Just run longer than seven minutes."  Hope.


The other day, I was running with a friend.  She's been wanting to learn to run (I know, right?  How do you learn to run?  I think it's just like walking except faster.) for like a year.  She's doing way better than she even realizes, but she seems to hit a wall.  So, I thought I'd go with her.  Sure enough, we're jogging along (Did I mention when I jog it sometimes feels like there is someone riding piggy back on my waste?  It's just my bootie bouncing, but I feel you should know it's the size of a small child.) and she says, "I can't do this.  I'm gonna have to stop." 


I'm like, "Oh no.  You're not stopping.  You've got this.  Keep going."
She's all, "No, I can't keep going."
I'm, "Can you feel your pulse in your temples yet?"
She, (heaving) "No."
Me, "Then you're not stopping.  You've got more in you.  Keep going."


Eventually, she stops.
Just a millisecond because I turn her around and point her down hill and tell her, "NO!  You are not stopping until time is up.  You can do this.  Keep going.  Don't quit.  Put one foot in front of the other.  Slow your pace if you have to, but do not quit."


I feel you should also know she was packing heat, so I was very brave in pushing her so hard because at one point when I pointed out a very large bull-frog on the side of the road to her (What?  I thought she would enjoy the distraction!) she said, "At this point, I. DO.NOT.CARE."  I am like ninety-nine percent sure she had her hand on the trigger when she said that, but I could be mistaken.  Maybe.


Anyway, she saw the wall coming.  She kept telling me it was coming, and then boom!  She.Hit.That.Wall.


And I've been homeschooling my sweet princes for six years now.  And boom!  This year, I hit the wall.  We're talking full-on homeschool burnout.  (Way worse than the garlic toast I burn in the broiler oven every single blasted time!) My eldest is headed into 9th/10th grade courses. (Yeah, I know, right?  One of those moms whose kids don't know what grade they're in.  So annoying.)  The younger is headed into 6th.  And I feel like I am headed into the grave.


And you're probably laughing, cause it's kinda funny that I say I feel like I'm headed into the grave, except I'm crying while I type those words because dadgum, friends, sometimes you just hit the wall so hard that you feel like you're gonna bleed to death.  And it isn't just mommas who homeschool because I cannot even listen to my working-out-of-the-home sisters' schedules without having a panic attack.


I bet you are just as sure as me, like ten million percent sure that every official, politician, and school board person who ever put their little brains together and decided that Algebra was necessary for a kid who is clearly NOT going to be a math teacher could probably be certified as insane.  That or incarcerated for acts of evil.  Or both. 


Can I also tell you that I rank listing last year's grammar and science books on www.homeschoolclassifieds.com or ebay and then praying they sell for a good price so I can buy more curriculum for next year higher on my list of torturous tasks then plucking nostril hairs out?  I do.   (A little education for those who don't have to sell their curriculum . . . it sits in a giant box waiting patiently for me to list it.  Listing it involves meticulous explanation of what exactly the material is, the edition, the year, and what comes with it.  Then you have to respond to annoying, perky first-year homeschoolers who want to know if there are any scratches on it and does it come from a pet-free home?  Ummm. Hello?  I homeschool boys.  Two clues there:  1.  Boys--Yes, there are scratches. 2.  Homeschool--That's practically synonymous with pets.  Sorry about your luck, little lady.  You're going to find rabbit hair and probably boogers.  I'm just saying.


Now some might question my decision to home educate or try to solve my "wall" by suggesting that I stop, put the kids in school, get a paying job, quit my whining and call it a day.  Okay, thank you for that.  But it's a bit like telling the person who wants to become a runner to quit running and start walking, isn't it?  Here's the rub on that just so we're clear.  I'll totally quit homeschooling as soon as God tells me to.  Promise.  He's the one who got us started on this journey that I swore I would NEVER take, and so I'll keep going until He says otherwise.  And trust me, I check in with Him on that pretty regularly. Usually in those conversations He starts calling me Jonah, I immediately go grab Moby Dick and holler "literature lesson in the living room now!" and then I don't eat fish for a week.  Good talk, God.  Thanks.


But if you want the truth, the honest truth, home educating is just a lot of long, hard work. (Kind of like parenting, right?)  And the weight of the responsibility of seeing these boys through their education is like an elephant riding on my shoulders.  Not even just an elephant.  A pregnant elephant.  With twins.  Dear God, it's heavy.  I can't screw it up.  It's all on me.  I mean, if your kid is in public school at least you can point one or maybe two fingers at the government, the teachers, the school board . . . SOMEBODY . . . if they don't learn everything.  With home education, every finger is pointing at me.  And I'm such a wimp.  I hate people pointing at me. 


And the other thing is this, after you've done it a while, sometimes you just feel like you are over it.  I'd like to read a book that doesn't have to do with Ancient Greece, please and thank you.  And honestly, Shakespeare, I'll take a few of your quotes, but really?  The rest?  I used to love your clever words, but now I'm tired and I want Good Housekeeping recipes and time to try them out.  (Also, I think that was a run-on sentence which makes me want to murder the person who invented grammar. Or maybe just maim them. That would be fine too.)


But this morning, I sat down to read my Bible in Mathew 4.  Jesus called Peter, Andrew, James and John from their careers as fishermen to be his disciples.  Then he takes them and goes out healing masses of people, tending to their needs.  I'm picturing Him out there patiently touching scaly skin and glassy eyes, caressing crying babies and breathing new life into broken limbs.  And these people?   They come by the dozens because they heard he could heal.  They heard he was healing people no one had ever been able to help before.  They just keep coming and coming. You know he's got to be exhausted after a while.  They all need him.  They're counting on him.  Every finger's pointing at him.  The elephant's on his shoulders, and the Bible says they came in multitudes. 


After a while, Jesus sees the multitudes, and he goes off to a mountain where he sits down with the disciples.  Just the 12 of them. 
And I fall in love with Jesus all over again when I notice that he took them off by themselves away from the crowds.
He's so perfect, isn't he?
He gives them this upside down sermon where he tells them, "Hey, remember the poor in spirit that we've been seeing in all these crowds? Yeah, well, they're gonna inherit the kingdom of heaven.  Remember the mourners?  The ones who were grieving the death of their spouses, their children?  That doesn't annoy me.  They'll be comforted. It's the merciful that will actually receive mercy. See, it's the meek, the ones who are laid out flat like a pancake, that will inherit the earth one day.  . . ."  And man, I feel like my life's been flattened like a pancake.  Rolled out thinner than pie-crust.  So thin, it's sheer and I feel it would shred were I to try to pick it up.


And I wonder if he told them that sermon cause they were fed up?  Done.  Tired of all those people grabbing at his attention, demanding his time.  I wonder if at first they were flipping out excited about the miracles and the thrill of the journey, the thrill of following Christ in this new thing, but if, after a while, they were just a little over it all.  So he righted things for them.  He set them straight.  Reminded them.  Helped them to see the way of things.  His way.


I love that sermon, I do.  But it's the sitting with the disciples that just washes over me.  After all those big miracles and crowds, when I know he had to be exhausted.  He sat down and talked with his disciples . . . those he called.
He just sits with the ones he calls, you know?
You and me.
Because whether he's called us to be a momma, a home educator, a public educator or a doctor, we all hit walls sometimes, don't we?  And it doesn't mean we quit.  Doesn't mean we go back to fishing.  It just means we need to sit a while.
Let him set things straight.


Mary knew that, didn't she?  Martha's sister?  Remember?  She chose the one thing that was "needful" while Martha was encumbered and troubled over many things.  Martha and I are actually twins separated at birth.  Mary is definitely adopted.


Because she must have understood that Jesus is The Way through the wall.


Didn't he say, "Come to me ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest?"
And sometimes we say we believe Him, but our words and our lives don't always line up. 


These aren't new things are they?  There's nothing new under the sun.  Mary and the weary and heavy laden verse . . . we've heard those sermons preached, haven' t we?  It's not that we need a new book, a new preacher, a clever pinterest quote or better curriculum when we're burnt slap out, is it?  We just need to do the simple thing that works.


Sit on a mountainside (or a sofa) with Jesus.
Be with the one who said, "Apart from me, you can do nothing."
Be with the one who said, "The one who calls you is faithful and he will do it." 
Be with the one who said, "Lo, I am with you always . . ."


I don't think walls bother Jesus that much.
He made one come down just by having people march around it.
The Israelites just had to believe He'd do what He said He'd do.


So, I'm sitting before my own little wall. 
Sitting here with the one who gave me my marching orders six years ago.
Sitting with the one who promised that he "will do it."
And I'm like, "Hey, God.  I'm so out of breath.'
And he's all, "Keep going.  I'm with you always."
And I'm heaving, "I think I feel my pulse in my temples and my head may explode."
He's, "My promises are true.  Do you believe me?"
And I'm breathing a little easier, "Yes, but will you help my unbelief, God."
And those walls?
I think they're cracking, tumbling down a little.  Maybe?
Because He's good.  And He loves to sit with us a while.

The Mothering Chronicles 10: NOT a Good Momma

I smelled it from the homeschool room where I was trying desperately to meet a writing deadline--scorched sauce.  But how could that be?  I had put the fancy heat-diffuser thingy-ma-jig under the heavy bottomed, iron pot.  I had turned the heat down below low.  And I NEEDED that sauce to be perfect.  It was for someone else's dinner.
Telling myself not to micromanage myself, (who has time for that when you have two kids and a husband, right?) I kept working.  Plunk, plunk, plunk.  My fingers flew on the plastic keys at a frantic pace.  I was making great progress, and with that sauce simmering, I hoped to finish the project just in time to make the ziti, go to the bank, race to soccer, fold the laundry, and contact the t-shirt company for camp. Perfect.
But the smell. 
Why was I continually getting these heavy wafts of tomato and flame?
Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer.  Scolding my nose for it's poor sense of smell, I headed into the kitchen to investigate.
It turns out my nose was right all along.
The flame, I discovered as I hung my head upside down, was no longer on low.  It was on high.
The highest high.
The high past the word HIGH on the knob.
The high where the flames lick the side of the pot and you want to immediately commit a crime because you know it isn't good. 
To confirm, I opened the lid.  About two inches (I'm not even kidding) of tomato, meat, onion and basil were cemented to the bottom of the pan with the top six inches spastically spitting and bubbling almost ready to succumb to the pot of scorch.
Entirely ruined.
Outside, giggles erupted.
Two boys tossing a ball.
Now just follow my logic here.  I've got ruined sauce.  Clearly, it wasn't me who did it.
That could only mean one.blasted.thing.
One of them turned the heat on high. Since I don't think our house is haunted, it had to have been one of them.
Had to.
And this was my response:
I slammed the lid down.
I turned the flame off.
I opened the door.
Which one of you turned the pasta sauce on high?
The words were short, sharp blades.  Each one meant to stab.
And they knew.  Immediately they knew.
The guilty party, with shoulders tightened and voice timid said, "I did.  I accidentally turned it off when I was making cocoa and figured it would be best to turn it on high."
I didn't reply.  Not with words.
But I slammed the door.  Harder than I have ever slammed a door in front of any human being in my entire life.
The house shook.
I think the neighbors may have heard it.
I think Africa heard it.
And I saw his shoulders slump.
Because that's the kind of mother I can be.  The kind that gets so tightly wound up in a schedule that's stuffed like a Christmas stocking about to burst open that she cares more about some stupid marinara sauce than she does the precious soul of a prince her Lord entrusted her with for a short season.
And there are more things.
More times.
More moments.
Mad.  Raging moments of reckless rants.
And they so rarely ever mean a smidgen of harm, these precious boys of mine. Truly, they are angels encased in human form with hearts that desperately desire to please.
And of course I'm ashamed.
Because no one else on the face of this planet would explode like a land-mine in the face of one of their children, would they?
Not the good moms, anyway, right?
But maybe there are a brave few who would just stand beside me for just two or three brief moments and raise their hands in solidarity?  Maybe one or two of you out there have fallen so far short of the glory of God when it comes to this daunting task of mothering that you truly believe no one else could ever be as bad as you?
Because I have.
And there are other failures too.
I can't for the life of me get it together to pay my children the allowance I owe them for the past like FIVE years. (What type-A-organized-freak-thought of allowance anyway?  Shouldn't my kids pay me for living in my house?  I've finally told them, they'll get it in the form of one lump sum when they are ready to purchase their first car.)  I'm pretty much convinced if they go bankrupt it will be because I failed to demonstrate responsible finances to them.
Good moms have jars labeled, "Saving, Offering, Spending."
Also, my 14 and 11 year olds put their own laundry away. 
By themselves. 
Once every season I go through their drawers in a tirade and demand to know why everything isn't perfectly folded and organized the way I showed them three months ago. 
Good moms put their kids' laundry away in perfect piles until they graduate and go to college.  Right?
I know they do because when I was growing up, I knew two perfect moms, and that's what they did.
They also did all . . . ALL . . . the housework.
One of them was so organized that when her daughter got up first thing in the morning, she was standing at the door with a vacuum. (I know, right?  Who blasted vacuums at 6 AM?)
What-stinking-ever! 
She also cleaned her daughter's bathroom everyday.  And don't forget about the laundry.  (That's where I learned closets could be neat.  I hadn't known about color-coordinating.  I just thought if stuff was on hangers and not on the floor you patted yourself on the shoulder and called it a day.
Good moms use Tide and fold laundry.
Also my kids eat Ramen noodles.
Processed.  Evil.  Unbalanced.  And I don't even do the cooking of those curly cardboard noodles.  THEY DO!  By themselves.
Good moms cook biscuits for breakfast and make their kids wholesome, balanced lunches everyday.  They also give them weird snacks like whole wheat crackers with smiley faces made out of raisins and cucumbers.
And good wives pack their husband's lunches for them, but that's another blog.  I'll deal with my failure as a wife on another day.
And did I also tell you that I hate playing with blocks and Lego?
What?  I do.  I hate it.  There is nothing fun about stacking little splintery slivers of spruce 2 x 2 squares into houses, farms and towers only to topple them over two seconds later.  Please, kill me.
And Lego?  Primary colored pieces of plastic meant to torture my very soul to the core of its being.  They don't match my house!  And my kids have bins and bins of this stuff.  They love it.  It's like a foreign language I never, ever in my worst nightmare wanted to learn to speak.  Then I had boys.
What, God?  Is that like a practical joke?
But don't good moms adore every little, annoying game their kids want to play?
While I'm at it, I'm just gonna go ahead and let you in on this little tidbit too.
My eldest son was truly a perfect human being until he went through puberty.
What in the world?
Puberty totally punked me.
That voice?
He sounds like an opera singer with a perpetual frog in the throat.  That or a seal with laryngitis. 
Good moms definitely don't tell their pubescent sons to . . . please not talk.
Never.
Also, in case you wondered, I rarely wake up ahead of my children. 
I know.  I know.  Dirt on my casket, right here and now, folks. 
I am a demon-mom.
My eldest is an early-bird kinda kid.  (Another practical joke from God.  Thanks for that.)  Since the moment we took him home from the hospital in my 1987 grey Chevy cavalier, he has been the cherub that rises with the sun ready to chirp and chat long before my poor, heavy lids have lifted to greet the day. 
Nowadays, my alarm goes.  I turn it off.  I wait.
When I hear the flapping of his feet (that somehow recently outgrew my own) on the oak floors, I quickly hop up, yank on my sweater, and act like I've been awake for hours.
Because don't the good moms get up early and pray for their children's spouses or some spiritual thing like that?
And speaking of praying for kids' spouses, I guess I'll have to apologize to my daughter-in-laws someday because I remember to do that like two times a year.
And when my boys went through their obsession with Star Wars phase, I almost died. They knew everything about Star Wars.  I mean everything.  We're talking they read some kind of Star Wars Encyclopedia that was longer than any text book we've ever studied.  Do you know to this day I don't think I've stayed awake through one single one of those boring, life-stealing, brain-cell sucking movies? 
Are you totally kidding me, God?  Hello?  Ann of Green Gables?  Gilmore Girls? Anything but Star Wars.  REALLY?  Ugh.  (Practical joke number 3)
Clearly, the verdict is in, and I am just not a good momma.
And if you are wondering if I might be completely screwing my kids up . . .wonder no more.
I can answer that question for you.
Most definitely, I am.
Some days I honestly think it will be a miracle if these boys survive me.
And if we're confessing, which apparently I am, I'll just go ahead and lay all the cards on the table for you.
I also broke my niece's wrist.
Playing a game where I catapult her across the room with my legs--that's how I did it.
Clearly I should have had the good sense to see her bones couldn't handle the likes of my thundering thighs as they threw her through the air across the basement family room.  Clearly I should have considered a landing pad. Any self-respecting, responsible adult would have thought about that.
I didn't.
Horrible judgment.  All mothering and Auntie privileges should be revoked.  That poor sweet girl was so brave, and in that moment, I felt the full weight of my failure like a five million pound iron sign dangling from my neck that read:
NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
And goodness gracious it's a heavy weight to wear.  And surely I'm not the only one who has ever felt like they couldn't breath under it's suffocating accusations.  And it may seem like I'm only a little serious when it comes to Star Wars and Legos, but can I just be really, brutally honest? 
There is rarely a day that goes by where I don't question my ability to parent.
But here's the truth about that kind of question:
Doubting our ability as parents is doubting the wisdom of the very God who granted them to us in the first place.
Was it not God himself who said, this:
Remember the former things long past, for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is no one like Me . . . saying, ‘My purpose will be established, and I will accomplish all My good pleasure.
(Isaiah 46:9,10)
My purpose will be established, and I will accomplish all My GOOD pleasure.
He gave us these sweet children.  It is a part of his GOOD pleasure.  It is a part of His purpose that we--floundering, failing, fumbling me and you--be their parents. 
And don't we just need that balm for our weary souls?
And did He not also say,
For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.  (Eph. 2:10)
Somehow, this sixty-seven inch, Star Wars loathing girl is God's handiwork created to do good works (And isn't mothering one of our greatest good works?) which God prepared in advance. 
Me.
The one who hates getting up early.
The one who hates Legos. (Does anyone normal really like them?)
He picked my soul, designed me, knit me together in my mother's being, formed me, fashioned my personality and then sent me to earth KNOWING I'd get to be the mother of two young men one day.
And the last time I checked, this God that breathes and mountains sprout up like Jack's beanstalk, does not make mistakes.
Does
not
make
mistakes
He doesn't, because the scripture says, "The Lord is righteous in all His ways and holy in all His works.  (Psalm 145:17)
I went ahead and double-checked with Webster (Well, in the interest of full-disclosure, I actually checked with dictionary.com because I can't even get my act together to buy a current dictionary and mine may or may not be dated like 1935.  Whatever.) and righteous?  It still means morally right or justifiable. 
Translation? God's choice of me as these boys' momma is justified.
Am I really going to doubt a righteous God's decision?  Really?  I mean sometimes we screw up royally and slam doors and forget to wash our kids' soccer uniforms and maybe we yell sometimes or forget the school fundraiser, but here's the rub:  God chose us.
God chose us, and we can spend our life trying to convince Him it was the greatest mistake of His reign as God of the universe, or we can pull up our britches and get a grip because our kids don't need good mommas, they need the right mommas.  And that, my friends, means you, and it means me. 
Because while we're running around doubting God, our kids are growing up, and we're missing it.
And I'm pretty sure God said doubters were like waves of the sea, blown and tossed about.  And if that's the case, maybe all of our families are a little sea-sick. But it's not in you and me that sea-sickness comes to our family, it's in the doubting of us as God's choice.
Maybe, just maybe, I'm not the only mother who has ever felt so entirely inadequate, so completely and utterly a failure that it would have been better if anyone else on the entire planet raised her kids.  Maybe some of you need a little reminder that we can in fact do this. 
Sometimes I look up at God, hot, slick tears sliding down my face, and I say, "Lord, I am so messing this all up.  Why did you give these poor boys me as their mom?"
His words flow, and His truth restores my soul.

His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness.  Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature . . . For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge;  and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness;  and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love.  For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. (I Peter 1: 3-8)

There's no book that can teach us how to be a mother better than The Book because it contains the truths of who He is.  It is through our knowledge of Him--this God that chose to call us to be moms--that we are given everything we need for a godly life.  Given everything. Every single thing we will ever need as a mother.

Isn't that my greatest hope as a mom?  That I would be a godly mother?

I actually get to participate in His divine nature because of His precious promises.  And if you and I get to participate in that divine nature, than surely, there is hope we can make the right choices as mothers, right?

I'm not crazy.  It's all there in scripture.

Don't misunderstand me. I know Jesus promised where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.  But I don't take that for granted.  I don't assume that means I give myself a pass, a get-out-of-jail-free card.  I assume that means His grace will sustain me as I make every effort to add to my faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control perseverance . . . By every effort, I assume God's Word literally means EVERY. EFFORT.  Every book I can get my hands on.  Every scripture passage I can learn on the subject of mothering.  Every bit of godly, wise advice I can glean.  Every ounce of energy and strength I have poured into this great privilege of mothering.  Because these children deserve that.

I assume that means His grace will give me the strength to open the door I slammed, walk outside and take that young man's hand and tell him, it's just spaghetti sauce.  Tell him I'm sorry I slammed the door.  Tell him he's much more important to me that a good marinara sauce.  Tell him its okay that he turned the heat up, and I am a dumb yutz sometimes.  Ask him to forgive me.  Ask him if he wants to throw the football because I may not like playing with blocks, but I love throwing the football. (And so does he.)

Because that's what we do.  We fail sometimes, and we seek forgiveness. 

Someday they'll fail.  They need to know how to humble themselves and ask for forgiveness too because God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble. 

Then we forgive ourselves for failing because why would we withhold forgiveness from ourselves when our Father isn't withholding it?

And we move on.

We make every effort to add to our faith in a sovereign, RIGHTeous God, goodness and self-control, and perseverance. 

Because we may not be good mommas, but we are the RIGHT mommas.

And if God, who is always right, chose us, isn't that enough?

That sign around our neck?  We've been lied to, friends.  It doesn't say:  Not Good Enough.

It reads:

Handcrafted by the King.
You are wonderful mothers.  You are.

Sometimes we need to hear the truth, so have a listen.

The Mothering Chronicles

When the planting is done

Over 400 kids, almost 7000 meals, (eaten by all of us, not just me!) 3 long weeks, and less than 4 hours of sleep per night, the children's Bible camp my family helps with each year has come to a close. Still dizzy from the frenzy of activity, I sat this morning, sipping freshly ground coffee when I read this quote: "Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant." Robert Louis Stevenson. Immediately the three very different weeks of camp came to my mind. Teen week came first with a smorgasbord of cowboy boots, skinny jeans, flip flops, plaids, and diverse backgrounds. From 7 different states these 13-18 year olds walked onto campus, most of them genuinely ready to meet with God in some very real way. 7-9 year old week came next--a hurricane of young ones with energy that, if harnessed, could power our country naturally for quite some time. Many of these were so small, their main purpose was to have fun. Our purpose of course, was to show them God's love while they had fun. Not always easy. Then there were the 10-12 year olds. Wave upon wave of them rolled in, pillows, suitcases, and duffel bags in hand. 170 of them! We were like an anthill that from the outside looks like little people running everywhere, but upon close examination, there is direction and purpose to every step. These were the children who stood at the crossroads ready to make some long term decisions about what they will believe and whom they will serve. Again, our goal was to reveal the love of God and point them in that direction. One Saturday between camps, I ran home and planted some winter squash and pumpkin seeds for fall harvest. The conditions must have been perfect because seeds that normally take 14 or more days to germinate were over an inch tall the following Friday when I returned home. I couldn't believe how quickly they came up this year. That was teen week in a nutshell. We planted, we watered, and we saw growth that very week. Overwhelming growth. Then there was the week of young campers where we slugged it, kissed boo boos, hugged necks, combed hair, wrestled, encouraged the occasional shower,(why do kids hate to shower?) all while constantly pointing with our hearts as loudly as we could, to the love of God. We taught, we shared, we tickled, we prayed, and we prayed again. But the fruit, the harvest is not as evident in these young ones. It isn't that they don't grow, but growth is measured differently at that age, and much of what we are doing then is just laying the foundation. On what will these little ones build their lives? A loving God? A world that offers bigger gaming systems, newer cell phones, and a Justice fall line of clothing just in time for back to school? We pray they left camp with a heart that stands on the love of their Father. And finally we swam in an ocean of 10-12 year olds where one was as distracted as my chocolate lab when a squirrel crosses our path, and the other was as focused as my chocolate lab becomes on said squirrel. One's listening, one's not, and we were just praying, "God let them all hear. Let them understand that we've tried both foundations and yours is better. Yours is greater. Yours is enough." Some of them come to tell you what they learned, but many are quiet and you are left to wonder. Did they hear? Did they understand? Being a dorm mom, I was with the kids constantly. There were many glimpses into the fruit that was ripening in their hearts. One little girl said to me, "I didn't know that God's hand would never be against me. I didn't know He will always love me until I came here." Fruit. Thank you, God. Another little girl after sharing about a life in foster care said, "I think I need to forgive my mom." Amen. But I have to wonder about the kitchen staff--those who labored tirelessly in over 80 degree temperatures, chopping, slicing, stirring, and kneading with little to no interaction with the kids. These were the servants who fed their tummies so others of us could feed their souls. A child with a full belly is in a much better place to feed their soul. But, those who worked in the kitchen didn't get to see any fruit. They just served with a spiritual dot dot dot at the end of each day. Was what they were doing impacting eternity? There were also those who wrote checks and those who planted seeds in a prayer closet somewhere far from the campus. There were the people who showed up weeks before to clear out the cobwebs and prepare the campus. None of them had the privilege of hearing how God had worked in these little ones' hearts. They saw no fruit. But they served. They planted seeds. Without planting of seeds, there is no crop. The last two years my garden has yielded enough cucumbers to make salads and eat with my family. But this year, I've had so many cucumbers that I'm giving away bags full to others, and still have baskets filled all over my house. Here's the interesting part, I've planted the same amount of seeds each year. There's a passage in I Corinthians, "I planted, Apollos watered, but God caused it to grow. So neither the one who plants counts for anything, nor the one who waters, but God who causes the growth." Who can say why one year I have mountains of cucumbers and another I have few? Who can say what the real fruit of Canal Lake Bible Camp really will be? We can count conversions, rededications, callings to ministry--if we like. But, truly it is God who causes growth. I'd rather not try to measure the harvest. Instead, I'd like to find myself content in knowing, I planted. I planted with all my heart. With every ounce of energy and strength I had, I planted. And so did the kitchen workers, the cleaning ladies, the prayer warriors, the board members, and many others. And now, we'll pray to the Lord of the harvest to bring about fruit in all these hearts. Imagine what would happen if all of these over 400 kids chose to continue to seek after the heart of God in their lives! Imagine what would happen in ours schools, in our town, in our state if they chose to build their lives on the truths of Jesus and not worldly wisdom. And I'm praying to that end, but I remember too, the parable of the shepherd who left 99 sheep to find one lost lamb. As a child I loved that story, but as an adult I realize that even if all the fundraisers, all the meals, all the work yielded only one heart turned toward God, it would be worth it. It would. God's not willing that any should perish, and His love knows no bounds. He will reach to the ends of the earth to restore His children to Himself. Pray with me to that end, please. God, we know you were sovereign in each child that attended camp. We know you were sovereign in each adult who helped in some way. We know you have purposes that are far beyond our understanding. God, we've planted with everything in us, will you bring about growth? Will you protect these seeds, bring them warmth, bring them sun, bring them rain and let them take root? Will you bring about a safe environment for them to grow? We trust you with the harvest. Thank you for letting us plant. Amen.

Sailing into the storm (part 4)

"I am a man who has experienced affliction..." Lamentations 3:1 It had been seven years since his lips and mine had met for the first time in front of a couple hundred witnesses--our wedding day. Some people call it the seven year itch, but when you are right in the middle of it with toddling baby boys nipping at your ankles while you stare into each other's eyes and confess that you don't really know if you want to be married anymore, it feels very different from an itch. Neither of us had changed really, but somehow everything was different. As we sat their disappointed, disillusioned and tired, so tired of trying, we both knew we had run aground. I think the passengers aboard the sinking ship with Paul knew those feelings well when Paul tells them to keep up their courage because God told him he would make it out alive. Paul ended his encouragement with a sentence that has refreshed itself in mind day after day since I first read it. "Therefore keep up your courage, men for I have faith in God that it will be just as I have been told. But we must run aground on some island." These sailors had foolishly ignored Paul's good advice and now they find themselves suffocating under the dark swells of a storm, literally driven across first the Mediterranean and now the Adriatic Sea. Paul says to them, 'Look you screwed up big time. But hold onto your courage because my God, the one true God is delivering me to Caesar and you get to arrive with me, but...But! We're going to experience some turbulence along the way. We have to run aground." Paul was well qualified to write the words "And we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose." (Rom 8:28) God always moves and works in our lives, but most of the time He does not remove the natural consequences of our decisions. That is critical because if we miss it we will end up disappointed with God and wondering why He didn't move amidst our storm. Those sailors chose to sail on the open sea late in the season and they bore the result of that risky decision. Run aground they did. Literally. They were caught probably on what would have been a sandbar in some cross currents. In the end the stern of their ship was splintered by the waves like fire logs by an ax. This is so significant to me because God told them they'd make it to shore and yet they watched helplessly as their ship--the only mode they had for getting to the shore--was pummeled by wave after wave like a wrecking ball to a high rise. I have watched as the vehicles I planned to use to get to shore were torn apart more than once in my life. Have you? A mom who planned to spend her children's lives running and playing with them is plagued with chronic illness. A marriage we thought was the happily ever after story ends in divorce and with it a family once involved in church no longer feels worthy to darken the door. A precious person I know was blindsided when her husband lost their family business. Another watched as their million dollar investment portfolio dropped like an arctic barometer in a matter of days after Enron. Another couldn't have a biological child. Another had five and each one walked away from God. And yet another sat in horror as her husband revealed his pornography and prostitute addiction. Real people. Real human lives that I know and love. Run aground. Their lives literally beaten to tiny pieces. And you tell me God is good? We say He works everything out for our good,but when you are in the middle of the wreckage it does not feel good. When we are left with fragments of the lives we build, it is then we have a choice to believe as Paul did that "it will be just as we have been told." (Acts 27:25) It is in the moment when the sterns have been broken and darkness chants "all hope is gone" that we decide whether we will believe the promises of God are true and real. You know how those sailors made it to land? It's incredible to me. Some of them just swam. Those who were strong enough and able, swam to land. The others followed either on planks for pieces from the ship. That's it. No incarnate Jesus walking on water to carry them to shore, no big flapping fish offering it's fins to bring them ashore. Just some pieces of broken boards and their own arms and legs. So often we miss God because we don't give Him credit for the strength He has given us--the ability to swim in an ocean of doubt and fear, for example. And I wonder if any of them stopped and praised Him for the splintered wreckage of that ship. So often I have everything figured out for God, the mode, the means and the method of getting me to shore. But more often than not, God takes those preconceived ideas of Himself and explodes them into a thousand fragments. His ways are just plain higher. It's so beautiful to me that God didn't remove the consequence of their choice, but from that wreckage he gave them just enough to float to shore. Just enough. When Jeff and I looked into each other's eyes that day we knew we had a decision to make--would we trust God and obey His plan or give into the storm? We chose God. And he literally gave us just enough. Just enough to make a choice to get some counselling. That was all. I remember driving to our first counselling session, lips pressed firmly together in relative silence thinking to myself, 'the fact that we are in this car driving in the direction of this counselor is a miracle because I do not want to be here and neither does he.' But we were and that was just enough. Six months later it was just enough to start falling in love again. There was never a moment when we trusted Him that He didn't provide that plank of hope--just enough to bring us to shore. And now we are a testimony not to the strength of our marriage, but to the strength of our God. There are seasons in our lives when we've just run aground. Ships were meant for water just as we were meant for hope. If you've run aground I pray you can hear my heart. Hold on. Your Father will not let you drown amidst the circumstances of your life. He will NOT. You have to know that as long as there is a God (and that's forever) you have hope. He does not abandon. He does not quit. He does not give up. He does not leave you in the consequences of your choices. He carries you through them, gives you just enough strength to stay afloat until you are safely to shore. That is the God whom I love, and that, my friends is the God who loves you. Do you believe it will be to you "just as He said?" Pray with me: Jesus, the God of hope--You came to earth to show that You will supply our greatest need for relationship with You. For that, I praise and thank you. When our lives are aground teach us to trust You. Teach us to swim with expectant hearts knowing that when our strength fails You are stronger still. Teach us that all life is in you and that our lives do not consist of the wreckage of the physical but in the peace of knowing who You are. Help us to see that we don't need a ship to get to shore--teach us to release all the 'ships' in our lives to you. Show us the planks, God. Help us to embrace the ways YOU want to work in our lives and the lives of those we love and to surrender all our preconceived ideas into Your capable hands. Help us to hold on, Father. Amen. Read with me: Lamentations 3 (especially 22-24, 55-58)

Stepping In the Footprints of Jesus

Loving Jesus, I mean really loving Jesus is a lot harder than I'd sometimes like to accept. The disciples themselves told Jesus His teachings were "hard" and many of them defected. That's a pretty big thing considering that anyone who devoted themselves to becoming a disciple had literally given up everything else--career, home, family--to become like this man. The Bible says in John 6 that Jesus was aware that some of his disciples were complaining that His teachings were too demanding and He specifically asked them, "Does this cause you to be offended?" Jesus knew they were offended--his message can be offensive to our personal agendas and bents. When it is, then we know we've encountered an area in our lives where we haven't released ourselves fully to Him. He went on to tell them, "The words I have spoken to you are spirit and are life." The Greek in that passage means that Jesus words are literally life-producing. Just yesterday the boys and I were cracking open rocks and marveling at the dark brown lines and layers passing through the hard stones. Here in the center of these rough chunks of our earth were minerals and elements like iron--ingredients completely and utterly necessary for the production of life. My eldest son--an avid ingredient label reader--exclaimed, "Mom, those are in the food we eat!" Exactly right. The very element that courses through our blood giving us energy and saving us from severe lethargy is found within the hardest stones. The truths of the Spirit of God are often layers of nutrients embedded in the difficult ways of Jesus. And they produce life. Now let me give you an example of what this looks like in my life. Paul in Philippians wrote a verse that God often uses to...well, to haunt me, if you will. "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is worthy of respect, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if something is excellent or praiseworthy, think about these things." (4:8) I know it's a commonly quoted passage and for good reason--it's full of iron-rich nutrients of the Spirit of God. The problem is that often it means I've got to quit focusing on something that doesn't meet that criteria. For example one of my absolute favorite authors of all-time falls short of this criteria. His writing is flawless. His stories are like long hot cups of coffee and lazy Saturday afternoons. And yet each of his books contain images and phrasing that I know grieve the heart of God. Every time I begin one of his books I am hopeful that it will be different and every time God passes that verse through my heart and whispers, "It's not commendable, Sarah. He took the incredible ability I gave him to write and allowed it to become something I never intended." And some of you might say, but it's art. And to that all I can tell you is the truth. Only a short distance into the book I was already aware that I'd need to return it to the library when my husband picked it up. I cringed. My entire body tensed as he began to look at the book because all I could think is how embarrassed I'd be if he read a few pages. Well, obviously it wasn't "praiseworthy" or I'd of been insisting he read the entire thing. So the book sits unread and waiting patiently to be returned. Hard. Maybe not hard for everyone, but for a literature lover it's hard to accept. We all cling to different things--struggle to hold onto different parts of our old life. Just this morning while pulling out an old shoe box for the boys to place some of their newly cracked open rocks in I noticed a slogan on the inside of the box. There was a large shoe print and the words "What kind of footprint will you leave?" Paul in verse 9 of Philippians 4 said, "And what you learned and received and heard and saw in me, do these things. And the God of peace will be with you." Do you not find it incredible that this man had such confidence in his obedience to Christ that He actually had the boldness to say, "Hey guys, mimic me. Be like me. Practise what I practise. Preach what I preach. Live how I live and the God of peace will be with you." That's amazing to me. Frankly, there are times when I have to sit my little boys down and say, "Boys, what you just saw mommy do? That wasn't what Jesus would do. I have to ask Jesus to forgive me and I need to tell you it was wrong. Will you forgive me too?" But Paul knew exactly what kind of footprint he was leaving and he wanted others to follow in it. After all, that's what a disciple is, isn't it? A follower? So, my question is, are we really following? Really? Listen, I know it's tough sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I'm giving up everything...but then Jesus asks us for what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul? See I'd rather keep my soul and lose the world. Jesus said in Luke 6:46-48, "Why do you call me 'Lord, Lord, and don't do what I tell you? Everyone who comes to me and listens to my words and puts them into practice I will show you what he is like: He is like a man building a house who dug down deep, and laid the foundation on bedrock. When a flood came, the river burst against that house but could not shake it because it had been well built." A foundation on bedrock. I had a friend who recently built a house and they ended up having to blast into the earth with dynamite because they discovered her house location was solid rock. It cost her an extra fifteen thousand dollars, but she's got a foundation built on rock. Her house is going nowhere. It is permanently embedded in the rock. If I take Jesus at His word and obey it--follow it as closely as I understand it, I am digging down deep and leaving a footprint that I can be confident I want my own children to follow in. You know that passage in John when the disciples said it was too difficult to follow Jesus' teachings? My Bible says, "After this many of his disciples quit following him and did not accompany him any longer." The literal Greek translation of that means "Many of his disciples went back to what lay behind." What lay behind. I can't help but think of the Israelites' repeated claims that they were better off as slaves in Egypt. For the follower of Jesus what lays behind is always shaky ground. It's always less than what lies ahead. Imagine a house that actually shifts it's position from the solid foundation on which it lays to the sandy soil behind it? A house can't sit on two foundations and remain stable. That's not the footprint I want to leave. When we lived in Ontario sometimes we'd get a big snow overnight. If Jeff didn't have time to shovel before he left for work I'd go out and try to step directly in his big booted footprints in order to get the shovel. But when I missed even slightly, I always got snow down my boot or up my pants leg. Following in the footprints of Jesus takes every ounce of effort--it takes our all. He'll leave nothing untouched, but the payoff is a foundation built on rock so full of nutrients that we get a life only the spirit of God can give. Most of all, what I love is the promise that when we put these words and deeds into action, "The God of peace will be with you." (Phil. 4:9) We're not promised a trouble free life. We're not promised an easy life, but when we give all of ourselves to all we know of Jesus we are walking in the company of the God of peace. The peace to sing with the Horatio Spafford's great hymn, "It is well with my soul." It may not be easy, but it will be well. Of this, I am sure. Pray with me: God of peace, Spirit of God, Jesus, teach me to take your yoke. Teach me to follow in your footprints. Show me that the life you give is far greater than the life I release to follow you. God I miss the mark so often and I thank you for your forgiveness. Help me to love the peace that you give more than the temporary fulfillment I'm offered by those things to which I want to cling. Jesus may my life honor you and may my children find a solid footprint in which to follow. Amen."

The Pipeline

This summer my husband and I spent a week at a local teen camp. It was there that I saw a team building exercise involving PVC pipe and marbles. The pipes had been cut in half lengthwise so that they were a half circle instead of a complete tube. Each individual was given an eight to ten inch section of pipe. As a team, they were to hold their pipes together to form a long channel on which a marble could travel. Each team was given the challenge to start a marble at the beginning of their pipeline and keep their pipes positioned so that the marble safely travels along the channel of pipes and children all the way to the end of the line where it drops into a bucket. They had to get five marbles into their bucket. It sounds simple, but in fact it took quite a lot of time. Someone would move and their pipe would be jostled causing the marble to fly over the edge or drop to the ground. What gripped my heart as I watched these teens--young, full of life and determined to see five marbles land in their rusted coffee can--is that we are holding the pipes for them. They are the marbles. What we do with our lives very often plays a significant role in what happens to them. Don't miss that. What we do affects the lives of those who come after us. Sure, we know that. In theory. But here's the thing--practically speaking, I believe we often forget it. Does it really matter if I faithfully attend church? Is it that important that I continue reading my Bible daily? What's the big deal if my prayer life is virtually non-existent? Who's gonna know? Who's gonna care if I get drunk when I go on vacation? No one's going to know me when I'm on holidays. Every single time we decide it's okay to let this or that slip we are in effect dropping our pipe. We don't know who's coming down the line when we drop our pipe. And we don't know who's life may fall because we decided to sit down a while. Our lives are not islands--singular episodes on the universe. They are attached to God's purposes and therefore are connected in some way to every single individual God will ever create. That's a staggering thought. Overwhelming. If we are created by God then we are a part of His eternal plan for all mankind and therefore there is not one moment in our lives that does not eventually play out on a grand scale. What we do with our pipe matters. When I consider my humble place in the world I almost laugh at the thought that my life affects those outside of my very intimate circle of family and friends. I'm no Billy Graham or Martin Luther after all. And yet it could be that a young Billy Graham was at the very camp where I cheered as marbles plunked into buckets. I once heard a quote I've never forgotten: what we do in moderation our children will do in excess. How true. If I occasionally blow up in anger it is very likely my children will do it regularly. If I occasionally watch inappropriate movies, it is probable that my children will be comfortable watching entertainment that doesn't glorify God often. If I let my pipe drop on the weekends, my children will likely take four day weekends and their children will probably not even pick their pipes up until Sunday. You see what I'm saying, right? Galatians 6:7-9 is perhaps one of the most critical passages in scripture for believers. "Do not be deceived, God will not be made a fool. For a person will reap what he sows, because the person who sows to his own flesh will reap corruption from the flesh, but the one who sows to the Spirit will reap eternal life from the Spirit. So we must not grow weary in doing good, for in due time we will reap, if we do not give up." Powerful words for those contemplating the importance of holding up a pipe that seems cumbersome and exhausting. Powerful words for the lady who's arms have grown weak and who's heart is no longer in it. Powerful words for the person who believes their life is theirs alone--and what they do will not have outer reaching consequences. Satan has won a great victory the day he convinces a believer that what they do with their life will have little to no affect on the lives of those around them. That's a lie and too often, we believe it. We will reap the seeds we sow. Seeds of diligence will bring about a harvest that reflects a life of diligence. Seeds of faithfulness will reap a harvest revealing a life lived faithfully. Seeds of sporadic worship will yield sporadic results. What this is not saying is that if we obey God we will have perfect lives. On the contrary, we may have trouble--Jesus told us we would have trouble in this world. But, if we do not grow weary in obeying the God of the universe we will see a harvest in due time. In moments when we are weary--when following God seems like more effort than fun, when obeying God seems like a waste of time--we must know that there are still more people coming down the line. We must stand firm and hold out because when we drop, others do too. In this life we may never know who came behind us, but when we get to eternity I believe we will discover our lives affected millions in the end. The question then is how will our lives have affected those who came after? It very well could be my children following behind and oh, how I pray they find us all faithful. If, my friend, I could look you square in the face, I'd take your hands in mine and say emphatically. "Hold on. Keep going. Your life matters. Don't give up. God's plan for your life is magnificent and every single day that you persevere on this journey is a day that has eternal impact." God, strengthen our arms, lift up our heads, give us endurance for this journey that we would not grow weary. God empower us with your everlasting arms as we try to stand steady in our walk with you. May we see how ours are lives that will touch those around us. May we be found faithful. In Jesus' name.