At war with my children.

My children struggle with transition. Here are a few examples: from bed to breakfast; from home to school; from school back home; from snack time to homework time; from looking at a screen to not; from house to church and back again; from play time to bedtime; from birthday parties...

Transition times become a war zone. When I am properly prepared, I go in strong. Ex: “It is time for bed, and I need you to obey without crying. If you don’t, you will lose a story at reading time”. I have to remain firm with my words and follow through with spoken punishments. If I consciously prepare to shield myself against the bullets and arrows of sadness, hunger, thirst, and other excuses, then I stand strong and win the war.

When I have had a long, hard day and am distracted with my own baggage of daily happenings, over-analizations, or hurt feelings, that is when I let my guard down. Then to my shame, my children “win”.

Parenthood has broken me down. I was a perfect parent before the birth of my first child. The older my children get, the more inadequate I feel.

In a way, things do get easier: I am no longer changing diapers or waking up at regular intervals every night. All of our five point harness car seats have gone to various homes. All three of my precious offspring can feed themselves and help out around the house. It is such a blessing to get to know them as little people emerging with real opinions and prayer lives. I am no longer blankly answering “yes”, “that’s great”, or “really?” over and over again during car commutes with a babbling toddler in the back.

But now that my middle schooler has asked about sex, is longing to watch questionable television shows, and challenges the places where we have placed boundaries in his life, I feel overwhelmed. My sword feels rusty, and the strap on my shield falls off sometimes. I find myself either being more lenient than I should or hollering more than I thought I would.

At the heart of the struggle is understanding what I am truly warring against. I get embarrassed when my children throw fits or get sassy in public. My desires get muddled with the love of others’ good opinion, and when I can’t control my children (I never will), then suddenly, I blame them, and we are at war.

“For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places.” Ephesians 6:12.

Yes, I am at war with my children, but we are fighting together, on the same side.

I am married to a wonderful man who is a pastor. Sunday mornings can be a struggle.  Don goes to church early and the kids and I go later. Thankfully, we live five minutes from the church. Yet it is amazing how Satan can come and wreak havoc in those precious five minutes. Sometimes I can’t even get down the driveway without arguments starting. When I arrive at church I am a complete basket case. I have learned how to paste a smile on my face and fake my way into church, without revealing the horrors of the morning commute.

         One day God gave me a thought: pray for our five minute car ride. I began praying or asking one of my children to pray when it was time to leave for church. It was amazing to see God begin working and calming us down. There is no prayer too small for God to answer, and let’s face it: much of our lives happens in those small things. They can make us miserable, or happy.

My boys and I: we’re all on the same team. We are all in a battle to keep peace in our car and in our home, to keep the enemy’s temptation at bay.

When my youngest throws a fit, I send him to his room. Sometimes when he calms down and feels sad about his behavior I encourage him to pray and ask God to help him not to throw fits anymore. It’s encouraging to see him get on board with me. In his heart he wants to be a good boy. Even though I know that the war is still going on and that we will face this same struggle again, it does my own heart good to see him fighting with me, praying, asking God for help. Does God hear those four year old prayers? You better believe it!

Let’s dust off our armor. Adjust your shoulder strap that keeps the shield in place. Let’s help our kids get ready. We have a battle to fight, and in the words of high school musical: we’re all in this together.  ;)

We are at war: together.

Well seasoned

It must have been midnight by the time I finally came to. The moon was big and perfectly round. I had never paid much attention when the moon was full before. Well, maybe I would from now on. I couldn’t believe that I had fallen out of a moving car so quickly! I couldn’t even remember how it happened. Was my seat belt not buckled? No matter. I was stuck in the snow on Colorado’s I-25, just now realizing how cold I was. Thank goodness my coat was on before the fall. I tried to roll over and zip it up. To my bewilderment, I was “working.” My arms and legs felt fine. It was as if I had never fallen at all! In fact, maybe I hadn’t.

Suddenly, I heard hooves on the soft ground behind me. I turned around and looked up, to be greeted strangely by an odd looking dwarf. “Mr. Tumnus?” I asked in utter shock. “Why, yes, that’s me! How in the world did you know my name?” Before I could answer, we were skipping along the path to his house. There was no highway anymore. I made a mental note to take a break from C.S. Lewis books with the grand-kids. Something was definitely not right, here. But despite the bizarre circumstances, I was enjoying myself too much to try to figure out exactly what was going wrong. From my earliest years, I had wanted to be Lucy Pevensie, crossing over into the most magical of worlds through a closet. And here I was! In Narnia! There was snow everywhere, fir trees, and we were on our way to what I had always pictured in my mind as the coziest of cottages: complete with fire in the hearth, tea, something deliciously sweet, music, and a friend, too – be he imaginary. I skipped along the path. Abruptly, I found myself in a very comfortable chair, the smell of something like honey filling my olfactory senses. But Mr. Tumnus was someone else now. Who was he? He was a very good person. He was the Hero of the books—the Jesus-like lion, Aslan. No, it wasn’t Aslan. He wasn’t a lion at all. He was Jesus, Himself. But He felt like a father too. And we were talking. And presently, He wasn’t preparing tea. Instead, the wonderful aroma of vegetable beef stew came wafting across the room. It smelled like my own grandmother’s stew from long ago—another life time it seemed: before grand-kids, before my own children, and before my adult years. The Father figure was talking to me about my life. He reminded me about how I used to not like my feet, and wear shoes that were too small. He said that he knew every single time that I had felt insecure as a teenager. He even reminded me of when my own mother had suffered at the hands of lymphoma, and I thought that she was going to die. I had had to grow up then, and help take care of my family. I practically raised my two youngest siblings. The man recounted these things to me in perfect detail. As he spoke, He added spices to the soup. With each of my life events that he retold, He would add another spice: sage, rosemary, parsley, and others that I was completely unfamiliar with. But with each spice, the smell grew more wonderful. I was a little concerned that He was adding too much, but He assured me that each spice made the soup better. He explained that this was a special kind of soup; that no matter how much good seasoning was added, the taste would improve. The possible improvements were infinite. I was so intrigued by this concept that I was unable to listen for the next little while. There was not a single recipe that I could think of that worked that way. Eventually, adding more of something would ruin the dish.

The Man continued recounting snippets of my life… the difficult break up in college, my marriage with my best friend, the painful birth of my first child, the indescribable joy of raising children, trouble with co-workers, friends, or bosses, pleasure trips, worry over my children’s health, their boyfriends or girlfriends, etc...

He finally served me a bowl of His brew. It was nothing like anything that I had ever tasted before. I wanted to go on eating it forever, and yet at the last spoonful, I felt satisfied. He explained that my life was like His soup. Every experience was a lesson. Whenever an event impacted me, and I learned something from it, His hand was seasoning me. He was adding another spice. “And so you see,” He continued, “in a way, your life is just beginning. Every milestone is a chance to be more ‘seasoned,’ more useful for my kingdom. You are much “tastier” now than you were at the age of 23. A simple broth is OK, but the soup is more edible, and more delicious with my special touch. In the same way, I can use You the more you grow and mature in Me. “

I loved the thought. I wanted to write it down so that I wouldn’t forget it. It made me feel like my life was just getting started. I wondered what new adventures would rise before me when I got home. Home?! I had to get home. I clearly wasn’t Lucy anymore. I was back to my normal self: Sixty years old, but I felt like I was twenty! The soup had made me feel young again. It was amazing. Nevertheless, I knew that my family would start to worry if I stayed away much longer. I rose to leave. The Man was not there anymore, but His Presence still was, somehow. I didn’t recognize who was escorting me to the door. I didn’t even know if it was a He or a She. Whatever it was, it was shining so brightly. I tried to shield my eyes and follow at the same time. As we approached the exit, the light began to fade, and I was being pulled along by my leader through the open door. It was Spring outside, now. The grass felt so soft, that I decided to lay down in it. As soon as I did, however, my escort, who was still with me for some reason, would tug at my hand and call out my name. The name was not my given name, but it sounded so familiar, that I knew he was calling to me. I tried to continue, but I could not. Even though I felt happy and young, I also felt very tired. The voice called again “Mimomo! Mimomo!” It said, over and over again.

I opened my eyes. Two of my grandsons were hovering over me with worried faces. “Mimomo! Wake up! The movie is over!”

I smiled. Jon David and Luke were sitting on either side of me in the love seat in my family room. We had been watching “Narnia” together again. After finishing the book the day before, they had begged to watch it. As I often do during mid-afternoon down time, I must have fallen asleep. I drew them close to me, one in each arm. I knew that it was no coincidence that I had dreamed about new adventures starting. Six grandchildren is enough for about a hundred adventures! Not to mention adult children, spouses, and most of all, my husband. I could not wait to see which ingredient God would add next. He had given me such a unique gift. I felt like I had a new life, and it was starting today, right now, at 3:00 P.M.!

So many good thoughts and memories flooded my mind. It felt like the more I lived, the more life was given to me, instead of the other way around.

I got up and went into the kitchen to fix the boys a snack. I noticed Buddy stirring a pot over the stove. “Oh, what’s for dinner?” I asked in surprise. “Vegetable beef stew,” he said.

I smiled.

Dedicated to Mom.

Best friends are overrated

BFF’s are great if you have one. But what if you don’t?

I grew up a missionary's daughter. When I was in the sixth grade my family temporarily moved back to the US. My brothers and I attended a Christian Academy. I discovered two things during that time: that there was a “popular” group and that I was not in it. Maybe it was the outdated clothes or the fact that I had no idea how to be culturally relevant.

After four more years in Europe, we moved back home for good. All at once I was supposed to acclimate to the American dating game, pep rallies, science fair projects, fundraisers, Valentine banquets, and using a locker.

I have memories of walking into the door of many a new church as a child and teenager. There is nothing quite like the insecurity of wondering what to do with your hands and wishing all of the stares in the room would turn towards someone else. I desperately desired to blend into the crowd and to escape the questioning glances. Someone offering the hand of friendship was a God send.

Now, as an adult, I have mastered the art of introducing myself to new people and small talk. I can easily spot the new person in the room. I know the face, the furtive glances, the conscious placement of the hands.

My husband and I live in a small town in Georgia, where many of the locals were born and raised. After our move here, I wondered when it would be my turn to feel like an insider and I asked God about these things. He seemed to answer:  "Anna, I need you on the outside. I need you to see the people who don't fit in."

I am now a middle school teacher at the local private school. Ironic? Not at all. God often transforms our most painful experiences into a calling.

I watch the dynamics of my students' friendships. I love to gently nudge someone towards a new student. Often the "old ones" don't even notice at first: perhaps because the veterans are popular and wish to remain that way. Or maybe because they are worried about their changing bodies, their grades, their friends, or who they have a crush on.

By getting outside of who you are and reaching to someone new, you find freedom from the trap of yourself and you find Christ. Befriending a new person is like offering them a cup of cold water in Jesus' name.

As adults, the game doesn't change. There are those who will never see the new people around them. They will always be more concerned about who their friends are; if they are fitting in; if they have been invited to the parties; if their houses, cars, and clothes are Pinterest-esque. Just because we grow older doesn't mean that we grow up—myself included.

What about our children? How can we help them overcome feelings of "not fitting in”? Unfortunately, we parents tend to live vicariously through them. When they are left out, we become offended for them—even when their feelings are not hurt! I think one of the best gifts we can give our children is to teach them how to check out of the game; how to live by Jesus' standards. Then the door opens up to a whole new dimension: a life free and independent. Blessed are the unoffended.

“Make new friends, and keep the old: one is silver, the other is gold." 

Best friends, the true kind, are not overrated at all: the kind that allow room in the relationship to reach out to others and are not exclusive. Lord, help me to be that kind of friend.