Saying Yes to My Kids More

I want to say yes more.

Yes to pitchers of lemonade.
Yes to one more lap around the neighborhood on bikes.
Yes to popcorn for dinner.
Yes to bowls of water carried outside for toy “car washes”
Yes to digging in the mud with my wooden cooking spoons.
Yes to little hands flipping the pancakes.
Yes to jumping on the trampoline for “ten more minutes.”
Yes to jumping on the trampoline WITH you.
Yes to “just one more” book read aloud.
Yes to staying up “just a little bit longer.”
Yes to the jar for collecting worms.
Yes to stopping for ice cream.
Yes to tables covered in brushes, paint, and masterpieces.
Yes to putting on swim suits and turning on the hose.
Yes to crumbly, gets everywhere Play Doh.
Yes to those alluring Rolos in the check-out line.
Yes to binge watching the Brady Bunch.
Yes to blanket forts.
Yes to playing outside long after bedtime.
Yes to the cousin sleepover.
Yes to decorating the table with flowers picked out of my flower pots.
Yes to looking into little eyes and listening to “just one more thing.”
Yes. Yes to being more intentional about finding things to say yes to.

This momma has found lots of reasons to say no far too often. Too much to do. Too distracted. Too much to manage. Too tired. Too messy. Too unhealthy. Too unsafe. Too hard. Too risky. Too time consuming. Or, I’m too grumpy.
 

I have four young kids. I am crossing very few things off my to do list beyond meals, laundry, and homework. I am not in the get ahead stage in my parenting life. I’m just squeaking by and trying to make it to bedtime without too many tears or too many household items destroyed. I know the season that I’m in, yet I still make an idol of order. I still expect so much productivity that I miss yes moments. Moments that would bring joy, but are avoided because I fear the chaos and dread taking off my “manager of all things” badge.

It doesn’t feel like I have margin for more yeses. It’s much easier to manage and control my kids with lots of nos. Because I am still tired, still have too much to do, and still can be on the grumpy side, sometimes saying yes is a stretch. But I still think there is more room for saying, “Yes, kids. Why not?”

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

Permission to Ramble

I’ve grown too efficient. My life is so full, so bullet listed, and so scheduled that I’ve forgotten how to ramble. I’ve lost the knack for lingering long in conversation. My overfilled calendar and productivity addiction have limited me to directly to the point communication. Being long winded, and fully open, seems a luxury.

I don’t email anymore. I text. It’s faster. An actual phone call? Forget about it. I’ll get off task. I pursue efficiency. Unless a favorite author pens a blog post, I tend to only read short and catchy posts or numbered tips. For social media, I prefer the photos and concise descriptions of Instagram. It’s 2015 after all. I’m a mom with 100 tasks to attend to.

Isn’t that the direction we’ve moved? Our thoughts whittled down for quick consumption. We share brief updates, then we scroll on by and read 100 other friend’s summarized social media highlights.
We’ve made an exchange. More friendships, but less time to deepen them. Our networks have exploded, but our time to dip beneath the surface diminished.

We find people we connect with, that we could learn from, but our schedules are so full that we plan a dinner together six weeks from Tuesday, after 7:30 PM. When we finally sit knee to knee, again, we have time only for highlights.
But that’s not who I am. Not who I want to be.

Back in the day, I lingered. I had space for a good ramble.

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I remember the steady stream of my Mamaw’s stories of farms and kids, mischief and sons. She rarely stopped talking, rambling on whether we were in the room or not. I loved it, learned from it, and miss it.
I remember afternoon rainstorms when my family would sit on our covered porch. I can’t remember the conversations, but I’m guessing we rambled a bit to the cadence of roof tapping raindrops.
I remember nights of lying on a trampoline with my best friend. Our teenage eyes on the constellations, we chatted unedited about dreams, fears, and boys.

I remember relationships. Sweet moments when those I loved didn’t feel the need to make long stories short. 

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There is a time for being concise. In business, classrooms, or group meetings, intentional words are important. Other times, rambling has beauty to it. It’s a rare art, fading away along with sitting on benches and iced lemonade sipped on porch swings.

I think there is more to blame than rushed living. I think rambling now takes bravery. Since we mostly exchange buffed and polished tidbits, we’ve gotten in the habit of fine tuning what we share. You’ll rarely read a FB status of mine that doesn’t have the word “edited” by the date. I keep it tidy.

Sharing unedited, not yet composed thoughts, is a gamble. I risk bothering, and burdening, busy friends with my in-process thinking. Further, my rambles expose my less impressive side. The selfish, unrefined, weak, judgmental, and needy one.

So I wonder:

Does he have time to listen?

Will she be annoyed by my tangents?

Can he handle my messy thoughts?

“I’ve spent most of my life and most of my friendships holding my breath and hoping that when people get close enough they won’t leave, and fearing that it’s a matter of time before they figure me out and go.” ― Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet

True community leaves space for unrushed, imperfect exchanges. It assures, “I value you, and want to live out this messy, beautiful life together.” Authentic friendship makes sense of life together. It’s raw, flawed, and untidy. It spurs me on, refuses to let me be anything but true, and doesn’t hesitate to challenge my selfishness, judgments, pride, or lacking faith.

Read the rest, and get rambling permission, over at Ungrind Webzine. 

10 Ways Life is Like a Box of Chocolates (Ungrind Post)

“My Momma always said, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates.
You never know what you are going to get.'” ~Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump came out in 1994, and like the rest of the cinema loving world, I knew it was special. I even purchased the loaded with folksy, 70’s tunes soundtrack. I was twenty when I watched the bus stop bench scene with Forrest holding a box of chocolates, sharing his momma’s wisdom. Momma Gump’s words sounded like truth, but I had no depth of understanding. At that age, I couldn’t grasp how life might be a like a box of chocolates. But now I get it. Let’s not do the age math and just trust that I’ve lived enough years to better grasp the analogy.

Life is in fact like a box of chocolates.

No doubt life is an assortment of clusters, cordials, and truffles. Amen? When the sun rises each new day, the twenty-four hours that follow just might be nutty, fruity, fancy, simple, messy, sweet, or just not good at all. We can guess how it will go, but we don’t really know until we’ve taken a taste and lived it.

I’ve relished some chocolate in my day, mostly of the semisweet variety. It comforts me in stressful times, pampers me on happy occasions, and has been a guilty pleasure for as long as I’ve had taste buds. On each Valentine’s Day throughout my childhood, my dad gave my sister and I velvety, red heart boxes filled with an assortment of chocolates. Those boxes of Russell Stover’s sweetness made our February fourteenths extra special each year. When we lifted off the heart-shaped lids, sniffed the candied scent, and peeked under the wax paper lining at the luscious chocolates resting organized in golden foil, we knew we were loved.

 

Like life, a box of chocolates is typically given as a gift from someone who loves us. And that box is like a banquet, like a visual of life’s moments laid out before us, filled with individual gifts meant to be tasted and savored. Those yummy truffles derived from cocoa beans do in fact mirror our days.

 

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If Forrest were to have asked his sage momma to elaborate, she might have advised…

1. We don’t know what each piece contains, what each day will hold, but we know that the One who made them creates with great intention. Release your need to know, and trust the Maker.

2. Though gifted with many chocolates, and a lifetime of days, our number is limited still. See each as a luxurious gift.

3. Each delicious chocolate, each individual special moment, is meant to be savored. Slow yourself down and truly taste it. If you get too excited and focused on the full feast before you, you’ll miss life’s littlest gifts.

4. We want control over what candies are in our box, over the hand life deals us, but we can’t have it. Release your grip and free yourself to enjoy the adventure.

5. Some of our chocolates, some of our circumstances, are a letdown. We expect to love every last morsel. We want every nibble to be perfect, but life is an assortment of the sweet, the bitter, and the in between. Remember, even in the let down, there is sweetness to be mined for.

Grab some semi-sweet and go read 6-10 over at Ungrind Webzine. 

 

Living a Led Life

Follow your heart, they tell you. Chase your dreams. I’m all about the heart, and I have lists of dreams, but I’ve discovered that when I follow this advice, life gets messy quickly. I’m finished following after me.

Because my heart is wishy-washy and can’t be trusted.

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? Jeremiah 17:9

Because my plans tend to change and fade.
Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails. Proverbs 19:21

Because my ideas don’t always match up with God’s.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD.
Isaiah 55:8

I am an experience junkie and activity addict. A project planner and dream chaser. A doer and server. I see a shiny activity on the shelf, and I don’t want to miss out. My heart desires to say yes to every need, and my dreams are finicky. So following my heart and chasing my dreams is not the best plan for me.

I’m designed to serve, but I tend to give away energy too freely. I volunteer, make lists, and fill my calendar. Now I’m reconsidering. I’ve pushed myself hard, and am left strung out and weary. Plus, when I serve all over the place, my contributions and fulfillment are inconsistent at best. My intentions are true, but my days are so scheduled that I also miss small chances to help those placed in my path.
 
I get muddled when saying yes to helping. I justify over activity because the work is important. Because I believe that we are called to live lives of service. I see needs and I want to meet them. I am learning though that God doesn’t need me to swoop in with a vision and a plan, particularly when my heart is not rightly focused.

Without realizing it, or willingness to acknowledge it, I sometimes say yes to the wrong “good” things...

To fill space.
To gain attention.
To feed my hero complex.
To feel included.
To keep up.
To not miss out.
To not feel guilty.
To please people.
To please God.
To fill needs that might not be mine to fill.

Even my “good works” can be me focused. I’ve been serving, but have I followed after God’s heart, or my own?

With the hope of living an intentional life, every January I pick a word to usher in the new year. Words like abundance and prayer.

My word for 2015 is led. I want to lead a led life.

I long for Spirit ears to hear His voice above all others, mostly my own. Eyes to see what He sees, rather than what I want to see. A discerning heart, that identifies when I am saying yes to the wrong “good” things. And wisdom to base my dreams on God’s desires for me. In His kindness, He invites me to participate in His work, and He promises to make my paths straight. Those are the only paths I want to walk.

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine.

God of My Children

Nil per os. A Latin phrase meaning “nothing by mouth.”

For six days, an NPO sign has been on my two year old’s hospital room door. The sign will stay up for another two days. She is recovering from colorectal surgery, and her fragile system requires it. Dextrose, sodium chloride, and potassium flow from an IV bag to a PICC line to nourish and hydrate her tiny, 21-pound body.

It seems cruel and unusual punishment for a little person and her “show love with food” momma. With pleading eyes, she asks, “Loller? Mom, loller?” Her fingers make a W against her chin signing, “Water?” I melt inside, divert my eyes from her confused expression, and distract with toys.

God sometimes allows our tender spots to be punctured. My heart is most fragile for my kids, and as much as I want them to be off limits, they aren’t. When they are vulnerable, this momma bear stands at attention. Yet, slowly, I’m learning to release my grip and trust more.
  
For my first years of parenting, I lived contently with the illusion that I could protect my kids. That it was me, myself, and I who met needs. I planned their days, fed their bodies, and claimed full control of their little lives.

I let myself believe that I was their God.

Then, little by little, I’ve surrendered them. God pierced holes in my control bubble. First came surrenders to inevitable backyard scraps and playground hurt feelings. Then to Kindergarten classrooms and the deep end of the pool, watching from afar. We mommas must choose between hovering overhead to insulate them from bruises, bee stings, and bullies or releasing them to the adventure of fields, trees, swing sets, and new people.

The Lord has pressed into my control illusion, increasingly asking for wider submission. Next, a mission trip put an ocean between mother and children. I labored over leaving, and planned every activity, outfit, and meal they’d have. To board the plane, I had to sever more control. And when I returned? I found new independence, new appreciation for me, and new connection with grandparents.
  
Then came hurts that couldn’t be treated by Tylenol, infections not cured by amoxicillin. First was elbow surgery for one daughter, then spine and two bladder surgeries for another. Walking away utterly helpless from my child lying limp under anesthesia in operating rooms filled with computer screens, instruments, and doctors in sterile scrubs, left me defenseless.

Each experience challenges who I think God is to my kids.

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

Strung out on Perfection

“What if you wake up some day, and you’re 75 … and you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness…. It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.” – Anne Lamott

Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I’m a recovering perfection-aholic. Believing it meant clothing myself in attention to detail and hard work. I once boasted about my addiction.

Perfectionism raged loudest when I wore the hat of young, confident classroom teacher. I arrived early, worked late, and drug work home. I obsessed over units and redesigned every handout that landed in front of my students. Determined to appear professional and capable, I labored over my parent newsletter, ensuring the layout and content were perfect. Standing by the copy machine each week watching my work zip out, I thought myself fabulous. Exhausted and frazzled, but meeting my self-imposed expectations for “good teaching.”

Then, a new teacher moved across the hall. Sillier, more relaxed, and probably the better teacher, my antennas went up. She worked hard and loved the art of teaching, but left on time. I caught a glimpse of her newsletter and discovered that she was writing by hand into a template. I’m guessing it took her about 15 minutes, including copying. It was informative and adequate. She was a master teacher, gloriously unburdened by perfection.

I saw my perfectionism with new eyes and didn’t feel like bragging. Realizing I’d wasted hours obsessing over details that had little to do with effective teaching brought regret.
Later, blessed with kids, I designed a mental catalogue of mommy excellence, and pulled my perfection addiction back out of the closet. I read books and blogs, noticed stylish mommas and Gap kids on Facebook, and hung ideals onto hangers: a pantry with organic food; healthful meals around our table; a playroom with minimal, educational, creative wooden toys; classic literature read aloud; daily art projects; clutter free rooms; museum play dates; Bible study; monogrammed, matching outfits; and entirely obedient kids who never embarrassed their momma. I adorned myself with a sneaky perfection that I labeled “good mothering.” I also layered on social events, date nights, keeping life calm and controlled, serving in ministries, and flawlessly hosting parties with every detail attended to.

Here’s the deal though. All organic food got expensive, PB&J was easy and kinda yummy. Giant tubs of plastic, handed down toys spilled across the carpet brought squeals. Six people created staggering laundry piles. I ran out of paint, grumped about glitter, and was too tired to read. Little boys didn’t flush the toilet, and my kids threw tantrums on farm play dates. I was too cheap to pay a babysitter for date nights and am more Patagonia than monogram. I started thinking I was letting my family, my friends, and myself down, so I snuck into my closet to eat dark chocolate almonds and pondered how I got so darn off track. Again.

Using ideals to measure mothering, I came apart at the seams. I’d picked out some beautiful intentions, but wearing every garment at once is not practical or possible, and makes me more fussy than fun, more vigilant than creative. More focused on agenda than memories, and on appearance than souls.

I stood in the mirror layering on expectations that had little to do with mothering hearts, while my little people stood behind me peering around for their momma, just wanting me to smile more.

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” – 1 Peter 3:3-4

Having “great worth in God’s sight” is my soul’s desire, but adorning the outward is my tendency. For too long, pockets full of perfection kept me from pursing the kind of beauty that doesn’t fade.
My spirit isn’t gentle when I’m wound so tightly that my family could never please me. My spirit isn’t quiet when I care more about being embarrassed by kid behavior than I do about guiding hearts.

Read the rest over at Ungrind, and sign up to get Ungrind updates. 

Churning Out Encouragement (9 of 31)

 

In January, amidst the chaos of being newly home with two adopted children, recovering from an extended hospital stay, and in full throttle mommy-hood, I read a book that reawakened the little girl in me who dreamed of becoming a writer.  As I closed the back cover, I made a decision to say yes to the hankering in my heart.  That same afternoon, my author pal, Ashleigh Slater, posted that she was looking for guest posts for her webzine, Ungrind.  Heavy with both bravery and reluctance, it was the first writing door I knocked on. 

Totally a newbie at article writing, I asked for a topic.  "Write what is on your heart," Ashleigh responded.  Looking up, I saw four year old Eli sitting across from me tracing the letters in his name for the very first time.  It was an easy to miss, yet monumental, moment for him.  Some reflection, keyword strokes, and editing later, Written in Heaven was submission ready.

Before hitting "attach" on my email, flood waters of doubt raged through, causing me to consider a total rewrite.  Or, better yet, maybe a scrapping of the idea of guest posting all together.  Who was I to think I could write anything beyond a family blog? 

Thankfully, I took risk.  And, no matter if it was ever actually published, I had scratched a long ignored itch. 

Weeks later, article forgotten, Mark and I sat heavy hearted in a hospital waiting room while Eli's sister, Evelyn, also home only two months, had bladder surgery.  Our family's first major surgery, we felt raw with weakness imagining our girl on an operating table.  Anxious for distraction, I scrolled through my phone, and up pops a graphic with my own words on it.  They were my first "published" words. 

My God is the God of details, and in that moment, as tears landed on the screen in my hand, He spoke directly to me about His presence.  

Rereading my own words, I was reminded that words matter.  Words lift.  Words have the power to "churn out encouragement". 

Our names are written in heaven though, so surely God’s got a plan for us. Surely His redemption work didn’t stop on adoption day. Our God is Yahweh, after all, which means LORD and indicates an immediacy, a presence. He’s actually in this with us, and His bigness covers my weakness.

God could use my words.  In fact, God did. 

Ungrind mission is "to churn out weekly encouragement by being honest and transparent about our struggles, but in a way that inspires hope, faith, and perseverance."

So now, each month, I sit with my laptop and ask God to do some churning through me. 

My posts so far:

Served: A Mary to Martha Nudge

A Time to Laugh

Bending Low to Build Up

My gratitude overflows for Ashleigh Slater, author of Team Us: Marriage Together, who answered the door when I knocked, and now generously creates a space for me to share and grow.  (She patiently edits through with my grammar and spelling weakness as well.) 

"Like" the Ungrind FB page to never miss a post. 

This is day is 9 of a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me"

Bending Low to Build Up (October Article for Ungrind)

She bent low toward the sobs of her sister, a beautiful posture of grace. 

“Do you need love?” A question to the two year old whose face was pressed angrily into the floor.

With patience fragile, I only wanted the fussing to end. But gentle big sister’s words drew me around the corner toward grace poured out. Little legs stopped flailing and a piggy-tailed head lifted toward a reaching-down sister. Then big sis held little sis and spoke life.

“We love you. You aren’t a fussy girl. You are my sweet girl.”

This undeserved, soul-tending kindness was a gift to my drained mothering self. It was a glimpse into the eternal impact of changes I’m striving for. Long term pay-off played out. The feisty, tender, but passionate big sis, who has melted down and erupted out so many times before, was now dishing out the very response that I’m finally learning to give to her. Grace upon grace.

In different seasons over the years, red faced and temper flaring, that six-year-old big sister has screamed with all she could muster. Her eyes showing anxiety and exhaustion, and her words peppered with “no” and “you never.” There have been stormy, yelling moments, and more times than I care to recount, words have flown from my mouth that I instantly wanted to retrieve. Yes, she was only two, three, four, and five, but we share matching mother/daughter tempers. She’d melt down, and I’d hold it together a couple times, for a couple days. But then she’d fuss right over the top of my patience limit.

I’ve got a thing about well-behaved kids. For years as a teacher, before children entered our world, I found it easy to gain control of behavior. By September, classes walked down hallways in lines, shared baskets of pencils with ease, and whispered during quiet concentration times.

But now there are four little, multi-temperament people in my house. And oh, how I tried the teacher-turned-mommy-discipline techniques: time out, counting to ten, early bedtime, spanking, ignoring, yelling. Some have value, but mostly I’ve found they only stir up or temporarily diffuse.

At some point, after heaving around an oversized load of guilt, I realized I’d been tearing down rather than building up. Managing moments rather than heart tending. Then, God gently nudged me toward grace, for myself and little people with their dander up. Especially them.

You can read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

A Time to Laugh (Ungrind Webzine Post)

With her wrinkled hand cupped over her mouth, her floral dress would shake as she giggled. My childhood memories of summer weeks spent at my grandmother’s meager Tennessee house are filled with the sound of her laughter and chicken fried crispy in an electric skillet.

She never took me to a theme park, and we didn’t frequent toy aisles. We never had kitchen dance parties, and she spent most of her time cooking and cleaning, but she had a silly streak. She was a storyteller, and her stories comedies. The memories now treasures.

Together on her rusted, metal porch glider, she named the ants that marched near us. Stories of Belinda and Oscar’s ant life made us howl with joy. And the bird on the telephone wire? She whistled and it whistled right back. In her own way, she played with me. She shared her delight and it became mine. She laughed, so I did too.

Now, grown up with a houseful of my own, I’m the family barometer, just as Grandma was.

My heart longs for childhoods filled with laughter, both theirs and mine. Giggles and silliness was always a part of who we are, until somewhere along the way, the seasons changed and I took a detour. Graciously, five-year-old authenticity shook me out of myself just in time.
She beamed about my scrambled eggs. I listened as my sweet Claire spoke precious words about me in a church Mother’s Day video, smiling at her familiar wiggle, and teary at her sincere love for this flawed momma. Then, when asked what makes me laugh, the sting of truth pierced my heart, jolted me to attention, and left guilt spilling wildly out.

“Mommy doesn’t laugh.”

Alongside embarrassment, anger swelled. Despite my sacrificing, I’d been called out. It had been a challenging year for our family, busied with the adoption of two children, and weighted with concern for a medically complex child. Sure, I was distracted at every level and bone weary, but my four kids left the house dressed in almost matching clothes, ate remotely healthy meals, and arrived nearly on time for appointments. Every ounce of myself was spent managing it all, but my little people were still having play time and play dates. Play wasn’t on my concern radar.

“Mommy doesn’t laugh.” It was a flashing yellow caution sign, demanding attention. After tallying excuses for my lack of laughter, still I was guilty as charged.

Sharing the rest at Ungrind.

Served: A Mary to Martha Nudge

Fried chicken and hash brown casserole. Our plane from China touched down, and she knew to dish up comfort. With two newly adopted kids and ruthless jet lag, months of coordinated meals became divine provision. Weeks later, shell-shocked from a hospital stay and hard news for our new daughter, she brought cheesy breakfast biscuits.

Then came surgeries and more kindness. Next was an unexpected hospital stay, so she organized another meal train. Others have also served with extravagance over the past months. They’ve babysat, held kids and written anonymous checks for medical bills.

Our gratitude has overflowed, but I’ve argued with every servant, assuring them that they were busy, and we had it under control.

In between organized meals, four wise mentors watched as I, on overdrive, managed our new family of six through extensive medical appointments, teaching English, therapies, medical care, attachment issues, homeschool, and gymnastics. It was time to let go of my Martha-like inclination they said, to become a little more Mary-ish.

Mary sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what [the Lord] said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made.

‘Martha, Martha,’ the Lord answered, ‘you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed — or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her’” (Luke 10:38-42, condensed).

They brought occasional meals and folded baskets of our sheets, each time cleverly bringing bags of M&Ms as a Martha to Mary nudge. My challenge? To spend distraction free time with our kids whose lives had also been turned upside down. From their front row seats, my mentors observed as I danced around offers of help.

They looked deeply, saw my overly fierce independence, and lovingly suggested change.

Read the rest over at Ungrind.