following hard

I have a song that I have adopted as my theme for this season of life.
I've sang it, cried it, hummed it
and whispered it while rocking my boys to sleep.
It is my anthem on the ragged days of Christ following.

Give me one pure and holy passion
Give me one magnificent obsession
Give me one glorious ambition in my life
To know and follow hard after you

To know and follow hard after you
To walk as your disciple in the truth
This world is empty pale and poor
Compared to knowing you my Lord
So lead me on and I will run after you
Lead me on and I will run after you.

The other day Scott told me that he would like
a new Hebrew-Greek Study Bible.
He is far more spiritual than I....
I usually tell him I would like new flip-flops or a night out.
But I picked up his old Study Bible and saw, by chance,
that another word for "follow hard" is "cleave" or "cling".
In Psalm 63:8, (Amplified version) it says -
My whole being follows hard after You and clings closely to You;
Your right hand upholds me.
Bible detective that I am, I went on line and looked it up in The Message -
I love the way Eugene Peterson shapes words...
Psalms 63:8 reads like this.
I hold on to you for dear life,
and you hold me steady as a post.
And my gut knows this to be true, in all the crazy, in all the madness,
the hard following has looked a lot more like grabbing on to Jesus
and holding on for dear life.
It hasn't been Jesus, elusive, out in front,
beckoning but I'm not sure what he's saying.
Or me running, out of breath, trying to keep up.
I'm clinging to him like super glue and he is holding me steady,
rock that he is.
Even when life is so up and down and not what I expected,
if I can just get my arms around him, he will hold me fast.
And that's something worth singing about.

a little estrogen please

I have mentioned I am surrounded by males.
3 little boys and 1 large one.
All filled with testerone.
Last night, Jack, Will and Scott camped out
on the floor in our screened in patio room.
I could hear their giggles and rough housing through my window.
Fun was had. Secrets were revealed.
Scott posted about Will's booger confession in his latest blog.
Apparently, in lieu of tissue, Will has been wiping his nose elsewhere.
And honestly, I really don't want to know where.
Not that I'm totally prissy. I don't do ruffles.
I can wrestle with the best of them. I like water fights.
I scare my boys playing hide and seek. All of that.
But the general grossness, that is embraced in my house,
that is where I draw the line.
That is when I want go to my happy place.
A place where people wash their hands without being told
and know how to use a box of kleenex.
A place where there is laughter
without references of an unseemly nature.
A place where it smells nice
and everyone remembers to put their clothes on.
Is that too much to ask?
I'm going to make myself a cup of tea in protest.
That'll show 'em.

little idols

I've been reading a book by Mike Mason,
called the Mystery of Children, in snatches here and there.
One of his thoughts caught my eye...
actually it took a little of the wind out of my sails.
He says,
"Children expose our idols. Every time we think of a child as
interrupting or interfering with our lives,
it's because we have erected an idol in the place
where love alone ought to reign."
It is one of the struggles of raising these little people.
They are always getting in the way,
they expose us for who really are and
they just can't be taught to keep our secrets.
They see how we live, our inconsistencies or shortcomings,
and they tell on us at the most inopportune times.
Like at the park, to a clutch of innocent bystanders,
they will reveal things like,
"My mom has a lot of purple underwear. She has some on now."
Or on Sunday, when people arrive,
they greet our friends at the door saying,
"My mom is angry. Did you hear her yelling at me?"
It is like living with a tiny version of the paparrazi.
They are out to reveal the real story.
They will question me,
"Mom, can I have some chocolate?"
"No, you don't need any sweets."
"But then why are you eating chocolate chips?"
I swear they can smell the chocolate on my breath from 100 paces.
They are like those bomb sniffing dogs except they seek out
my contraband candy stash and my weakness is unearthed.
A lot of times, they witness my lack of mothering skills.
They find it hard to keep my attention or get my input
when I am "busy with important things" like laundry,
e-mail or talking on the phone.
Lately, after the kids are in bed,
I have been collapsing in front of the tv to unwind.
I rush through bedtime prayers and tuck them in as if on a mission.
Will, especially, will call to me from him room,
as I am fleeing to the couch, requesting a lullaby.
And I call back to him,
"It's too late. Maybe tomorrow night."
After all, Mommy needs her down time.
The time between the kiddos bed time and my own is sacred.
Perhaps a bit of an idol, as Mike Mason would say.
There is little possibility of love reigning there.
Anyone known to infringe on it could be taken out at the knees.
So this week, I have made some changes.
Even though I am bushed and drained and really wanting to watch
some good-for-nothing tv, I am singing lullabies.
I am laying down next to my boys and wrapping them up in my arms.
I am singing a song of their choosing and praying over them,
slowing down enough so they can hear my words
and so I can feel the rhythm of their breathing.
And it's been good.
Because it's always good, isn't it, when you give an idol the boot
and let a little love reign.
And who doesn't love a good lullaby?

real lemonade

Today we made lemonade.
Jack and Will and their friends pulled
fat meyer lemons off our lemon hedge.
I have never heard of a lemon hedge but we have one
or at least we have a tree shaped like a hedge
and the lemons that grow on it are fantastic.
They picked over 20 of them because we were good and thirsty.
We doubled the recipe.
I halved the lemons and the kids took turns
juicing them into a measuring cup.
We made a syrup of sugar water and lemon juice.
Then we mixed it with water, poured it over ice and drank it in.
It was summer in a glass.
The kids came back for seconds, thirds and fourths.
Now I am all for country time.
A little powdered lemon drink will do in a pinch,
throw a couple of lemon slices in and you're golden.
But there really is something to be said for the real thing.
No funky aftertaste or powder particles drifting in your cup.
No neon yellow color or artificial flavor.
There is a magic in the squeezing, the heating of the syrup,
the mixing of the juice and the anticipation of the sweet and sour
bursting upon the tongue.
It's hard work. You have to wait for it. And it's messy.
But the taste is like sweet sunshine.
I guess it is like life.
The more you pour into it, the sweeter it is.

little boys

Today I was talking to my good friend Kristi.
We got to talking about little boys. She has two. I have three.
Little boys are by all means sweet.
There is a special connection between moms and their boys.
The other day, Will was recounting an episode of the Brady Bunch.
He was giggling over the fact that Greg had a crush on his teacher
and thought that she was pretty.
I asked him if he thought his teacher was pretty.
He laughed and said, "Nope. Only you, Mom."
Of course, I immediately gave him cash and chocolate
to reward him for his brilliant perception.
But there is a disconnect with moms and their boys, too.
We are puzzled by all the wrestling and aggression.
They have never watched wrestling in their life but
spend hours grappling on the floor, pinning each other,
screeching with joy.
We are a little worried by their constant desire to be naked.
There is rarely an occasion of someone showing up
at our front door that I am not calling out,
"You must have your underwear ON when you answer the door!"
Followed by,
"And having your underwear on your head does not count!"
And the potty talk is mind boggling.
I would prefer to chat about upcoming events or
talk about the goings on of our day at the dinner table.
Inevitably, our dinner talk always deteriorates to the
subject of gas or some other bodily function.
Addison, who shouldn't have a clue as to what they are talking about,
laughs and giggles with his brothers.
Their father is no help at all in this area.
At some point in the dinner conversation, I usually get up and say,
"I need a break" or "Oh, for a bit more estrogen in this house."
I sneak off to my room and read a book.
But sooner or later, the door cracks and I am pounced upon,
tickled and showered with little boy kisses.
Because they know, even though they make me crazy,
and I don't really understand them,
I will never be able to get enough of those little boys.

sheila's scones

I have a friend named Elizabeth.
About 10 years ago she changed my life.
She had invited me over for coffee.
But it turned out to be so much more.
Along with the pot of dark rich coffee,
she had a pan of warm fluffy sugared scones.
Her mom's recipe.
Her mom, Sheila, lives on an island off of the coast of Vancouver.
In the summer she puts up jam and then serves it with her
hot oh so lovely scones.
These are not your regular-rock-hard-possibly-break-a-tooth scones.
They are a treat that make an ordinary day into an occasion.
Last night, my neighbor showed me how to put up apricot jam.
This morning, I am making scones.
I've never met Sheila but I have a deep affection for her.
Thank you, Sheila, for your scones.

Sheila's Scones
2 C flour
1 T baking powder
4 T sugar
1/2 C butter
1 C buttermilk

Mix dry ingredients. Cut in butter until crumbly.
Stir in buttermilk. Shape into a round. Cut in 8 wedges.
Seperate on greased cookie sheet. Sprinkle with sugar.
Bake at 400 for 12-15 minutes.

i love to laugh

We left the DC area three years ago this next week
to church plant in Palo Alto, CA.
For 18 months, Scott worked on staff at
National Community Church, a church that meets
in a movie theater in Union Station in downtown DC.
And for the first time in our lives, we were on staff with
people our age....and younger.
When we youth pastored, we were always the "young hip couple".
Or at least we hoped we were hip...we were definitely young.
I'm thinking we were the old married couple with kids in DC because
all of the sudden, we were at a church
that was 80% 20-30 year old singles.
We wore jeans to church and took our coffee into service.
We learned about Jesus and felt his presence.
We made friends with people who will be our friends for life.
And we had some fun. Alot of fun.
We laughed every chance we got.
One of the things, I miss about NCC is the trailers
we would watch about upcoming sermon series and events.
This week, Scott showed me the trailer for the upcoming variety show.
I wept a little, with joy, to see the pastoral staff being so goofy.
They like to take Jesus seriously. And themselves? Not so much.
I love that.
Thought you might enjoy The Three Amigos

confession #8: I've broken down on the information highway

TMI.
Too much information.
That is what we say when someone oversteps
the boundary of good clean information sharing.
The fact that I have written about my supergirl underwear
could very well be too much information shared.
But I think we live in a world that says,
"If it is true, it must be shared."
Now I am all for truth and clarity
and learning from the information out there,
but I'm wondering, as I go to check my e-mail and
am blasted by headlines and images,
is it really relevant to my daily living that
Cameron Diaz stopped beach traffic with her new bikini body?
Each day I am bombarded with a lot of true information
I could live without.
I know that truth telling is important since it brings about change.
But I'm not sure what it is exactly that
I should be doing about Rosie and Donald Trump.
Even the info that is newsworthy has me feeling a bit shell shocked.
The politics, the natural disasters, the court cases,
the heart wrenching tragedies, leave me bereft over my morning cereal.
Again, a whole lot of information I don't know how to process.
Add to that, the daily information I must recount about my children,
like their names and eating schedules and I am undone.
After storing other bits of random information in my overstretched brain
like my bill payment schedule, how to upload links, family birthdays,
chicken recipes, writing guidelines, which day is recycling day,
when did I last bathe Addie and I am officially cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
I just can't take it all in.
That's when living in a commune in outer Mongolia
starts to sound attractive and right.
I need a filter for my brain for all the info coming my way.
My children need 5 servings of fruits and veggies a day?
That stays in the brain.
Oprah's latest pick for best salad cutlery?
That one can go....but inevitably, I am remembering the cutlery
and feeding my children captain crunch.
So today I am praying for a clearness of brain function.
God, let all that needs to be in my brain be there
and all that is irrelevant and petty be gone.
And please help me remember where I hid the chocolate.
Because that is important information.
Amen.

again with the spices

Apparently, I have teeth issues.
I have known for quite some time that I have a lot of issues.
I did not realize dental hygiene was one of them.
The other night I was out with the my friends Paula and Erica,
and my sister, Jenny, for a night of coffee and laughter.
I was eating a summer salad, without any children about,
and was enjoying myself immensely.
We started talking about my cardamom disaster,
and lo and behold, as we are laughing at me and my predicament,
Jenny, points out that I seem to have a wayward poppyseed,
even at this moment, stuck in my teeth.
"Where?"
"There."
I feel myself start to get a little sweaty again.
You see, it is only funny to talk about having something in your teeth
AFTER the fact...
when you are chatting about it AFTERWARD, you can laugh, ha ha ha,
I had so much spice in my teeth BACK THEN! Wasn't that hilarious?
But when someone points it out at present? Not so funny.
The game of hide and seek with the spice in my teeth crevices?
Not my favorite past time.
Then on Saturday, I was with my cousin Gretchen,
we were getting our picture taken so I casually asked her,
"Is there anything in my teeth?"
"Just a little something right there."
My heart lurched a little.
Is this to be my fate?
Food stuck in my teeth?
Could there be anything more hideous?
Jenny suggested maybe my lips are extra sticky and hold things there.
What in the world? Who has ever heard of sticky lips?
And I am sure if my lips are sticky...they will continue to be so.
So I am considering carrying a portable water pick, a large compact,
and reams of dental floss in my purse.
If I no longer am able to give open mouth smiles, don't be offended,
it is for protection of the general public,
to keep them from seeing what is stuck in my teeth....
and perhaps a bit, to shore up what remains of my crumbling dignity.

thoughts on tantrums

If you have young children you know about tantrums.
Tantrums in our house are followed by a healthy time out.
Addison has recently taken to fits.
He can't understand why I would go against his wishes.
He thinks I'm holding out on him -
keeping him from the good stuff.
He doesn't get that he is almost always on the brink of death,
trying to ingest legos or sticking his fingers near the fan,
and it is my job to keep him safe.
He likes to bang his head on the floor
to show his disapproval of things not going his way.
At least he favored that method until he experienced
the hard wood floors at Aunt Jenny's house.
That put a bit of a kybosh on the head banging.
I threw a nice tantrum myself the other day.
Things just weren't going my way.
Life felt mean and unfair.
I felt a tantrum welling up within me.
And I thought maybe it would be nice to bang my head on the floor.
I didn't do it but I thought about it.
I know Scott was thinking I definitely needed a time out.
Sometimes I think God is holding out on me,
keeping me from the good stuff.
And then, after a good cry, I had this thought.
Maybe I am where I am, dealing with what I am dealing with,
because I am almost always on the brink of death
and He is just keeping me safe.
It's just a thought.

good morning, sunshine!

I have been wondering lately
how it is that my children can be so energetic
at 6:00 in the morning.
I usually awaken to the sound of little feet pattering around
to my side of the bed and I am wrenched from a comatose state,
fuzzy and bleary eyed, grasping at consciousness,
desperately wanting to go back to sleep.
And my children bound from their beds,
with effervescence, excited about the morning,
joyful, ready for a new adventure and
cannot comprehend why mommy can't speak in full sentences.
And I think it is this....
They have just barely begun living this life.
They are still brand new.
I think their skin cells regenerate every 3 or 4 seconds.
And me? Not so fresh. Not so new.
I've got a few hitches in my giddyup.
I'm not saying I'm through or worn out,
I'm just saying I may be in need of a spa day.
If I am expected to show that kind of early morning energy
I'm going to need a full ten hours of sleep and a facial....
or at least a hot shower and a bracing cup of coffee.
But I have stumbled upon a sweet secret this summer.
I've found a new way to get an extra hour of sleep in.
It's called public television.
And while this may horrify you or
lessen my child rearing abilities in your eyes,
I'm willing to live with that shame.
Because when the sky is still dark and the sun has yet to rise,
when the hot shower and dark coffee are still a long way off....
Big Bird has never looked so sweet.

small victories

I've been thinking about small victories lately.
Mother Theresa once said,
"You can do no great things, just small things with great love."
I tend to get overwhelmed by the largeness of life
in comparison with the smallness of my abilities.
I don't seem to have the tool that breaks down the big picture
into the moment-size morsels that I need to accomplish today.
So more often than not,
I feel I spend my day accomplishing nothing.
This could have something to do with the fact that every time
I wash a dish, pick up a toy, clean a room or cook a meal,
there is a small army of three working against me,
dirtying more dishes, flinging toys in all directions,
dismantling rooms and clamoring for the next meal.
But add to that my thoughts of
how do I grow my children properly,
maintain proper fat to muscle body ratio,
keep my marriage on the upswing,
be a woman who follows after God,
help Scott in growing our church,
contribute to the needs of the hungry children in the world,
stay current with technology and current events,
support my community,
tell people about Jesus with enthusiasm,
keep up with friends and family,
recycle, reduce, re-use and return,
tend my tomato plants and withering impatiens,
and still have time to pluck my eyebrows,
and I feel completely flattened by the immenseness of it all.
And I really do save my eyebrows for last, which I think has
caused some tension in the "marriage on the upswing" area.
So I am trying to take Mother Theresa's words to heart.
Because this small lady seemed to grasp
the meaning of the thought - "One thing at a time."
And she changed the world.
Maybe I can't accomplish my to-do-list tomorrow,
but I can do one or two things with a lot of love.
And I'm pretty sure, one of those things will be involving tweezers.

there will be trials of many kinds

Bugs and I have a love/hate relationship.
They love me...I hate them.
I already mentioned my dark nemesis,
the cicada, the summer of 2003 in DC.
But bugs, in general, think I am fabulous.
I am like a buggy beacon of light they are drawn to on a dark night.
I don't know if it the faint scent of peanut butter and jelly
that surrounds me since I am a mom of little ones,
or they just know, instinctively,
that they will get a good reaction out of me.
A couple of nights ago we had some of our old youth kids,
who are now in college, over for coffee and some talking about Jesus.
We had just started talking about how God uses trials in our life
to purify us and shape us and my answer to the question posed was,
"Phhhhhhhbbbbbbbt!"
A nice raspberry of a sound.
Scott raised his eyebrows, a little surprised.
"It was a bug - on my lips - a bug."
Everyone laughed.
Then the excitement began.
This tiny flitting thing began whipping around my head.
"Get it off!" (Me)
"I don't see anything, Sue." (Scott)
"I can feel it - I'm itchy all over." (Me)
"It's on your shoulder." (Leanne, old youth kid)
If you have ever seen the maori mosquito dance performed by
the native people of New Zealand,
you will have some idea of what I looked like.
There was a general slapping, shaking out of my shirt, and
flipping of hair, punctuated by shrieks of,
"Where is it? Do you see it? Did it just go down my shirt?"
I know Scott was just praying I wouldn't start shedding clothes.
I remember my grandma telling me
she had once thought of stepping out of her pants,
when a lizard ran up her leg in the orchard,
so casting off clothes when critters are involved is in my blood.
Either I killed it or it was scared to death
and flew for its very tiny life, but I no longer felt it.
The college kids just kind of stared at me amazed and,
frankly, I think, a little frightened.
Scott got the conversation back on track but I felt
I had already made my contribution to the teaching.
A personal demonstration of a trial.
Trial by bug.

real communion

Will has been coming into his own these last few months,
casting off the shadow of his big brother, Jack, and
pressing into who he wants to become.
He asked Jesus into his heart a while back...
but I wasn't sure if he did it because he loved Jesus
or because of his fire and brimstone conversation with Jack.
Jack told him that he would be going to hell if he didn't.
It's hard at 4 years old to comprehend all that Jesus did on the cross.
Actually, it's hard at 36 years old to comprehend
all that Jesus did on the cross.
When Scott passed out communion this Sunday, I let it pass Will by.
But he insisted he was ready to take communion.
It is hard to whisper about the importance of the Eucharist,
all it symbolizes, why we do it, without attracting attention.
I motioned for the plate and Will took the elements.
Scott talked about all that it symbolized...
And Will kept tugging on my arm,"Now, Mom, now?"
"No, Will, listen to Dad, he will tell us when."
I started to sweat a little, wondering if I had made the right choice.
The sweet smell of the grape juice and
those tiny cups are so alluring to young ones.
I remember the pull of those crispy crackers myself, when I was little.
We took the bread. Scott explained the cup.
The sacrifice. The blood.
The wiping away of our wrongdoings with his right-ness.
All that it means to us who believe. And then he told us to drink.
Will tugged on my arm, holding up his little cup to mine.
"Cheers, Mom!" he said.
We clinked our mini cups and drank.
He licked his lips and said,
"That's good stuff, Mom."
And I was just thinking....
maybe 4 year olds get it after all.