Amy: "Hang on, I gotta throw a couple of pictures up on my blog and call it a night."
Steve: [chuckling] "You get credit for that?"
Amy: "Oh, it totally counts. Halfway through the month and I haven't even done it once yet."
Sunday, November 16, 2014
November Cuteness
Steve: "Ready for bed?"
Amy: "Hang on, I gotta throw a couple of pictures up on my blog and call it a night."
Steve: [chuckling] "You get credit for that?"
Amy: "Oh, it totally counts. Halfway through the month and I haven't even done it once yet."
Amy: "Hang on, I gotta throw a couple of pictures up on my blog and call it a night."
Steve: [chuckling] "You get credit for that?"
Amy: "Oh, it totally counts. Halfway through the month and I haven't even done it once yet."
As For Me and My House? We Live By Grace
A wooden plaque hangs above the doorway between our kitchen and dining room. It's a classic, mounted in thousands of Christian homes:
We received it as a wedding gift and didn't think twice about putting it up. I'm so used to seeing these familiar words from Joshua 24 displayed on household walls that I hadn't really considered the significance of the verse until Steve and I discussed it a while back. But the more I think about it, the more I am ready to take it down.
What could possibly be problematic about having these words over my doorway? Isn't this a helpful reminder? Certainly there's nothing wrong with the plaque; it's a noble aspiration. My earnest desire and fervent prayer is that I and my family will serve God wholeheartedly and faithfully!
But when we skim over the rest of Joshua 24 and pull out those eleven words as our family mantra, we put ourselves under law instead of grace. We rely on commands to do what only Jesus can do. We miss the point.
Think with me about the larger context of this declaration. Israel has finally come into the land God promised their forefather Abraham all those centuries ago. They have conquered their enemies. Their leader, Joshua, addresses them:
"And now I am about to go the way of all the earth, and you know in your hearts and souls, all of you, that not one word has failed of all the good things that the LORD your God promised concerning you. All have come to pass for you; not one of them has failed." (Joshua 23:14)
He gathers the tribes together and recounts a familiar story. "Thus says the LORD, the God of Israel," Joshua proclaims, and he tells the story in God's own words:
At the end of the telling, God pointedly reminds them whose work brought about this success, this divine favor:
"...it was not by your sword or by your bow. I gave you a land on which you had not labored and cities that you had not built, and you dwell in them. You eat the fruit of vineyards and olive orchards that you did not plant." (Joshua 24:12-13)
It's only after all this that Joshua delivers his famous exhortation:
“Now therefore fear the LORD and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness. Put away the gods that your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD. And if it is evil in your eyes to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your fathers served in the region beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.” (Joshua 24:14-15)
After this rousing reminder of their national history, how could they not affirm their commitment to God? Not a single one of His promises to them had failed to come true! And so they are quick to assure Joshua: "Far be it from us that we should forsake the LORD to serve other gods...we also will serve the LORD, for he is our God" (v.16, 18).
Interestingly, Joshua warns them: "You are not able to serve the LORD, for He is a holy God. He is a jealous God...If you forsake the LORD and serve foreign gods, then he will turn and do you harm and consume you" (v. 19-20).
Still they insist: "No, but we will serve the LORD. ...his voice we will obey" (v. 21, 24).
At this point, let's remember how this bold declaration turned out for the Israelites. Joshua died, and thus began the era of Judges: a depressing downward spiral of disobedience, destruction, crying out for mercy, receiving another chance, and disobeying again. After that came the briefly glorious rule of King David...followed by centuries more of disobedience, superficial repentance, more disobedience, and finally judgment and exile from this Promised Land.
Wow, that bold covenant declaration really worked out well for them.
Israel's history makes clear that determined human words don't take anyone very far. The problem is their hearts--their forgetful, wayward, stony hearts. And the truth is, my lofty-sounding words aren't worth much more than theirs.
But the good news is, God's words are much more potent. His promises never fail, in spite of how many times mine do. And in the centuries since the Israelites' exodus from Egypt and journey into the Promised Land, Joshua's speech still rings true: Not one word of all that God has promised has failed to come true.
He promised to send a Redeemer--and He did. He promised to remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh--and He has. He promised to send His Spirit to dwell within our hearts--and He does. Every promise of His is YES in Christ Jesus. And it's these realities--God's words, God's actions, not mine--that provide a foundation for my faith and my family to stand on.
I don't need a plaque to remind me of my duty; the law is powerless to transform the heart. But what the law could not do, God did! He sent His Son to meet every requirement of the law, to obey in ways we were utterly incapable of doing. And after Jesus perfectly feared the LORD and served Him in perfect sincerity and wholehearted faithfulness--after He utterly rejected all other gods and followed the LORD alone, never forsaking Him...then He went to the cross, where He endured the wrath we deserve for our insincerity, our faithlessness, our chasing after idols and forsaking the LORD.
This good news--this glorious gospel of grace--THIS is what I need plastered on the wall in my house. Like the Israelites, I am easily forgetful. And guilt is not an effective motivator; merely telling me what I'm supposed to be doing isn't going to get me very far. No, tell me what God has done. Tell me who He is and who He has made me to be in Christ. Replace the guilt with good news; that's what will motivate me to rise up and serve the Lord. That's what will keep me going when I fail.
We see it modeled right here in Joshua 24: The declaration of faith comes only after the reminder of God's character and saving work. And it's the latter that we are so prone to forget.
So I think I'd like to take down that plaque, and adorn my walls with the gospel instead. All I'd have to do is back up a verse:
"I gave you a land on which you had not labored and cities that you had not built, and you dwell in them. You eat the fruit of vineyards and olive orchards that you did not plant."
These words that literally described the Israelites' entrance into the Promised Land serve to describe my own life, too--both my present privileges and my eternal inheritance. I received salvation I could not accomplish. I did not build this sweet 80-year-old house; I did not earn this loving husband, these beautiful sons. I not only didn't plant vineyards but worse, I actually fail to tend the orchards provided to me. Yet still they bear the fruit of grace. All this and more beyond (my inheritance in Heaven) has been deserved and paid for by Another. And I will live up to what I've been freely given only when I fix my eyes on Him and what He's already done.
We received it as a wedding gift and didn't think twice about putting it up. I'm so used to seeing these familiar words from Joshua 24 displayed on household walls that I hadn't really considered the significance of the verse until Steve and I discussed it a while back. But the more I think about it, the more I am ready to take it down.
"As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."
What could possibly be problematic about having these words over my doorway? Isn't this a helpful reminder? Certainly there's nothing wrong with the plaque; it's a noble aspiration. My earnest desire and fervent prayer is that I and my family will serve God wholeheartedly and faithfully!
But when we skim over the rest of Joshua 24 and pull out those eleven words as our family mantra, we put ourselves under law instead of grace. We rely on commands to do what only Jesus can do. We miss the point.
Think with me about the larger context of this declaration. Israel has finally come into the land God promised their forefather Abraham all those centuries ago. They have conquered their enemies. Their leader, Joshua, addresses them:
"And now I am about to go the way of all the earth, and you know in your hearts and souls, all of you, that not one word has failed of all the good things that the LORD your God promised concerning you. All have come to pass for you; not one of them has failed." (Joshua 23:14)
He gathers the tribes together and recounts a familiar story. "Thus says the LORD, the God of Israel," Joshua proclaims, and he tells the story in God's own words:
I called Abraham and made him a father, impossibly.
I led Jacob and his children into Egypt.
I sent Moses and Aaron, and plagued the Egyptians, and brought My people out.
I led you through the wilderness and into the Promised Land and gave your enemies into your hand.
At the end of the telling, God pointedly reminds them whose work brought about this success, this divine favor:
"...it was not by your sword or by your bow. I gave you a land on which you had not labored and cities that you had not built, and you dwell in them. You eat the fruit of vineyards and olive orchards that you did not plant." (Joshua 24:12-13)
It's only after all this that Joshua delivers his famous exhortation:
“Now therefore fear the LORD and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness. Put away the gods that your fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD. And if it is evil in your eyes to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your fathers served in the region beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.” (Joshua 24:14-15)
After this rousing reminder of their national history, how could they not affirm their commitment to God? Not a single one of His promises to them had failed to come true! And so they are quick to assure Joshua: "Far be it from us that we should forsake the LORD to serve other gods...we also will serve the LORD, for he is our God" (v.16, 18).
Interestingly, Joshua warns them: "You are not able to serve the LORD, for He is a holy God. He is a jealous God...If you forsake the LORD and serve foreign gods, then he will turn and do you harm and consume you" (v. 19-20).
Still they insist: "No, but we will serve the LORD. ...his voice we will obey" (v. 21, 24).
At this point, let's remember how this bold declaration turned out for the Israelites. Joshua died, and thus began the era of Judges: a depressing downward spiral of disobedience, destruction, crying out for mercy, receiving another chance, and disobeying again. After that came the briefly glorious rule of King David...followed by centuries more of disobedience, superficial repentance, more disobedience, and finally judgment and exile from this Promised Land.
Wow, that bold covenant declaration really worked out well for them.
Israel's history makes clear that determined human words don't take anyone very far. The problem is their hearts--their forgetful, wayward, stony hearts. And the truth is, my lofty-sounding words aren't worth much more than theirs.
But the good news is, God's words are much more potent. His promises never fail, in spite of how many times mine do. And in the centuries since the Israelites' exodus from Egypt and journey into the Promised Land, Joshua's speech still rings true: Not one word of all that God has promised has failed to come true.
He promised to send a Redeemer--and He did. He promised to remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh--and He has. He promised to send His Spirit to dwell within our hearts--and He does. Every promise of His is YES in Christ Jesus. And it's these realities--God's words, God's actions, not mine--that provide a foundation for my faith and my family to stand on.
I don't need a plaque to remind me of my duty; the law is powerless to transform the heart. But what the law could not do, God did! He sent His Son to meet every requirement of the law, to obey in ways we were utterly incapable of doing. And after Jesus perfectly feared the LORD and served Him in perfect sincerity and wholehearted faithfulness--after He utterly rejected all other gods and followed the LORD alone, never forsaking Him...then He went to the cross, where He endured the wrath we deserve for our insincerity, our faithlessness, our chasing after idols and forsaking the LORD.
This good news--this glorious gospel of grace--THIS is what I need plastered on the wall in my house. Like the Israelites, I am easily forgetful. And guilt is not an effective motivator; merely telling me what I'm supposed to be doing isn't going to get me very far. No, tell me what God has done. Tell me who He is and who He has made me to be in Christ. Replace the guilt with good news; that's what will motivate me to rise up and serve the Lord. That's what will keep me going when I fail.
We see it modeled right here in Joshua 24: The declaration of faith comes only after the reminder of God's character and saving work. And it's the latter that we are so prone to forget.
So I think I'd like to take down that plaque, and adorn my walls with the gospel instead. All I'd have to do is back up a verse:
"I gave you a land on which you had not labored and cities that you had not built, and you dwell in them. You eat the fruit of vineyards and olive orchards that you did not plant."
These words that literally described the Israelites' entrance into the Promised Land serve to describe my own life, too--both my present privileges and my eternal inheritance. I received salvation I could not accomplish. I did not build this sweet 80-year-old house; I did not earn this loving husband, these beautiful sons. I not only didn't plant vineyards but worse, I actually fail to tend the orchards provided to me. Yet still they bear the fruit of grace. All this and more beyond (my inheritance in Heaven) has been deserved and paid for by Another. And I will live up to what I've been freely given only when I fix my eyes on Him and what He's already done.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
How to Make Last Names Plural or Possessive
We're almost to that wonderful time of year when mailboxes fill up with lovely Christmas cards. I hope you'll include a family photo and send one to me--I love to cover my refrigerator with the faces of our family and friends!
In the meantime, please allow me to indulge my inner Grammar Nerd and pass along a few helpful tips for writing last names on cards or personalized gifts. Last names can be tricky to make plural or possessive--especially if the name ends in "s." We get easily confused because surnames like "Brooks" or "Woods" sound like they are already plural. So we leave them as-is, thinking the "s" on the end will suffice, resulting in phrasing like:
Some people, realizing that doesn't feel quite right, will try to fix it by throwing in an apostrophe:
But making a name plural should never, ever involve an apostrophe. JUST SAY NO to unnecessary apostrophes.
It may look or sound strange. But you always add "s" or "es" to last names to make them plural--even if those names already end with "s". So we would write:
If this feels too awkward, there is an easy way out: Just add the word "family"!
Problem solved.
On the other hand, what if you *are* referring to something the family owns? What if, for example, you want to invite people to the house that belongs to the Williams family?
It's not just one Williams who lives in the house. You have to make the name plural before adding the possessive. So it's not "the Williams' house," but rather "the Williamses' house" or simply "the Williamses'."
Again, remember: the safe solution is to change it to "the Williams family's house" or "the home of the Williams family."
Keep in mind, the same rules apply for names that don't end in "s"--always add an S for plurals and never add an apostrophe unless referring to a possessive:
There you have it. I hope this helps someone out there preparing Christmas cards or personalized Christmas gifts for family and friends!
More on the topic fromanal-retentive like-minded grammarians:
Grammar Lesson: Last Names That End in S
How to Make Family Names Plural
In the meantime, please allow me to indulge my inner Grammar Nerd and pass along a few helpful tips for writing last names on cards or personalized gifts. Last names can be tricky to make plural or possessive--especially if the name ends in "s." We get easily confused because surnames like "Brooks" or "Woods" sound like they are already plural. So we leave them as-is, thinking the "s" on the end will suffice, resulting in phrasing like:
- "Pray for the Woods." (Which "Woods"? THE Woods--meaning Tiger Woods?)
- "We're having the Brooks over for dinner." (Just Garth, by himself? You're on a last-name-as-nickname basis with him?)
Some people, realizing that doesn't feel quite right, will try to fix it by throwing in an apostrophe:
- "Pray for the Woods' "
- "We're having the Brook's over for dinner."
But making a name plural should never, ever involve an apostrophe. JUST SAY NO to unnecessary apostrophes.
It may look or sound strange. But you always add "s" or "es" to last names to make them plural--even if those names already end with "s". So we would write:
- "Pray for the Woodses."
- "We're having the Brookses over for dinner."
If this feels too awkward, there is an easy way out: Just add the word "family"!
- "Pray for the Woods family."
- "We're having the Brooks family over for dinner."
Problem solved.
On the other hand, what if you *are* referring to something the family owns? What if, for example, you want to invite people to the house that belongs to the Williams family?
It's not just one Williams who lives in the house. You have to make the name plural before adding the possessive. So it's not "the Williams' house," but rather "the Williamses' house" or simply "the Williamses'."
Again, remember: the safe solution is to change it to "the Williams family's house" or "the home of the Williams family."
Keep in mind, the same rules apply for names that don't end in "s"--always add an S for plurals and never add an apostrophe unless referring to a possessive:
- Merry Christmas from the Johnsons!
- Happy New Year from the Martinezes!
- You're invited to a party at the Johnsons' house!
- The Martinezes' house is beautiful.
- Happy Holidays from the Kennedys!
- The Kennedys' dog is cute.
There you have it. I hope this helps someone out there preparing Christmas cards or personalized Christmas gifts for family and friends!
More on the topic from
Grammar Lesson: Last Names That End in S
How to Make Family Names Plural
in:
grammar nerd,
randomness
Friday, November 14, 2014
Made for More: Author Interview
Hannah Anderson's book had me shouting YES! out loud as I read. I repeatedly scribbled "wow" and "AMEN!" in the margins. I think Made for More: An Invitation to Live in God's Image is a deeply important contribution to the church's conversation about gender roles, femininity, and identity.
I am delighted to direct you to Ungrind today, where you can find a recent interview I did with Hannah about her book--and a giveaway from her publisher! Hannah begins by saying:
...And stay tuned, because I'll be revisiting this next week with more of my thoughts about the book and some "bonus material" from my interview with the author!
When I first entered adulthood, life was pretty easy; I had my nice, neat categories. I knew who I was and where I belonged. And then life happened.
Ten years later, the roles and categories that had once given me security weren’t working anymore. I felt uncertain, out of sorts, and restless. When I looked around, I saw my friends going through very similar struggles. So I started asking myself, What have we missed? What has been absent from the conversation that would explain why so many of us are longing for “more”? It turns out that the “more” we needed wasn’t more opportunity or different roles; the “more” we needed was God Himself.Head over to Ungrind for more, plus a chance to win one of two copies of the book.
...And stay tuned, because I'll be revisiting this next week with more of my thoughts about the book and some "bonus material" from my interview with the author!
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Treasures :: A Sparkly Silver Necklace with an Aqua Hearts Pendant
I've been sorting through my treasures in chronological order so far, telling the stories of God's work in my life as I remember them unfolding. But tonight I’m compelled to fast-forward from my college years to the present. Last week, I received a brand-new treasure.
***
“Treasure chests” have been a low hum of annoyance in my life ever since Elijah started preschool. Oh, I don't at all blame the teachers for trying anything that works for classroom management. I just don't love all the cheap junk littering my house.
Over the last two years, we’ve amassed quite a collection of plastic trinkets, thanks to our obedient (at school, anyway) boys. This year, Elijah’s first grade teacher invites the students who have good behavior all week to eat lunch with her in the classroom every Friday, so he always looks forward to “Lunch Bunch.” He also gets to select a treasure.
(As an aside, "treasure chest" has long been one of those adorable kid-language quirks in our house. It was only a few weeks ago that I finally explained to Elijah that the object itself was not called a “treasure chest.” For years he’s been saying, “I got a treasure chest today!” “Look, see my treasure chest?”)
I digress. So last Friday, on the way home from school, Elijah was excited to tell me what he had picked out from the treasure chest. “Mom, wait till you see it,” he said. “I got something for you. It’s beautiful.”
Instead of selecting some sort of racecar or superhero figure, Elijah chose a “pretty necklace,” and he presented it to me with pride.
Not since Steve placed a diamond on my left hand have I felt more proud to wear a piece of jewelry, or more undeserving of the love with which it was given.
I realize every mother gets a million of these cheap trinkets from her offspring. I can remember excitedly shopping at my elementary school’s Secret Santa Shop for Christmas gifts I was just sure my parents would LOVE (paid for with their own money). But this is my first one, and it feels like a milestone—not least because it actually cost Elijah something.
This wasn’t him taking money he’d gotten from Daddy and picking out a present for me. And it wasn’t prompted by an occasion like Mother’s Day or my birthday. This was Elijah simply loving me: looking through all the treasures, spotting a sparkly necklace, thinking of me and wanting me to have it more than he wanted a new toy.
These last few days, as I feel the weight of a cheap aqua heart pendant around my neck, it is heavy with a son’s love for his mama. And it has me pondering gospel implications.
Being a mother is indeed teaching me about unconditional love and the way God the Father relates to us. But it isn’t in the way everyone says, the way I expected. No, often *I* am the child in the relationship, learning from the love of my son.
I’m finding that this little necklace—unexpected, undeserved gift—does more to motivate me to be a good mom than any amount of reading pep talks (or shaming screeds) about motherhood. It has more of an impact than “should”-ing myself, more than beating myself up about how I’ve failed and resolving to try harder and do better. I touch the bejeweled hearts, and when I realize how loved I am in spite of my mistakes, I *want* to be the mama Elijah needs. I want to walk worthy of a necklace.
How can I be irritated with him, when he chose something from the treasure chest for me? How can I yell at him, when he loved me enough to sacrifice taking something for himself? How can I be impatient with him, when he kept me on his mind and heart and picked out a beautiful trinket just because he thought it would make me smile?
“Stop yelling! You’re crushing him! Good moms don’t yell at their kids! You’ve GOT to get your anger under control!”—funny how that doesn’t actually seem to help.
“He loves you, in spite of yourself. He is glad you are his mama, even after all the times you’ve yelled at him.”—amazing how that inspires me to take a deep breath, look at him through different eyes, and love him.
And finally God begins to get it through my thick head: We love because He first loved us. It’s His kindness that leads us to repentance. Growth and change come not by beating ourselves over the head with should and ought-tos, but by resting securely in His grace—through being rooted and grounded in His deep, deep love for us.
How can I be indifferent toward Him, when He chose me as His treasure?
How can I betray Him, when He loved me enough to sacrifice His only Son for me?
How can I distrust Him, when His thoughts toward me are without number?
What the law could not do, God did—by sending His own Son. By lavishing His love. By adopting us as His children. We love, because He first loved us. And then we change, because we love.
Elijah gave me a trinket that spoke volumes about his love for his mama. More than that, he gave me the gift of seeing the gospel a little bit more clearly. He gave me a glimpse of Jesus’ love for me.
Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant
Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal
Flip-flops with holes worn through the heels
***
Over the last two years, we’ve amassed quite a collection of plastic trinkets, thanks to our obedient (at school, anyway) boys. This year, Elijah’s first grade teacher invites the students who have good behavior all week to eat lunch with her in the classroom every Friday, so he always looks forward to “Lunch Bunch.” He also gets to select a treasure.
(As an aside, "treasure chest" has long been one of those adorable kid-language quirks in our house. It was only a few weeks ago that I finally explained to Elijah that the object itself was not called a “treasure chest.” For years he’s been saying, “I got a treasure chest today!” “Look, see my treasure chest?”)
I digress. So last Friday, on the way home from school, Elijah was excited to tell me what he had picked out from the treasure chest. “Mom, wait till you see it,” he said. “I got something for you. It’s beautiful.”
Instead of selecting some sort of racecar or superhero figure, Elijah chose a “pretty necklace,” and he presented it to me with pride.
Not since Steve placed a diamond on my left hand have I felt more proud to wear a piece of jewelry, or more undeserving of the love with which it was given.
I realize every mother gets a million of these cheap trinkets from her offspring. I can remember excitedly shopping at my elementary school’s Secret Santa Shop for Christmas gifts I was just sure my parents would LOVE (paid for with their own money). But this is my first one, and it feels like a milestone—not least because it actually cost Elijah something.
This wasn’t him taking money he’d gotten from Daddy and picking out a present for me. And it wasn’t prompted by an occasion like Mother’s Day or my birthday. This was Elijah simply loving me: looking through all the treasures, spotting a sparkly necklace, thinking of me and wanting me to have it more than he wanted a new toy.
These last few days, as I feel the weight of a cheap aqua heart pendant around my neck, it is heavy with a son’s love for his mama. And it has me pondering gospel implications.
Being a mother is indeed teaching me about unconditional love and the way God the Father relates to us. But it isn’t in the way everyone says, the way I expected. No, often *I* am the child in the relationship, learning from the love of my son.
I’m finding that this little necklace—unexpected, undeserved gift—does more to motivate me to be a good mom than any amount of reading pep talks (or shaming screeds) about motherhood. It has more of an impact than “should”-ing myself, more than beating myself up about how I’ve failed and resolving to try harder and do better. I touch the bejeweled hearts, and when I realize how loved I am in spite of my mistakes, I *want* to be the mama Elijah needs. I want to walk worthy of a necklace.
How can I be irritated with him, when he chose something from the treasure chest for me? How can I yell at him, when he loved me enough to sacrifice taking something for himself? How can I be impatient with him, when he kept me on his mind and heart and picked out a beautiful trinket just because he thought it would make me smile?
“Stop yelling! You’re crushing him! Good moms don’t yell at their kids! You’ve GOT to get your anger under control!”—funny how that doesn’t actually seem to help.
“He loves you, in spite of yourself. He is glad you are his mama, even after all the times you’ve yelled at him.”—amazing how that inspires me to take a deep breath, look at him through different eyes, and love him.
And finally God begins to get it through my thick head: We love because He first loved us. It’s His kindness that leads us to repentance. Growth and change come not by beating ourselves over the head with should and ought-tos, but by resting securely in His grace—through being rooted and grounded in His deep, deep love for us.
How can I be indifferent toward Him, when He chose me as His treasure?
How can I betray Him, when He loved me enough to sacrifice His only Son for me?
How can I distrust Him, when His thoughts toward me are without number?
What the law could not do, God did—by sending His own Son. By lavishing His love. By adopting us as His children. We love, because He first loved us. And then we change, because we love.
Elijah gave me a trinket that spoke volumes about his love for his mama. More than that, he gave me the gift of seeing the gospel a little bit more clearly. He gave me a glimpse of Jesus’ love for me.
Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant
Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal
Flip-flops with holes worn through the heels
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
About Me
I believe my sidebar has said "full bio coming soon" for about a year or so now. So here I am, finally getting around to fixing that :)
I've been a writer for as long as I can remember, but I often feel like an impostor calling myself such. As a quick look at the archives of this blog will tell you, I write in fits and spurts at best. Somewhere after college, I seem to have misplaced my discipline and self-motivation, and that part of me sort of died. But as my favorite writing professor pointed out when I mentioned this to her a few years back: "Thankfully, we are people of the Resurrection!"
Still, in light of the dizzying number of bloggers like me out there--women who are more prolific, more business-savvy, more eloquent and have a far bigger platform--I often wonder why I feel compelled to keep this up. I've been writing on this blog for over ten years now (here's where the title came from, in case you were wondering), but I don't have a lot of followers or a significant reach; I don't bring in any side income for my family. Why do my words here even matter? Am I just one more unnecessary voice adding to the cacophony of internet content clamoring for your limited and valuable time?
I don't know, but I'm realizing more and more that I *need* to be writing--even if I am not exceptional, even if there are a million other bloggers out there. As Jennie Allen so helpfully said recently, "Before killing your dream because someone else is already doing it, remember there are 7 billion people on the planet. I am just saying there is a chance that the other person is not reaching all of them." Point taken! Whether there are many or few who read my words here, it is a privilege to have even a single soul visit my little corner of the internet and consider what I have to say. I don't take that lightly.
Beyond that, I write for my own health. If I am not writing, I am generally not seeing, not preaching to myself, not mapmaking. If I am not writing, I am not thriving.
So I write to preach the truth to myself, and welcome you to listen in along the way. I write to reflect on the joys and trials of living in a testosterone-filled house. I write to process the challenges of pointing two impressionable little ones to Jesus (and the ways they point me to Jesus). I write to practice gratitude and remembrance. I write to capture and celebrate the extraordinary stories of ordinary people and the Grand Storyteller behind them all. I write to keep the Main Thing the Main Thing--to redirect my focus to Christ. I write to remember who He is, what He did at the cross, what He has done in my life, and what He promises to one day complete.
And I also write about random and/or frivolous things like my pen obsession (which, incidentally, is still the #1 most viewed and commented-upon thing I've ever written...keeps me humble) or grammar (I will freely admit to chronically overusing the ellipsis and the em-dash).
A few more rooted, less lofty specifics: I grew up in Ohio, graduated from Indiana Wesleyan University, and married a boy I'd known since we were seven and loved since we were seventeen. We moved to the Nashville area immediately after our wedding, and I will be forever grateful to the South for introducing me to tomato pie.
When I'm not writing, you might find me making said pie and other kitchen messes, singing and snuggling and reading with my boys (ages 7 and 4), ballroom dancing in the living room with Mr. Wonderful, pretending to be a photographer, or working on one of our many never-ending home renovation projects. Or, OK, let's be honest: I'm sorry to say you're also likely to find me wasting time on Facebook and procrastinating from cleaning my shower.
At any rate, if you’d told me ten years ago that I would even think of mentioning cooking in a bio, I would have declared you certifiably insane…which helps me remember that God is in the business of changing people, even if the process is slower than my perfectionistic self would prefer.
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you'll stick around...maybe even leave a comment...or subscribe via email or Facebook.
I've been a writer for as long as I can remember, but I often feel like an impostor calling myself such. As a quick look at the archives of this blog will tell you, I write in fits and spurts at best. Somewhere after college, I seem to have misplaced my discipline and self-motivation, and that part of me sort of died. But as my favorite writing professor pointed out when I mentioned this to her a few years back: "Thankfully, we are people of the Resurrection!"
Still, in light of the dizzying number of bloggers like me out there--women who are more prolific, more business-savvy, more eloquent and have a far bigger platform--I often wonder why I feel compelled to keep this up. I've been writing on this blog for over ten years now (here's where the title came from, in case you were wondering), but I don't have a lot of followers or a significant reach; I don't bring in any side income for my family. Why do my words here even matter? Am I just one more unnecessary voice adding to the cacophony of internet content clamoring for your limited and valuable time?
I don't know, but I'm realizing more and more that I *need* to be writing--even if I am not exceptional, even if there are a million other bloggers out there. As Jennie Allen so helpfully said recently, "Before killing your dream because someone else is already doing it, remember there are 7 billion people on the planet. I am just saying there is a chance that the other person is not reaching all of them." Point taken! Whether there are many or few who read my words here, it is a privilege to have even a single soul visit my little corner of the internet and consider what I have to say. I don't take that lightly.
Beyond that, I write for my own health. If I am not writing, I am generally not seeing, not preaching to myself, not mapmaking. If I am not writing, I am not thriving.
So I write to preach the truth to myself, and welcome you to listen in along the way. I write to reflect on the joys and trials of living in a testosterone-filled house. I write to process the challenges of pointing two impressionable little ones to Jesus (and the ways they point me to Jesus). I write to practice gratitude and remembrance. I write to capture and celebrate the extraordinary stories of ordinary people and the Grand Storyteller behind them all. I write to keep the Main Thing the Main Thing--to redirect my focus to Christ. I write to remember who He is, what He did at the cross, what He has done in my life, and what He promises to one day complete.
And I also write about random and/or frivolous things like my pen obsession (which, incidentally, is still the #1 most viewed and commented-upon thing I've ever written...keeps me humble) or grammar (I will freely admit to chronically overusing the ellipsis and the em-dash).
A few more rooted, less lofty specifics: I grew up in Ohio, graduated from Indiana Wesleyan University, and married a boy I'd known since we were seven and loved since we were seventeen. We moved to the Nashville area immediately after our wedding, and I will be forever grateful to the South for introducing me to tomato pie.
When I'm not writing, you might find me making said pie and other kitchen messes, singing and snuggling and reading with my boys (ages 7 and 4), ballroom dancing in the living room with Mr. Wonderful, pretending to be a photographer, or working on one of our many never-ending home renovation projects. Or, OK, let's be honest: I'm sorry to say you're also likely to find me wasting time on Facebook and procrastinating from cleaning my shower.
At any rate, if you’d told me ten years ago that I would even think of mentioning cooking in a bio, I would have declared you certifiably insane…which helps me remember that God is in the business of changing people, even if the process is slower than my perfectionistic self would prefer.
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you'll stick around...maybe even leave a comment...or subscribe via email or Facebook.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
For My Grandparents, and Veterans Everywhere
Given how needy I am during labor and in the first weeks postpartum (not to mention how having his babies has made me fall more deeply in love with my husband), I can't imagine not having my husband present for the birth of our children.
Yet it's a reality military families have always faced. This Veterans Day, those families and the magnitude of their sacrifices are on my mind: families like my friend Lisa's, whose Marine husband missed the births of *both* their babies...and families like my grandparents.
My mom's parents, high school sweethearts, got married in September of 1941--hardly able to fathom how their lives would change less than three months later when Pearl Harbor was bombed.
My grandfather joined the Army in early 1943, and he was in basic training when his first child (my beloved aunt) was born in May 1943. The Red Cross notified him by telegram--failing to mention whether it was a boy or girl.
He was allowed to come home for a brief visit when his daughter was about six weeks old before deploying to England that summer. He wouldn't see his wife and daughter again until my aunt was two years old.
***
I never got to meet my grandpa; he died just two months before I was born. And the more time passes since my grandmother's death in 2012, the more I wish I'd asked her more questions, listened to more stories, preserved more memories. I have just a couple of letters and cards she and my grandpa sent to each other while he was overseas: a letter she wrote on their third wedding anniversary; a Valentine and a Christmas card he sent. They are precious beyond words; I remove them gingerly from yellowed and torn envelopes, greedily wishing there were more.
One is a "Wish for the New Year" card he sent her in December 1944. He signed it, "With all My Love and may we be together to celebrate the next one." I'm grateful that his wish came true. My grandma was one of the lucky ones; her husband came home from the war (making my own existence possible, when my mom was born nine years later). Still, I can't imagine what she went through as a young, new mother, with her husband fighting half a world away--especially before the days of Skype and emails or even easy access to make international phone calls!
***
Over the last few years, especially with living relatively close to an Army base (Fort Campbell), I've developed friendships with a couple of military wives/former soldiers, and I'm frequently in awe of how they do what they do. Most of them downplay it as no big deal, but I don't ever want to take it for granted: because they give up their husbands, mine gets to stay home. Because they sacrifice to serve our country, my little boys can be free to wave flags at a Veterans Day parade totally oblivious to what it is like to have war in your country, or even to have your life touched by war in any way.
So this Veterans Day post is my feeble attempt to honor the memory of Ed and June Wise, members of "The Greatest Generation," and to say to veterans and their families everywhere, with the most inadequate but sincere words I have: Thank you.
Yet it's a reality military families have always faced. This Veterans Day, those families and the magnitude of their sacrifices are on my mind: families like my friend Lisa's, whose Marine husband missed the births of *both* their babies...and families like my grandparents.
My mom's parents, high school sweethearts, got married in September of 1941--hardly able to fathom how their lives would change less than three months later when Pearl Harbor was bombed.
My grandfather joined the Army in early 1943, and he was in basic training when his first child (my beloved aunt) was born in May 1943. The Red Cross notified him by telegram--failing to mention whether it was a boy or girl.
***
I never got to meet my grandpa; he died just two months before I was born. And the more time passes since my grandmother's death in 2012, the more I wish I'd asked her more questions, listened to more stories, preserved more memories. I have just a couple of letters and cards she and my grandpa sent to each other while he was overseas: a letter she wrote on their third wedding anniversary; a Valentine and a Christmas card he sent. They are precious beyond words; I remove them gingerly from yellowed and torn envelopes, greedily wishing there were more.
One is a "Wish for the New Year" card he sent her in December 1944. He signed it, "With all My Love and may we be together to celebrate the next one." I'm grateful that his wish came true. My grandma was one of the lucky ones; her husband came home from the war (making my own existence possible, when my mom was born nine years later). Still, I can't imagine what she went through as a young, new mother, with her husband fighting half a world away--especially before the days of Skype and emails or even easy access to make international phone calls!
***
Over the last few years, especially with living relatively close to an Army base (Fort Campbell), I've developed friendships with a couple of military wives/former soldiers, and I'm frequently in awe of how they do what they do. Most of them downplay it as no big deal, but I don't ever want to take it for granted: because they give up their husbands, mine gets to stay home. Because they sacrifice to serve our country, my little boys can be free to wave flags at a Veterans Day parade totally oblivious to what it is like to have war in your country, or even to have your life touched by war in any way.
So this Veterans Day post is my feeble attempt to honor the memory of Ed and June Wise, members of "The Greatest Generation," and to say to veterans and their families everywhere, with the most inadequate but sincere words I have: Thank you.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Multitude Monday, Take 335
Thanking God this week for...
6650. Jude lifting weights with us in his Spiderman costume + cowboy boots
6651. FaceTime
6652. grace to walk into the light, confess sin
6653. Elijah asking for clarification: "Mom, could you give me some more information about that?"
6654. the right to vote
6655. boys' being super cooperative for a quick, impromptu photo shoot
6656. a sunny afternoon spent at the park
6657. the color of cranberry chutney
6658. early morning prayer with a dear friend
6659. antique photographs, rare and precious
6660. the fact that photos of my boys and other loved ones *aren't* rare
6661. rush shipping on a computer cable for only $4
6662. fresh air
6663. sore muscles
6664. grace to control myself and not yell
6665. leaves in our neighborhood still beautiful
6666. the courageous people who fought for civil rights in the 1950s and 60s
6667. two crockpots full of vegetable beef soup, plenty to share
6668. the safe arrival of a dear friend's new baby girl
6669. Steve's help with hospitality
6670. fellowship and great teaching with friends
6671. all the messages from TGC's women's conference available for free download
6672. perspective that changed my 4AM parenting
6673. boys cleaning gutters with Daddy
6674. Steve having a rare guys' night
6675. pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon cream syrup
6676. a new cardigan in my new favorite shade of blue
6677. Elijah's finally being hooked on the Wingfeather Saga
6678. conviction and repentance
6679. not restraining His mercy from me
6680. this encouragement from Jennie Allen:
6681. the means to buy the clothes my kids need
6682. the Coupon Sherpa app
6683. friends being vulnerable about their weaknesses and struggles
6684. this early morning moment with my boys
6685. the fact that I happened to have my phone in my pocket to capture it
6650. Jude lifting weights with us in his Spiderman costume + cowboy boots
6651. FaceTime
6652. grace to walk into the light, confess sin
6653. Elijah asking for clarification: "Mom, could you give me some more information about that?"
6654. the right to vote
6655. boys' being super cooperative for a quick, impromptu photo shoot
6656. a sunny afternoon spent at the park
6657. the color of cranberry chutney
6658. early morning prayer with a dear friend
6659. antique photographs, rare and precious
6660. the fact that photos of my boys and other loved ones *aren't* rare
6661. rush shipping on a computer cable for only $4
6662. fresh air
6663. sore muscles
6664. grace to control myself and not yell
6665. leaves in our neighborhood still beautiful
6667. two crockpots full of vegetable beef soup, plenty to share
6668. the safe arrival of a dear friend's new baby girl
6669. Steve's help with hospitality
6670. fellowship and great teaching with friends
6671. all the messages from TGC's women's conference available for free download
6672. perspective that changed my 4AM parenting
6673. boys cleaning gutters with Daddy
6674. Steve having a rare guys' night
6675. pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon cream syrup
6676. a new cardigan in my new favorite shade of blue
6677. Elijah's finally being hooked on the Wingfeather Saga
6678. conviction and repentance
6679. not restraining His mercy from me
6680. this encouragement from Jennie Allen:
6682. the Coupon Sherpa app
6683. friends being vulnerable about their weaknesses and struggles
6684. this early morning moment with my boys
in:
gratitude
Sunday, November 09, 2014
Little by Little
"The LORD your God will drive out those nations before you, little by little. You will not be allowed to eliminate them all at once, or the wild animals will multiply around you" (Deuteronomy 7:22).
How often I want things taken care of RIGHT NOW. I want the problem solved immediately; I want the character refined instantly; I want the knowledge gained all at once. But I can't handle it that way. The lessons are learned and the real growth happens along the way, little by little, in the midst of the journey.
I heard somewhere once that the sturdiest, strongest trees are the ones in which the rings are impossibly narrow, where the growth is nearly imperceptible. And the slowest-growing trees also live the longest. Though I want the immediate gratification that our fast-food, instant-winner world demands, God knows it'd be too much for me. So I press on, little by little, trusting Him to grow me at a rate that will last and run deep.
“Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” ― Molière
How often I want things taken care of RIGHT NOW. I want the problem solved immediately; I want the character refined instantly; I want the knowledge gained all at once. But I can't handle it that way. The lessons are learned and the real growth happens along the way, little by little, in the midst of the journey.
I heard somewhere once that the sturdiest, strongest trees are the ones in which the rings are impossibly narrow, where the growth is nearly imperceptible. And the slowest-growing trees also live the longest. Though I want the immediate gratification that our fast-food, instant-winner world demands, God knows it'd be too much for me. So I press on, little by little, trusting Him to grow me at a rate that will last and run deep.
“Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” ― Molière
Saturday, November 08, 2014
Better Than Ex Nihilo
"...the God...who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist" (Romans 4:17).
Primarily Paul is referring here to creation, of course--the wonder that God created everything out of nothing. But, as a friend of mine once suggested, couldn't it also apply to what God can do in my own heart?
There is HOPE in who God is! He is the God who calls into existence the things that do not exist: love and compassion for others; joy in difficult circumstances; courage to speak hard words; trust in Him despite the unknown future...He is able to create all these things and so many more, out of nothing.
In fact, His work in my heart is *more* impressive than creating the world out of nothing, because apart from Christ my heart was not empty, it was full. It wasn't simply without form and void--it was crammed with rebellion and unbelief and love for self. When He breathed life into my heart and gave me faith in Him, He was not just creating out of nothing; He was creating the exact opposite of what was already there!
This powerful, life-giving, transforming God continues His astounding work in my heart. He is committed to remaking me in the image of His Son, which means I can have hope--not in my own efforts to change or ability or knowledge, but because of who He is and what He has done and continues to do. He calls into existence the things that do not exist in my heart.
[edited repost from the archives]
Primarily Paul is referring here to creation, of course--the wonder that God created everything out of nothing. But, as a friend of mine once suggested, couldn't it also apply to what God can do in my own heart?
There is HOPE in who God is! He is the God who calls into existence the things that do not exist: love and compassion for others; joy in difficult circumstances; courage to speak hard words; trust in Him despite the unknown future...He is able to create all these things and so many more, out of nothing.
In fact, His work in my heart is *more* impressive than creating the world out of nothing, because apart from Christ my heart was not empty, it was full. It wasn't simply without form and void--it was crammed with rebellion and unbelief and love for self. When He breathed life into my heart and gave me faith in Him, He was not just creating out of nothing; He was creating the exact opposite of what was already there!
This powerful, life-giving, transforming God continues His astounding work in my heart. He is committed to remaking me in the image of His Son, which means I can have hope--not in my own efforts to change or ability or knowledge, but because of who He is and what He has done and continues to do. He calls into existence the things that do not exist in my heart.
[edited repost from the archives]
Friday, November 07, 2014
Beautiful Through Dying
The most beautiful season is the dying.
Winter holds its own appeal, though my ability to appreciate it is brief (the snow is beautiful; the cold and the dark, not so much). I delight in spring, when everything comes alive again. And the color green never looks so beautiful to me as in early summer, after so much gray and brown and white. But it isn’t until the autumn, the dying, that the trees which seem the most ordinary—the ones that otherwise blend together in a nondescript blur of green or a tangle of bare brown—make me stand in awe.
I somehow spent the first two and a half decades of my life not paying attention. Oh, I might have paid the blazing trees a passing compliment each October; some years I suppose I marveled a little. But I never got up close, never slowed to take in the details and ponder their significance.
Then we moved to an old neighborhood, one whose streets are shaded by trees that have seen more than my grandparents. And on long walks up and down its sidewalks, I learned to see. I picked up a bright yellow fan-shaped leaf and taped it in my visual journal, not knowing what it was, sure I’d never seen one before. Did we have that kind of tree up north? (Yes, it turns out; the photo below is from Ohio.)
When my firstborn was three, we checked out Autumn Leaves from the library. We embarked on a hunt, collecting as many different specimens as we could find from the trees near our house. I had known the basic oak and maple, but now I learned the shapes of tulip poplar, smoke tree, sweet gum and linden.
The burning bushes turn scarlet, and this really does feel like holy ground. Every November is new; every year I wander slow, unable to believe that perfect blue shade of the autumn sky, exact complement to the orange trees…awed by the intricate shape of a maple leaf…thrilled to watch the gingko turn glorious yellow.
I try to capture it in pictures, occasionally getting lucky but mostly frustrated by my inability to freeze-frame the way the light plays off the warm, rich colors. I think vaguely poetic thoughts, haunted by poem-ghosts that make their homes in the fiery maples and the oak across the street whose brittle brown leaves hang on all winter, refusing to fall.
Day after day, I am reminded that this beauty comes in dying. And this is no happenstance, no mere natural occurrence that coincidentally points to a spiritual reality. It is the wise and wonderful design of a Creator who intended the metaphor even as He gave each leaf its color and then cloaked them all in green. He painted the trees for the very purpose of testifying to His Son, the One He had already planned would die in the most terribly beautiful way.
And I am reminded that His design is for me, too, to become beautiful through dying--and that when I lay my life down, my flesh crucified with Christ, I can rest assured that a resurrection spring will always, always come.
Previously in the fall (aka, I write a version of this post every year, with photos of our gorgeous neighborhood):
Autumn Beauty
Contemplating Beauty
Death and Beauty
Part of the Whole
Compelled to Capture Beauty
Winter holds its own appeal, though my ability to appreciate it is brief (the snow is beautiful; the cold and the dark, not so much). I delight in spring, when everything comes alive again. And the color green never looks so beautiful to me as in early summer, after so much gray and brown and white. But it isn’t until the autumn, the dying, that the trees which seem the most ordinary—the ones that otherwise blend together in a nondescript blur of green or a tangle of bare brown—make me stand in awe.
I somehow spent the first two and a half decades of my life not paying attention. Oh, I might have paid the blazing trees a passing compliment each October; some years I suppose I marveled a little. But I never got up close, never slowed to take in the details and ponder their significance.
Then we moved to an old neighborhood, one whose streets are shaded by trees that have seen more than my grandparents. And on long walks up and down its sidewalks, I learned to see. I picked up a bright yellow fan-shaped leaf and taped it in my visual journal, not knowing what it was, sure I’d never seen one before. Did we have that kind of tree up north? (Yes, it turns out; the photo below is from Ohio.)
When my firstborn was three, we checked out Autumn Leaves from the library. We embarked on a hunt, collecting as many different specimens as we could find from the trees near our house. I had known the basic oak and maple, but now I learned the shapes of tulip poplar, smoke tree, sweet gum and linden.
The burning bushes turn scarlet, and this really does feel like holy ground. Every November is new; every year I wander slow, unable to believe that perfect blue shade of the autumn sky, exact complement to the orange trees…awed by the intricate shape of a maple leaf…thrilled to watch the gingko turn glorious yellow.
I try to capture it in pictures, occasionally getting lucky but mostly frustrated by my inability to freeze-frame the way the light plays off the warm, rich colors. I think vaguely poetic thoughts, haunted by poem-ghosts that make their homes in the fiery maples and the oak across the street whose brittle brown leaves hang on all winter, refusing to fall.
Day after day, I am reminded that this beauty comes in dying. And this is no happenstance, no mere natural occurrence that coincidentally points to a spiritual reality. It is the wise and wonderful design of a Creator who intended the metaphor even as He gave each leaf its color and then cloaked them all in green. He painted the trees for the very purpose of testifying to His Son, the One He had already planned would die in the most terribly beautiful way.
And I am reminded that His design is for me, too, to become beautiful through dying--and that when I lay my life down, my flesh crucified with Christ, I can rest assured that a resurrection spring will always, always come.
Previously in the fall (aka, I write a version of this post every year, with photos of our gorgeous neighborhood):
Autumn Beauty
Contemplating Beauty
Death and Beauty
Part of the Whole
Compelled to Capture Beauty
Thursday, November 06, 2014
Things I Learned in October
It's that time again: a miscellaneous collection of things I learned this month, linked with Chatting at the Sky. Here we go...
1. The heart could actually be removed from the body, placed in saline solution, given oxygen, and still continue to beat. I found this out in the midst of a fascinating online discussion about a news story involving "brain death," a controversial and confusing medical term.
2. Early versions of the smallpox "vaccine," called "variolation," involved scraping an infected person's pox sores and wiping it into a cut in a healthy person's skin. After seeing this happen (or rather, having to avert my eyes because it was so disgusting) during the John Adams miniseries Steve and I have been watching, I had to find out more. YIKES!
3. Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood is a clever riff on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. I'm sure most of you moms out there are facepalming with a huge "DUH"...but we don't have access to regular TV, so the only time my boys get to watch PBS Kids is at my parents' house, and I hadn't seen or paid any attention to the show until they were watching it a couple of weeks ago. The main thing I wanted to note, though, was a clever little song taught on the episode the boys saw: "Saying 'I'm sorry' is the first step--then 'How can I help?'" I absolutely loved the concrete lesson on not only saying sorry, but learning to make amends after you've done wrong or hurt someone. Brilliant!
4. Arkansas Black apples are the hardest, most crisp apples I've ever encountered--so crisp I was sure I was going to cut myself trying to get a knife through them--and, oddly, they taste like grapes. Strange and interesting, but not my favorite apple. By the time you finish chewing, the bite has no flavor left, just really starchy. (Cameos are still number one in my book.)
5. An "eggcorn" is when you replace the original word in a common phrase with a new word, such as "old-timers' disease" instead of "Alzheimer's disease." Different from a malapropism (where your substitution is just nonsensical), an eggcorn is an error that displays some degree of creativity or logic, where the meaning is connected. Often it happens when people replace an "unfamiliar, archaic, or obscure" word with a more familiar modern word (i.e., "baited breath" instead of the original "bated breath"). I often notice people doing this, but I had no idea there was a word for that!
6. The world record for the heaviest pumpkin was set in 2007--it weighed 1,689 pounds. What in the world?! Found that tidbit on a poster of random facts about pumpkins in the bathroom stall at the Warner Park Nature Center.
How about you--what did you learn in October?
1. The heart could actually be removed from the body, placed in saline solution, given oxygen, and still continue to beat. I found this out in the midst of a fascinating online discussion about a news story involving "brain death," a controversial and confusing medical term.
2. Early versions of the smallpox "vaccine," called "variolation," involved scraping an infected person's pox sores and wiping it into a cut in a healthy person's skin. After seeing this happen (or rather, having to avert my eyes because it was so disgusting) during the John Adams miniseries Steve and I have been watching, I had to find out more. YIKES!
3. Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood is a clever riff on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. I'm sure most of you moms out there are facepalming with a huge "DUH"...but we don't have access to regular TV, so the only time my boys get to watch PBS Kids is at my parents' house, and I hadn't seen or paid any attention to the show until they were watching it a couple of weeks ago. The main thing I wanted to note, though, was a clever little song taught on the episode the boys saw: "Saying 'I'm sorry' is the first step--then 'How can I help?'" I absolutely loved the concrete lesson on not only saying sorry, but learning to make amends after you've done wrong or hurt someone. Brilliant!
4. Arkansas Black apples are the hardest, most crisp apples I've ever encountered--so crisp I was sure I was going to cut myself trying to get a knife through them--and, oddly, they taste like grapes. Strange and interesting, but not my favorite apple. By the time you finish chewing, the bite has no flavor left, just really starchy. (Cameos are still number one in my book.)
5. An "eggcorn" is when you replace the original word in a common phrase with a new word, such as "old-timers' disease" instead of "Alzheimer's disease." Different from a malapropism (where your substitution is just nonsensical), an eggcorn is an error that displays some degree of creativity or logic, where the meaning is connected. Often it happens when people replace an "unfamiliar, archaic, or obscure" word with a more familiar modern word (i.e., "baited breath" instead of the original "bated breath"). I often notice people doing this, but I had no idea there was a word for that!
6. The world record for the heaviest pumpkin was set in 2007--it weighed 1,689 pounds. What in the world?! Found that tidbit on a poster of random facts about pumpkins in the bathroom stall at the Warner Park Nature Center.
How about you--what did you learn in October?
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
Treasures :: Flip-Flops with Holes Worn Through the Heels
Inspired by Leigh McLeroy's book Treasured: Knowing God by the Things He Keeps, I'm asking: What tangible pieces of my spiritual history would I place carefully in
my own cigar box for safekeeping? What stories have shaped my journey
with this ever-faithful, treasure-keeping God? Below is part seven of the "Treasures" series.
***
VII. Flip-flops with holes worn through the heels
One of the main reasons I chose to attend Indiana Wesleyan University was because I hoped to join a ministry team. The teams who sang and traveled to camps each summer had been so instrumental in my own salvation, and I dreamed of having that kind of profound impact on other kids’ lives. So when I arrived on campus as a freshman, one of my first priorities was auditioning and interviewing for a team, praying fervently that God would grant my heart’s desire.
I wasn’t selected for the more prestigious/well-known team I’d been hoping for, but I did get to join a team. And while initially I wasn’t thrilled about singing all a cappella music instead of the cool Avalon and FFH tracks the other teams got to sing, I learned to love what we did (and I grew exponentially more as a musician).
Singing with our team, Brother's Keeper, was a more intense time commitment than I could have imagined. During the school year, we were on the road every single weekend except for school breaks (fall, spring, Thanksgiving and Christmas). We’d sing at a church Sunday morning, sometimes having to drive several hours on Saturday afternoon and stay overnight in a host home. (I slept in more strangers' homes than I can begin to count--some experiences were phenomenal, others...strange.) Other times we had to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn on Sunday morning to drive to a church. Then we’d get back in our van and travel to a different church for a Sunday evening service. Each concert involved unloading and reloading the van, setting up and tearing down an entire sound system.
In June, the university would send us on a ten-week tour of youth and family camps. I packed a summer’s worth of belongings in a giant Rubbermaid bin on wheels, and my team drove from Iowa to northern Michigan to New Brunswick and various places in between, serving as counselors, leading worship, singing our own music, whatever the camp directors wanted us to do.
A navy blue pair of $3 flip-flops hardly left my feet those summers, except at bedtime. They took me in and out of community showers, through recreation and fast-food runs and worship services and small group meetings. Those flimsy rubber sandals were, in a sense, shoes of the gospel of peace, and I wore them out. By the time I got back to campus in August, the heels had worn so thin that stepping on a sharp rock would cause me to yelp with pain. Soon an actual hole appeared, and they had to be thrown out.
The miles those flip-flops carried me were unforgettable. Along the way I learned to play the guitar and to beatbox; I cultivated some of my most significant relationships. I poured into junior high girls and soaked up teaching from phenomenal speakers. I leaned on my teammates when I was weak and at my worst; I laughed with them at 2AM Canadian border crossings. And again and again, I marveled at the faithfulness of God, at His profoundly generous answers to prayer, at His patient condescension to accomplish His work through flawed and messy me.
The highlight was when those flip-flops took me back to Lakeside, the beloved camp where God had first drawn me to himself four years earlier. On a humid July evening, as our team gave the traditional concert featured every year, I shared my testimony with kids who had been my fellow campers the summer before. I explained that I was living proof that a commitment made at camp could be real. It didn’t have to be a “camp fling” with God, experiencing a little taste of Him for a few days and resolving to "do better" at the Christian life, only to slide back into old ways after just a couple of weeks at home. God had transformed me permanently, I told them—and He wanted to capture their hearts, too.
I don’t know how many of those kids are walking with God today and how many have long since abandoned the façade of faith that they pretended to carry through their teen years. But I do know there have been few experiences in my life as powerful as watching two of my teammates perform the skit (“The Pretender”) that pierced my own heart at age fifteen, then proclaiming my own story of God’s glorious grace and singing Third Day’s “Love Song” with my team. I stood in those flip-flops proudly, humbly, overwhelmed at His goodness to me and grateful to have beautiful feet bringing good news.
Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant
Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal
***
VII. Flip-flops with holes worn through the heels
One of the main reasons I chose to attend Indiana Wesleyan University was because I hoped to join a ministry team. The teams who sang and traveled to camps each summer had been so instrumental in my own salvation, and I dreamed of having that kind of profound impact on other kids’ lives. So when I arrived on campus as a freshman, one of my first priorities was auditioning and interviewing for a team, praying fervently that God would grant my heart’s desire.
I wasn’t selected for the more prestigious/well-known team I’d been hoping for, but I did get to join a team. And while initially I wasn’t thrilled about singing all a cappella music instead of the cool Avalon and FFH tracks the other teams got to sing, I learned to love what we did (and I grew exponentially more as a musician).
 |
| Brother's Keeper 2000-2001 |
 |
| Brother's Keeper 2001-2002 |
In June, the university would send us on a ten-week tour of youth and family camps. I packed a summer’s worth of belongings in a giant Rubbermaid bin on wheels, and my team drove from Iowa to northern Michigan to New Brunswick and various places in between, serving as counselors, leading worship, singing our own music, whatever the camp directors wanted us to do.
A navy blue pair of $3 flip-flops hardly left my feet those summers, except at bedtime. They took me in and out of community showers, through recreation and fast-food runs and worship services and small group meetings. Those flimsy rubber sandals were, in a sense, shoes of the gospel of peace, and I wore them out. By the time I got back to campus in August, the heels had worn so thin that stepping on a sharp rock would cause me to yelp with pain. Soon an actual hole appeared, and they had to be thrown out.
The miles those flip-flops carried me were unforgettable. Along the way I learned to play the guitar and to beatbox; I cultivated some of my most significant relationships. I poured into junior high girls and soaked up teaching from phenomenal speakers. I leaned on my teammates when I was weak and at my worst; I laughed with them at 2AM Canadian border crossings. And again and again, I marveled at the faithfulness of God, at His profoundly generous answers to prayer, at His patient condescension to accomplish His work through flawed and messy me.
The highlight was when those flip-flops took me back to Lakeside, the beloved camp where God had first drawn me to himself four years earlier. On a humid July evening, as our team gave the traditional concert featured every year, I shared my testimony with kids who had been my fellow campers the summer before. I explained that I was living proof that a commitment made at camp could be real. It didn’t have to be a “camp fling” with God, experiencing a little taste of Him for a few days and resolving to "do better" at the Christian life, only to slide back into old ways after just a couple of weeks at home. God had transformed me permanently, I told them—and He wanted to capture their hearts, too.
I don’t know how many of those kids are walking with God today and how many have long since abandoned the façade of faith that they pretended to carry through their teen years. But I do know there have been few experiences in my life as powerful as watching two of my teammates perform the skit (“The Pretender”) that pierced my own heart at age fifteen, then proclaiming my own story of God’s glorious grace and singing Third Day’s “Love Song” with my team. I stood in those flip-flops proudly, humbly, overwhelmed at His goodness to me and grateful to have beautiful feet bringing good news.
Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant
Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal
in:
treasures
Tuesday, November 04, 2014
Ninety-Three Percent
That's how many newborns going home from the hospital for the first time are buckled into their carseats incorrectly, according to the most recent data.
Based on what I have seen, I don't believe the statistics for older children are a whole lot better.
It is not a rookie mistake: I have seen first-time parents misusing carseats...and I have also seen parents of six kids misusing carseats.
And it is not just newborns: I have seen brand-new babies buckled incorrectly...and I have also seen kids turned forward-facing way too early, and kids in boosters way too early, and kids out of boosters riding in the front seat way too early.
Think I am overly anal-retentive about carseat safety? Think about this:
You're not stupid if you're doing it wrong. You're the majority! And there is NO SHAME in asking for help. Seriously, there are a hundred variables. Every seat is different, every car is different; rear-facing is different from forward-facing is different from belt-positioning booster is different from small booster. It's enough to make anyone's head spin.
Confession: Elijah was one of those newborns. I absolutely cringe when I look at the pictures of him in his carseat, coming home from the hospital. He was buckled nice and snug, but the seat (despite being labeled as appropriate for newborns) was too big for him; the harness slots didn't go low enough. And it was so hard to get a good installation in that seat when rear-facing, I'm sure it wouldn't have passed a check. I thought I knew about carseat safety! But I have been one of the parents getting it wrong.
I have learned a lot since then, and I'm thankful for all the passionate Child Passenger Safety Technicians who work tirelessly to distribute good information online. Yet I still struggle to know what to do when I see parents, in real life or in photos posted on Facebook, using carseats incorrectly. No one likes to be told "you're doing it wrong," and no matter how gently and carefully I speak, no matter how much my heart is humbly and sincerely desiring to help as I was helped, people think they are being judged and get angry and defensive (no, I am not speaking hypothetically).
So for all the times I lack the courage to speak up to the parents of kids who are buckled too loosely or in the wrong kind of seat, I will keep posting links on Facebook, and I will spread the word here. Because 93 percent is too many.
Please, don't let your pride or self-sufficiency or over-confidence or lack of information get in the way of your child's safety.
Based on what I have seen, I don't believe the statistics for older children are a whole lot better.
It is not a rookie mistake: I have seen first-time parents misusing carseats...and I have also seen parents of six kids misusing carseats.
And it is not just newborns: I have seen brand-new babies buckled incorrectly...and I have also seen kids turned forward-facing way too early, and kids in boosters way too early, and kids out of boosters riding in the front seat way too early.
Think I am overly anal-retentive about carseat safety? Think about this:
"...car crashes are the leading cause of death for children 1 to 15 years of age, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention."Yes, when you were a kid, you rode lying stretched out across the bench seat in the back of the van. Yes, when your mom was a kid, they put her in a basket on the floorboard. Yes, when Grandma was a kid she just sat on the luggage rack and held on tight. But when we know better, we do better. Knowledge and technology and safety standards have all improved--WHY wouldn't we take advantage of these advancements to keep our kids safer on the road?
You're not stupid if you're doing it wrong. You're the majority! And there is NO SHAME in asking for help. Seriously, there are a hundred variables. Every seat is different, every car is different; rear-facing is different from forward-facing is different from belt-positioning booster is different from small booster. It's enough to make anyone's head spin.
Confession: Elijah was one of those newborns. I absolutely cringe when I look at the pictures of him in his carseat, coming home from the hospital. He was buckled nice and snug, but the seat (despite being labeled as appropriate for newborns) was too big for him; the harness slots didn't go low enough. And it was so hard to get a good installation in that seat when rear-facing, I'm sure it wouldn't have passed a check. I thought I knew about carseat safety! But I have been one of the parents getting it wrong.
I have learned a lot since then, and I'm thankful for all the passionate Child Passenger Safety Technicians who work tirelessly to distribute good information online. Yet I still struggle to know what to do when I see parents, in real life or in photos posted on Facebook, using carseats incorrectly. No one likes to be told "you're doing it wrong," and no matter how gently and carefully I speak, no matter how much my heart is humbly and sincerely desiring to help as I was helped, people think they are being judged and get angry and defensive (no, I am not speaking hypothetically).
So for all the times I lack the courage to speak up to the parents of kids who are buckled too loosely or in the wrong kind of seat, I will keep posting links on Facebook, and I will spread the word here. Because 93 percent is too many.
Please, don't let your pride or self-sufficiency or over-confidence or lack of information get in the way of your child's safety.
- Find a CPST in your area and find out in person whether your seat is correctly installed in your vehicle.
- Review the owner's manual for your seat (they're all easily located online, if you've lost the paper copy).
- harness too loose (you should not be able to pinch any slack--the right fit "is snugger than most think it should be," according to the study's presenter)
- chest clip too low (it should be at armpit level--which is "higher than most families feel it should be," said Dr. Hoffman)
"...it’s OKAY if you’ve got something wrong. We all have screwed up at some point. ...It’s not a problem if you make mistakes…when it becomes a problem is when you’d rather be right than DO right, at the cost of your child’s life."
in:
baby safety
Monday, November 03, 2014
Multitude Monday, Take 334
Thanking God the last few weeks for...
6597. that color of blue the sky gets in the fall
6598. Steve making extra efforts to thank me, encourage me, make me feel appreciated
6599. a visit from my parents
6600. the boys getting to go home with them for a few days by themselves
6601. two boys = getting to reuse adorable clothes I loved when Elijah wore them
6602. date night
6603. long overdue reorganizing and decluttering accomplished while the boys were gone
6604. my boys feeding the ducks with their Grammy at the park where I used to feed the ducks with my Grammy
6605. freedom to be a night owl while they were gone
6606. the ability to memorize Scripture and the grace to start doing it again
6607. big hugs and snuggles with boys excited to see us again
6608. Jude's face when he opened birthday gifts
6609. his quickness to share his Spiderman costume with Elijah
6610. old home movies
6611. my parents' loving me even when I was six going on sixteen with a huge attitude
6612. texting clips to my childhood BFF and her delighted reaction
6613. funnies from Jude, written down for posterity
6614. getting to spend time at my parents' house while Steve was traveling for work
6615. getting to be in Ohio while they were in peak color
6616. Steve and his younger brother designing an awesome cake for Jude's birthday
6617. a big family birthday party with cousins and great-grandparents
6618. curls at the back of my one-year-old niece's neck
6619. six-year-old niece's tears when it was time to say goodbye
6620. late night theology discussions
6621. knowing that in 30 or 50 years, I'll still being seeing new things and being amazed by fresh truths from Scripture
6622. stunning landscapes on autumn drives
6623. striped baby acorns
6624. four years with our Jude
6625. a delightful one-on-one date with him
6626. birth photos representing sweet memories of abundant grace
6627. incredible grain-free, sugar-free chocolate cupcakes
6628. friends' 22-month-old with chocolate frosting all over her face saying "Fank oo, Amy!"
6629. grace to apologize and reconnect after being a jerk
6630. finally getting to volunteer in Elijah's classroom
6631. pumpkin cake with salted caramel buttercream frosting
6632. crayon leaf rubbings
6633. the incredible variety of shapes and colors
6634. spiritual lessons and reminders through a morning of yard work
6635. family hikes at Warner Park
6636. wonderful soccer coaches who helped Elijah have a great year
6637. Cameo apples
6638. soup weather
6639. pink sneakers
6644. hundreds of pretty pumpkins on a perfect fall day
6645. Jude wearing his new stuffed animal on the walk home from preschool
6646. free blizzard on an after-school date with this Student of the Month
6647. fellowship with friends, great conversations
6648. the smell of sawdust
6649. leaves all letting go in a flurry of yellow
6597. that color of blue the sky gets in the fall
6598. Steve making extra efforts to thank me, encourage me, make me feel appreciated
6599. a visit from my parents
6600. the boys getting to go home with them for a few days by themselves
6601. two boys = getting to reuse adorable clothes I loved when Elijah wore them
6602. date night
6603. long overdue reorganizing and decluttering accomplished while the boys were gone
6604. my boys feeding the ducks with their Grammy at the park where I used to feed the ducks with my Grammy
6605. freedom to be a night owl while they were gone
6606. the ability to memorize Scripture and the grace to start doing it again
6607. big hugs and snuggles with boys excited to see us again
6608. Jude's face when he opened birthday gifts
6609. his quickness to share his Spiderman costume with Elijah
6610. old home movies
6611. my parents' loving me even when I was six going on sixteen with a huge attitude
6612. texting clips to my childhood BFF and her delighted reaction
6613. funnies from Jude, written down for posterity
6614. getting to spend time at my parents' house while Steve was traveling for work
6615. getting to be in Ohio while they were in peak color
6616. Steve and his younger brother designing an awesome cake for Jude's birthday
6617. a big family birthday party with cousins and great-grandparents
6618. curls at the back of my one-year-old niece's neck
6619. six-year-old niece's tears when it was time to say goodbye
6620. late night theology discussions
6621. knowing that in 30 or 50 years, I'll still being seeing new things and being amazed by fresh truths from Scripture
6622. stunning landscapes on autumn drives
6623. striped baby acorns
6624. four years with our Jude
6625. a delightful one-on-one date with him
6627. incredible grain-free, sugar-free chocolate cupcakes
6628. friends' 22-month-old with chocolate frosting all over her face saying "Fank oo, Amy!"
6629. grace to apologize and reconnect after being a jerk
6630. finally getting to volunteer in Elijah's classroom
6631. pumpkin cake with salted caramel buttercream frosting
6632. crayon leaf rubbings
6633. the incredible variety of shapes and colors
6634. spiritual lessons and reminders through a morning of yard work
6635. family hikes at Warner Park
6636. wonderful soccer coaches who helped Elijah have a great year
6637. Cameo apples
6638. soup weather
6639. pink sneakers
6640. opportunity to babysit two sweet little girls
6641. grace and humility to recognize my privilege and my blindness
6642. Steve's DIY skills
6643. a field trip to the pumpkin patch with my favorite preschooler
6644. hundreds of pretty pumpkins on a perfect fall day
6645. Jude wearing his new stuffed animal on the walk home from preschool
6646. free blizzard on an after-school date with this Student of the Month
6647. fellowship with friends, great conversations
6648. the smell of sawdust
6649. leaves all letting go in a flurry of yellow
in:
gratitude
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