tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21045953873189691462024-02-19T04:12:31.322-08:00many the gifts1 Corinthians 12Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-59373995970816777122020-06-07T18:30:00.001-07:002020-06-07T18:30:56.046-07:00The first step.<div>
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Here's a common fight at my house:<br />
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Kid 1: He's annoying me!</div>
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Kid 2: (highly offended) "I am not ANNOYING!"</div>
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Me: Actually, you don't get to decide whether someone thinks you are annoying are not. If you want him to think you aren't annoying, listen to what is bothering him and change your actions. Otherwise, guess what, you're annoying.</div>
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Kid 2: (now annoyed with ME, stomps away stage left)</div>
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*end fight*</div>
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How often do we fail to realize our actions (or lack thereof) are affecting someone else? </div>
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I've been learning this week that just considering myself "not racist" is not enough. </div>
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My aversion to talking about race with my friends and trying so hard to "do the right thing" and "not see color" and "love everyone" and not ruffle any feathers has kept me from being a true ally and advocate for people of color.</div>
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And for that I am sorry.</div>
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In the words of the great wisdom teacher Daniel Tiger: "Saying I'm sorry is the first step, then how can I help?"<br />
I mean, sure, I can tell you more about how I feel about it (I've got thoughts and opinions for DAYS, y'all)</div>
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but I'm pretty sure that nobody ever changed the world with their opinion.</div>
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And from what I've seen,</div>
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Jesus is not concerned with what I stand for as much as who I stand with.</div>
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Do I stand with the marginalized and the poor and the oppressed?</div>
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That's where Jesus stood.<br />
And where he asked us to go.<br />
<i>"That they may all be one."</i></div>
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Here's the catch: I don't get to be in control here. I don't get to tell people they aren't in pain. When the marginalized show themselves, the gospel call is simply to respond in compassion and love.<br />
It is time to take the first step.<br />
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In the words of one of my heroes:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKyCfPy8QLIX13Vrc_-OzRqOzxSADGIV0Zk7eDqrYgk6POo5qD4gUhrr7nk2cDnvFVgDF9s70pwOJgvwBp4AxYlIs59z27hePJYeZMD-AbX92diWbOEKtCjw7KlRG6J0vlV7Cbk2-GVn4/s1600/FB_IMG_1590951656492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKyCfPy8QLIX13Vrc_-OzRqOzxSADGIV0Zk7eDqrYgk6POo5qD4gUhrr7nk2cDnvFVgDF9s70pwOJgvwBp4AxYlIs59z27hePJYeZMD-AbX92diWbOEKtCjw7KlRG6J0vlV7Cbk2-GVn4/s320/FB_IMG_1590951656492.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, I pray.<br />
<i>Lord, help me be a helper.</i><br />
<i>Send your grace into my heart so that I can make my circle of compassion big and wide.</i></div>
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<i>Help me to listen and learn, and to respond in helpful ways.</i></div>
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<i>To not make an idol of my opinion, but to put my love in action.</i></div>
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<i>May your kingdom come</i></div>
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<i>and your will be done</i></div>
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<i>now and forever</i></div>
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<i>amen.</i></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<a href="https://quotesmafia.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/I-used-to-believe-that-prayer-changes-things-but-now-i-know-that-prayer-changes-us-and-we-change-things..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="360" src="https://quotesmafia.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/I-used-to-believe-that-prayer-changes-things-but-now-i-know-that-prayer-changes-us-and-we-change-things..jpg" width="640" /></a>We pray. And we do the work.<br />
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<b>Resources:</b></div>
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Here are some books I have read that opened my heart and eyes to things I never would have understood without them:</div>
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Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Just-Mercy-Story-Justice-Redemption/dp/081298496X/">https://www.amazon.com/Just-Mercy-Story-Justice-Redemption/dp/081298496X/</a></div>
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<i>This book is unforgettable. I read it a few years ago and I have never been able to look at things the same way. I wanted to be a lawyer and go help these people when I closed the book, but even though that's probably not going to happen I want to share this book with everyone I know. Follow Bryan's org the Equal Justice Initiative for ways to help.</i></div>
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Gregory Boyle's books:</div>
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<i>If I ever in my life thought I was better than a gang member, these books proved me wrong. They changed my whole perspective and humbled me.</i></div>
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<a href="https://readingwithyourkids.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/Fr.-Gregory-Boyle.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="430" height="247" src="https://readingwithyourkids.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/Fr.-Gregory-Boyle.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Tattoos on the Heart</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tattoos-Heart-Power-Boundless-Compassion/dp/1439153159/">https://www.amazon.com/Tattoos-Heart-Power-Boundless-Compassion/dp/1439153159/</a></div>
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Barking to the Choir</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Barking-Choir-Power-Radical-Kinship/dp/1476726167">https://www.amazon.com/Barking-Choir-Power-Radical-Kinship/dp/1476726167</a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Soon we imagine, with God, this circle of compassion. Then we imagine no one standing outside of that circle, moving ourselves closer to the margins so that the margins themselves will be erased. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We stand there with those whose dignity has been denied. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We locate ourselves with the poor and the powerless and the voiceless. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At the edges, we join the easily despised and the readily left out. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We stand with the demonized so that the demonizing will stop. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e4e4e;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We situate ourselves right next to the disposable so that the day will come when we stop throwing people away." - Fr Greg Boyle</span></i></span><br />
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Black Like Me</div>
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<i>I read this book when I was about 12. It made a lasting impact. I'm getting ready to read it again.</i></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Black-Like-John-Howard-Griffin/dp/0451192036">https://www.amazon.com/Black-Like-John-Howard-Griffin/dp/0451192036</a></div>
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<b>Here are some resources that are helping me right now:</b></div>
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A 30 day challenge for June, created by Autumn Gupta, of things to to every day (depending on how much time you want to commit) to educate, be an ally and be an advocate. I'm doing it. Want to join me?</div>
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<a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1H-Vxs6jEUByXylMS2BjGH1kQ7mEuZnHpPSs1Bpaqmw0/preview?pru=AAABcqpuiv4*3KJWdd0empNoRqho9L_BTA">https://docs.google.com/document/d/1H-Vxs6jEUByXylMS2BjGH1kQ7mEuZnHpPSs1Bpaqmw0/preview?pru=AAABcqpuiv4*3KJWdd0empNoRqho9L_BTA</a></div>
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White Fragility:</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/White-Fragility-People-About-Racism-ebook/dp/B07638ZFN1">https://www.amazon.com/White-Fragility-People-About-Racism-ebook/dp/B07638ZFN1</a></div>
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If just the title of the book makes you cringe like it did me, it is probably time to read it! It is sold out on amazon and over 50 people were on the waitlist at our local library, so I bought it for my kindle and my sister and I are discussing it right now.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8Qdyx6r3JSZw_yVsyYgo96CzzdsKk9tPVe2sCEX26P7-4GTNEruHyAlrRfqaVvbyKzBWELLlSVoJCvPl0aJtU7bUY615dNe1Nmj9OmWj2ogIU7Bfj4U2ZNpfxBTMJDAMN0fbSfux11pB/s1600/IMG_20200603_131143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8Qdyx6r3JSZw_yVsyYgo96CzzdsKk9tPVe2sCEX26P7-4GTNEruHyAlrRfqaVvbyKzBWELLlSVoJCvPl0aJtU7bUY615dNe1Nmj9OmWj2ogIU7Bfj4U2ZNpfxBTMJDAMN0fbSfux11pB/s320/IMG_20200603_131143.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Podcasts:</b></div>
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<b>Brene Brown and Ibram X Kendi</b></div>
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<a href="https://brenebrown.com/podcast/brene-with-ibram-x-kendi-on-how-to-be-an-antiracist/">https://brenebrown.com/podcast/brene-with-ibram-x-kendi-on-how-to-be-an-antiracist/</a></div>
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I love this podcast anyways and listened to this most recent and it was excellent! Well worth the hour of time.</div>
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<b>Plaid Skirts and Basic Black</b><br />
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Want to hear some delightful, thoughtful, helpful and spiritual black Catholic voices? Check out this podcast: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/psbbpodcast/?hl=en">https://www.instagram.com/psbbpodcast/</a><br />
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<b>Social Media:</b></div>
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I realized a few years ago that I needed to follow more diverse voices. Here are some to start with. Change your news feed, change your thoughts, change your life. This post has many ideas:</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/glennondoyle/photos/a.213343589709/10158347979004710/">https://www.facebook.com/glennondoyle/photos/a.213343589709/10158347979004710/</a></div>
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<b>Now, for kids:</b></div>
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<b>Movies:</b></div>
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An American Girl Story- Melody 1963- Love Has to Win</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/American-Girl-Story-Melody-Season/dp/B01LWMYJK4">https://www.amazon.com/American-Girl-Story-Melody-Season/dp/B01LWMYJK4</a></div>
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<i>We watched this with our boys a few years ago. It was very good and they didn't even care that it was "American Girl"! We talked about it and unpacked it afterwards.</i></div>
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Hidden Figures:</div>
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<a href="https://www.commonsensemedia.org/movie-reviews/hidden-figures">https://www.commonsensemedia.org/movie-reviews/hidden-figures</a></div>
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<i>All of our boys have seen it and it opened up SO many conversations. It is an excellent film!</i></div>
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<b>Books:</b></div>
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Coretta Scott King Book Award Winners</div>
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<a href="https://www.commonsensemedia.org/lists/coretta-scott-king-book-award-winners">https://www.commonsensemedia.org/lists/coretta-scott-king-book-award-winners</a></div>
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Books on Race, Racism and Activism</div>
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<a href="https://www.embracerace.org/resources/26-childrens-books-to-support-conversations-on-race-racism-resistance">https://www.embracerace.org/resources/26-childrens-books-to-support-conversations-on-race-racism-resistance</a></div>
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We've read many of these titles, and I have started searching out more of them.</div>
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Sister Anne's Hands</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sister-Annes-Hands-Picture-Puffins/dp/0140565345/">https://www.amazon.com/Sister-Annes-Hands-Picture-Puffins/dp/0140565345/</a></div>
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<i>We own this book, and it is a treasure. Summary:</i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>It’s the early 1960s, and Anna has never seen a person with dark skin before. At first she is afraid of her new second-grade teacher. But Anna quickly finds that there’s no reason to be scared. Sister Anne is wonderful. She likes jokes and she makes math and reading fun. But then someone sails a paper airplane to her, with a cruel message written on its wings. Sister Anne’s wise way of turning a painful incident into a powerful learning experience has a profound impact on Anna and her classmates.</i></span></div>
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<b>YouTube:</b></div>
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We watch this excellent video about Martin Luther King, Jr on King day every year:</div>
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<a href="https://www.schooltube.com/media/Martin+Luther+King+Jr.+Story+Read+by+LeVar+Burton+Reading+Rainbow+Story+Time/1_1re1hokt">https://www.schooltube.com/media/Martin+Luther+King+Jr.+Story+Read+by+LeVar+Burton+Reading+Rainbow+Story+Time/1_1re1hokt</a></div>
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Recent:</div>
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Nightly News Kids Edition on the protests and race in America:</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guSHFu_NHHQ">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guSHFu_NHHQ</a></div>
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<b>Other:</b></div>
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The amazing Power of Children exhibit on Ruby Bridges. We were very moved.</div>
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<a href="https://www.childrensmuseum.org/exhibits/power-of-children">https://www.childrensmuseum.org/exhibits/power-of-children</a></div>
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What other resources am I missing? Drop them in the comments!<br />
Sending love and light to all of you.<br />
- Jen</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-90539367668328265402019-05-26T19:49:00.000-07:002019-05-26T19:49:04.920-07:00Easier.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_2001121423"></span><span id="goog_2001121424"></span><br />
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Do you have those moments in your life where a seemingly random interaction with a stranger sticks with you forever? Flashback to 2008, when I was at the pediatrician for a well visit with Daniel (a few months old) and Philip (about 15 months old). Phil had just barely learned to walk, so I had the giant double stroller (my lifesaver!) with me at the office. As I attempted to navigate my big ol' stroller into the tiny door, one mom kindly held it open for me and another mom stood there smiling. She had the hand of a little boy in each of her hands, they appeared to be about 4 and 5 years old. She looked at my little one-year-apart boys and smiled at bleary-eyed-and-struggling little Jen.<br />
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"It will get easier, I promise," she said, as she walked past me out the door. "Mine are just as close in age. It will get easier."<br />
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I watched her back as she walked down the hall. It was one of those moments where time stood still. Her life was something the twenty-eight-year-old-me could barely imagine. Who is this woman, with the tiny dark-haired children? Some sort of prophet? I don' t know. But I can still picture that mom and her boys in my mind, even 11 years later. As an exhausted mom of two-under-two, I would cling to those words, and to that vision of the mom walking out of the pediatrician's office with a little boy's hand in each of her hands, for years to come. Just WALKING. Everyone walking! On their two little feet!<br />
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"It will get easier," I told myself, as I cleaned baby food times two off the walls in our dining nook.<br />
"It will get easier," I said, as bottle-fed or nursed one baby and spoon-fed another.<br />
"It will get easier," I said, as I bounced a crying baby on my hip while a toddler clung to my leg.<br />
"It will get easier," I said, as I woke up in the middle of the night (again) to put a (different) pacifier in someone's mouth.<br />
"It will get easier," I said, when I had three under three, and three in diapers at the same time.<br />
It will get easier, I said, as I managed the temper tantrum, cleaned up the vomit, mixed the bottle, washed spaghetti off the floor, threw in the thousandth load of laundry that week, took someone to the potty and pressed play on the Elmo DVD (again).<br />
It will get easier.<br />
It will get easier.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was my mantra, given to me by a random mom in Circle City Pediatrics.<br />
And you know what?<br />
It did.<br />
That part of it did get easier.<br />
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<br />
That diaper part? It's so far in the past I hardly remember it. Walking? I can walk into the pediatrician with hardly a care in the world. Shoot, they could probably check themselves in and scan my HSA card at this point. She was right. We just walk places. Gear? We passed on our legend of a double stroller a few years ago, after so much faithful service, it was not needed anymore. No more pacifiers. No more Elmo on repeat. No more baby food or Gerber puffs or onesies or swaddle blankets or hauling the bottles and supplies everywhere we go. No more buckles or helping with mittens or cutting pizza into tiny pieces. My hands are so much more free.<br />
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But my heart, oh my heart, it is not. It's the other side of the coin. The part my grandma warned me about. It does get easier. Physically easier. SO much easier. I sleep through the night most nights. I clean up vomit only when someone has the flu. I read stories when I want to but also people read to themselves- chapter books!!?!? Then turn out their light. Everyone cuts their own food. Everyone pours their own milk. Washes their dishes. Helps sweep the floor. Bathes themselves. My hands are not needed for every button or zipper or butt that needs to be wiped.<br />
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Physically, my load has gotten lighter. But emotionally? "Just wait," my grandma wisely said. "That gets SO MUCH HARDER."<br />
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Do you know that your heart is now walking around outside your body, Jen? TIMES FOUR? And that their pain is your pain? And their sadness, yours? It's one thing when your baby cries, and you just feed them or change them because that's all they need. Totally another thing when your big kid cries when they've been rejected by a friend. Or are stressed about a test. I'd take a million hours of the same Elmo's World over the heartbreak of a kid that doesn't get invited, or the stress of a daunting homework assignment, or the worry of the scary story they heard at a party that's keeping them up in the middle of the night for months on end.<br />
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But then again, maybe I wouldn't. To everything, there is a season, right? They have grown, and I've grown, too. I learned to manage the pacifier, maybe now it's time for me to grow again and manage the intangibles. Help them learn to be in the world and not of it. Teach them how to be a friend and have a friend and live and love and laugh make a life worth living. I thought I was raising babies, but in the bigger picture, I'm raising humans. Humans who will grow up and be (hopefully) contributing members of society. It was my own mistake to be so short-sighted. I thought I was getting through the milestones: walking, eating, potty-ing in a potty, sneezing into their elbow, eating vegetables, going off to school. I thought that was my job, just get them through the little years. When it got easier (and it did), I thought that easier was forever.<br />
<br />
"This is it!" I thought. "I have arrived at the promised moment! It is easier! Just like I heard it would be!"<br />
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But what I'm learning is that easier is not forever. Nothing is. There are moments of ease, and seasons of relative bliss, and moments of challenge, and seasons of challenged-spurred growth.<br />
<br />
I hit a dark place back in January. It's not hard to hit a dark place in January in Indiana, but this one was especially dark. I worried that maybe I had passed by all the sweetness of my life. That second grade for the older boys was the peak, and after that it was all downhill. I cried myself to sleep worrying that I had let them down. I laid it all at the feet of Jesus, all my insecurity and my sadness and my doubt.<br />
<br />
I wondered if this cup could just pass me by.<br />
"But," the Lord whispered, "this cup is all there is."<br />
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I'm learning that JUST BECAUSE THINGS GET HARD does not mean I am doing it wrong. It means we're growing. We've hit some beautiful sweet spots over the years. I look back in awe at those perfectly aligned moments in time where everyone is just the right age and they are all getting along perfectly and life is, for the moment, sweet. I hit the first one when Noah was about 6 months and the boys were 3, 5 and 6. I thought to myself- "This is it! I made it through the hard part!" What I didn't know is that I was just in a sweet spot, and it wouldn't last forever. Babies turn into toddlers, and sweet spots turn into growth opportunities. Second graders head to third grade, kindergartners head to first grade. . .the only thing constant is change. I have seasons in the past 12 years of parenting where my heart was so full that I thought it could burst. And I've had seasons where I thought to myself. . ."I don't even like any of these kids at all. Why did I sign up for this?" But it passes, it all passes. The good passes, the bad passes. I grow and I change and I learn and I am new. And, honestly, it's just all passing too fast.<br />
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Paul's been out of town this weekend and the boys have been so good that I'm wondering if this might be a sweet spot again. I'm almost afraid to acknowledge it, but this time, I stop and I savor it. I know too well that I need to store the sweetest moments in my heart for the days when things get hard.<br />
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On Tuesday, my "baby" has his six-year-old well visit. I know I will picture that mom of the little dark-haired children as I do every time I walk into our pediatrician's office. Every well visit marking off another year in their lives, every step on the scale a reminder of the growing that happens while I'm not even paying attention.<br />
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It gets easier. It gets harder. It gets sweeter. It gets trickier. You learn, you grow, you change, you adapt, you have no choice. There aren't the right words to say it well in your standard social interaction, and plus nobody can simply tell you what you need to learn yourself. So, I look at the mom fussing over her newborn and trying to entertain her toddler and smile.<br />
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"It gets easier," I promise her.<br />
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And it will.<br />
And harder<br />
And easier again.<br />
All too fast.<br />
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-14364522758817539392018-10-15T12:27:00.000-07:002018-10-15T12:27:21.933-07:00Missing.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer 2018</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paul and I were out on the patio having some beverages as the summer days faded into Fall, chatting about our memories through the years. We were laughing about how carefree we were in our college days and young married-before-kids days, yet we didn't even realize how carefree we were! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I wish I could go back and tell myself the things I was missing!" we both agreed. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So young and carefree!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I enjoyed our twenties immensely, but in hindsight I could have enjoyed it even more with all the benefits of the perspective I gained in my thirties! The same goes for our days of littles - we agreed that when the boys were small we often missed out on how cute they were when we were feeling tired and worrying about all of the "have-to's" of parenting. . .baths and feeding and developmental milestones and potty training and sibling squabbles. Now that I have the privilege of teaching preschool and I am so enamored with the cuties in my classroom, I realize that when my little guys were that age they were just as cute but I might have missed out on truly appreciating it while cleaning up the couch stuffing. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U7f-9q3-JMvtkAHy5OgCQOdLEheB1kA5bzCfy1TFm8oHhJq0hxxle86hIQQD4Txt7f6zVd-ifgq3Oq0vVPb9xpOuq3gmoLT_S0kV7w_84o789kw1uspQkStMpIo2x4m-7hG9_teb_CSh/s1600/IMG_1581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U7f-9q3-JMvtkAHy5OgCQOdLEheB1kA5bzCfy1TFm8oHhJq0hxxle86hIQQD4Txt7f6zVd-ifgq3Oq0vVPb9xpOuq3gmoLT_S0kV7w_84o789kw1uspQkStMpIo2x4m-7hG9_teb_CSh/s400/IMG_1581.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aren't we cute? ;)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't look back with regret, but I do look back with wisdom gained the hard way. So, that had me wondering. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"OK, Paul. . ." I said. "What am I missing RIGHT now? RIGHT NOW- at 11, 10, 8 and 5. What am I going to look back in five years and say, I wish I would have known I was missing. . ."</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paul said, without skipping a beat, <b>"Jen, you're missing how much they need you right now."</b></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(insert imaginary mic drop and super long pause for this life-changing information)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, wouldn't you know it. Paul was right. That's exactly what I have been missing. I mean, I knew that. But I wasn't APPRECIATING it. I've been feeling <b>burdened</b> by how much they need me. I will admit, I have even <b>complained</b> that as they have gotten older I feel they need me MORE. They want to tell me everything. They want my advice on everything. They want to give me a recap of everything they played at recess, ate at lunch, talked about on the bus, built in Minecraft, read in their books. They all want me to read to them, listen to their story, say a prayer with them, sit next to them, take them on a special outing, be the first one they see in the morning when they wake up, comb their hair for them because I do it better, fix their covers in the night, make them scrambled eggs in the morning or a bowl of ice cream after school. And I, in my self-centered view, was only seeing how that was a little taxing on my mental space and personal time since there are FOUR of them. As my friend Alyssa always helps me remember, it's not their fault there are four of them! They didn't choose to have three brothers, they were born into this family. It's my vocation to see each of them as individuals, while helping them live and thrive in a family. It's my calling to be mindful and present to them NOW, so that in 5 years, or 10 years, or 20 years, everything we've laid in their hearts in our home will be with them as they go out into the world and create homes of their own. And, so that in 5 years, or 10 years, or 20 years, I'll be looking back knowing I left it all out here on the field and I didn't hold anything back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm reading a book called <i>The Four Agreements</i>, and in the book it teaches about how our words (or the words of others) can become our perception of reality. I think enough people had told me <i> "You have your hands full"</i> or <i>"Wow, that's a lot of boys"</i> or "<i>Just wait until they're teenagers"</i> or <i>"It must be crazy at your house"</i> that I had really internalized those words. They became my reality- that what I was doing right now was hard. I was allowing my truth to be <i>"I have four boys and my life is hectic and crazy."</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fact, it's just the other side of the same coin. I need to flip my words so I can flip that coin.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All of the little struggles (messes, fights, tears, endless dishes, people touching everything all the time and going every direction in every store. . ) are the other side of the coin of blessings I hold in my hand. . . four beautiful, healthy, sweet, ENERGETIC boys. Both sides are there, but I have to make the constant choice to look at the shiny side and not the messy one that makes me want to curl up in a ball. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">The sentence, "All of my children are here with me" can be read in two tones of voice. Not everyone has the privilege of saying it at all, so I'm trying to choose the grateful one. There is so much good to be uncovered when I choose to be grateful. At the top of the trail of whining, there's a beautiful overlook. ;) And then, a downhill run! It takes all of it to make a life.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mountaintop" moment!</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every day, I fall short of my own expectation of what I think the best mom would do. But, every day that failure leaves room for growth and leaves room for grace. <i>Not I, but the grace of God in me.</i> If I made it look too easy, how would my children learn to handle their own struggles? If I try to do it all perfectly and do it all myself, how will I learn and show my children how to accept our role as limited humans walking on this earth who are most definitely not God but need God a whole lot?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">God, you are good.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are You, and I am not.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I am here.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just trying to do the best I can</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To love you</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And serve you</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By loving and serving your people</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>(Starting with the ones in my four walls- I'm going to admit, God, sometimes that's a little harder.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>May the love we share here</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>spill out into the world.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May I teach my children by example</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be fully human</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Accepting your grace</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Trying our best to do your will</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And walking each other home.</span></i></span></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-2745421558313266322018-03-15T15:52:00.000-07:002018-03-15T15:52:01.654-07:00Everyday.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy and his boys.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My dear and faithful husband orders us pizza every. single. Friday and picks it up on his way home from work. You could set your watch by this good man. When he gets home at 6:15, he's greeted by four excited little boys in jammies who have picked a movie and are eagerly waiting to eat that pizza on their Angry Birds blanket in front of the basement TV. It's our little Friday tradition, and the kids love it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">On a whim, I volunteered to pick the pizza up for the first time about a year ago.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"I'm warning you, Jen, they might not know what to do when you walk in there," Paul said with a wink. "They've usually got my pizza out by the time I've come through the door."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Sure enough, I walked into Marco's and asked for our pizza and the two kind folks behind the counter raised their eyebrows at me.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Where's Mr. Paul?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I laughed, "I was told that you might not give me the pizza."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">They grinned and we introduced ourselves. They told me about how much they enjoy seeing Paul every week and they count on his visits. We chatted for a while (and they did agree to give me the pizza.)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"It was nice to finally meet you! Tell Paul we say Hi!" they called as I walked out the door.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It got me grinning, and it got me thinking. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">1. I love being Mrs. Paul (Zink) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">2. Then I got that song Bob sang on Sesame Street when we were little, "Ooooh, these are the people in your neighborhood, the people that you meet each day. . ." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">3. Living an an ordinary, everyday life sure is a precious gift.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Our culture celebrates the mountaintop, but as our wise pastor Fr. Dan says, most of life is lived down here in the valley of the everyday. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We can Instragram a moment. . .crop and filter and caption and share. . .but a moment is only as good as the life that surrounds it. We may get to the mountaintop a few times, and that sure is sweet- but what about the rest? It seems the things that matter most may not get us "likes" or look like much on our resume or add anything to our bank account or even be very much fun, but that sure doesn't make those ordinary things any less important.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">If you are a mom, you probably feel me here. I have washed the same little IKEA cups and bowls and forks and spoons and plates over and over again every day for the better part of a decade. There are apparently no awards for empty sinks (I've been waiting!) and no one notices a clean dish (although, they sure will notice a dirty one!). But I'm learning when we wipe the crumbs on the counter and wash the colorful little dishes piled up in our sink. . . even on the days we don't feel like it. . . even on the days we feel like that's all we did, we're being faithful in the small things. I love what Mother Teresa said, "God hasn't called me to be successful, he has called me to be faithful." Feeling a call to "success" can be a slippery slope in a long-term game like parenthood, and that simple call to faithfulness seems even more important in the perspective of the eternal.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I think about my husband, Paul, and his beautiful heart. He is so faithful in the small things. He has read to the kids every single night of their lives. He makes sure they brush their teeth and gives all the baths and unloads the dishwasher every night before bed. He goes to mass and mows the lawn every week and scoops the litterbox and votes in every election and returns his library books on time and irons his no-iron shirts and uses his turn signal and fills his car up with gas every Thursday and says his grace at every meal. He is an excellent adult, I really enjoy riding on his adulting coat tails. On top of that, he is totally the type of guy who scoops up a bug to put it outside and smiles at babies and shakes hands with strangers and listens patiently to others.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">These things can't be measured and a snapshot couldn't really capture them. But at the end of Paul's life, which I hope is a very long one, how good it will be to have been faithful. To have been kind. To have meant a lot to a few special people. In this digital age, it can be tempting to try to mean a lot in the eyes of the big, wide world. Tweet for a day and you can see that shiny prize out there to mean a little bit to a whole lot of people. But the glory and the beauty and the lasting joy aren't in "hearts" or "likes", they are right there in our everyday interactions, all wrapped up in real hearts. . .in meaning a lot to a little.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Its the movie nights and the pew you sit in at church and the cashier that knows you by name and the postman that always gives you a wave. It's the folks you see on your walk and the friends in your class at the gym and the place you always go for lunch on Friday and the neighbor who always looks out for you and the custodian that cleans your office that you stop and chat with and the preschool mom you always smile at during dropoff even though you don't know each other's names. You bring joy and human connection to one another's world.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And then, there's your "people". Your circle- your close friends, your siblings, your parents, your significant other, your kids, your fam. The whole world may never know you, but you are whole world in the eyes of someone special. Every day, day in and day out, you're faithful to that commitment to love your people well. There's no major award for that on earth, but we can be sure in heaven the treasure is being stored. And when we move over to the other side of the veil, those are the folks who will miss us the most.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My friend Charlie and I ate lunch together nearly every day of my teaching career. Every day (unless it was fried chicken day in the cafeteria), he had a brown paper sack lunch with a bologna sandwich and a container of homemade Jell-O, packed by his loving wife. When his wife passed away, I called Paul to tell him the sad news. All I could squeak out was, "Who will make his bologna sandwich?"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Those little everyday things you do for the people who love you? They sure do matter. A sandwich made every single day or a pizza ordered every Friday or a lawn mowed every Saturday or a basket of laundry folded every week or a story read every night might not look like a major accomplishment on paper, but I'd like to think it's the best kind of accomplishment we can have.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This past Friday, I went to pick up the pizza again. This time they knew me when I walked in the door.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I was greeted with, "It's MRS. PAUL!" and they handed me the pizza with a smile so I could turn around and deliver it to four happy boys.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Here's to your everyday.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Keep on keepin' on.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">What you do matters.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Keep being you.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>"The connections we make in a lifetime- maybe that's what heaven is." - Fred Rogers</i></span></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-9001395580281735222017-11-21T11:34:00.003-08:002017-11-21T11:34:46.225-08:00Forever tries.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Daniel is my bright little ray of sunshine. He is the first to offer a hug, a positive spin on things or a kind word. He gets out of bed every day ready to greet the sun and face the world with a smile. He gets dressed in a favorite shirt- his "Oh Snap" lobster or his hip rhinoceros shirt are always go-to options, leaves the hanger on his bed from said shirt, heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth for something approximately close to 2 minutes but way closer to one, and then galumphs off to start his day. </span></div>
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Then along comes nagging mom- "Daniel, was that really two minutes? Daniel, is that your hanger laying on your bed AGAIN? Like, every DAY? Daniel, you need to redo your homework, you got this problem WRONG. I can't stand it when you don't take your time on your homework. Shouldn't you have taken your time last night? What did you do with your lunch money from last week? Did you even MAKE your bed?" </div>
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<i>Who is this lady? Is she ME? When did I become such a drag? </i> I wish that I was making this dialogue up, but these are sadly the typical things that come out of my mouth before he even spills any milk on the table or we find the forgotten lunch money crumpled up in the bottom of his backpack.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Usually my Sunny D apologizes profusely or jokes right back, "But, mom, the hanger is my friend! I love sleeping with it!," and "Hey, I've never had a cavity!" and I give him a hug and shake my head and we move on.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">But one morning, I looked at him at the breakfast table (after we fixed the homework, found the lunch money and wiped up some spilled milk) and he had tears clouding his eyes, and more streaming quietly down his face. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">It hurt me to see him so hurt- and I was the one to blame.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">You know, sometimes my kids push it too far, and sometimes I push it too far. </span><span style="color: #222222;">I had pushed it too far, and I started to really not like how I felt or how I was behaving in that moment. </span>It was time for me to pick up the mirror instead of the magnifying glass and look within.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><i>If my voice is going to become their inner voice, how can I make it one of love and encouragement and gentleness? If these kids are going to be the ones taking care of me when I'm old, how will I want them to treat me when I am forgetful or can no longer do things quite the right way, or do them quickly, or do them by myself? What would it hurt right now if I let a few more little things go? Would it mess them up forever to be more gracious with their faults? </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">The fact is, they are not intentionally doing anything wrong most of the times that I am annoyed. I am becoming aware that when I lose my patience, it is usually because their <b>feelings and their needs</b> are getting in the way of my <b>agenda</b>. Ouch. <i> Isn't part of my job as their mama to help teach them to be fully human. . .with feelings and needs that can be expressed in healthy ways? Is my to-do list or my comfort or my convenience the god that I serve? </i>Often when I find myself being the kind of mom that I don't really want to be around, it is more about having my needs served- my need for order, or organization, for peace and quiet, or for well-behaved children, than it is about serving their needs with a kind heart in this season of life. I've made an idol out of those things at some time or another, and it is time to smash it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">This season, and it is just that, only a season, is in fact loud and messy and full of, shall we say, "growth opportunities" for them, AND for me. So, after a conversation with my bestie, Kris, a few weeks ago when we sorted through this, I'm asking myself: "What would it look like, for a whole (insert period of time here), to love my people exactly as they are?" </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Not who I want them to be, or who I think they should be, or how they could be if they just did this one little thing right that they are doing wrong right now, but exactly as they are. Right now. Generously and appreciatively and joyfully, the way God sees them. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">In this, the only moment that we are guaranteed.</span></div>
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I'm starting with some increments of time to focus on seeing my people through the eyes of love and love and only love. Starting with this moment, right now, and stretching that for even longer periods. <i> Can I stretch that gentleness out for like, a whole meal? Or a whole morning? A whole homework session? If today was our last day together on earth, would the fact they use their sleeve as a Kleenex be the most important thing I want to talk to them about? Is spilled milk worth our tears? Can they forget to carry the one or put "i before e except after c" and still make it to heaven? </i></div>
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<i>Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Yes.</i></div>
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"The world has enough critics," I tell my kids, "be an appreciator." </div>
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I need to heed those words myself. </div>
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"Treat other people the way you want to be treated," I tell my kids.</div>
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I need to show them that with my actions.</div>
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"Is it more important to be right or to be kind?" I ask my children.</div>
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I need to ask myself the same question.</div>
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Because I know in my heart the answer- kindness matters most. Now, there is a time for everything under the sun and there is a time to correct to be sure, but<i> do I need to correct behavior at the expense of hearts? </i>Probably not. There's a win-win out there somewhere, and I am praying for the wisdom to seek it and to live it, and praying for the grace to be gentle with myself so I can be gentle with them. I'll never get it perfectly, but I know I can do it better.</div>
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The sun rises each day and shines on us all with new mercy.</div>
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Here's to greeting the sun like D.</div>
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Forever tries.</div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-41290317562415519712017-11-05T18:37:00.000-08:002017-11-05T18:37:09.470-08:00Over again.<div style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">
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I don't know why, but for some reason Halloween gives me all the feels! Maybe it's because every year I realize these kiddos are a little bigger, can go a few more houses, try more adventurous costumes, and have more zeal for candy. Not to mention the memories of all of the Halloween's past that appear, all the pictures of chubby faces squished into fuzzy costumes on our Facebook feeds. It seems like a silly day to feel so sentimental about, but it is what it is!<br />
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This Halloween day I dragged out the costume box for Noah. We were getting ready to go visit our friends at the nursing home and I wanted to make sure he had something cute to wear (as if he even needed a costume to score candy, he gets that every week costume-free) but kids in costumes just make people smile. We dug through the box and I pulled out a treasure I had been looking for- the old Winnie the Pooh costume. The one Daniel wore for Halloween when Phil was his Christopher Robin, the one Noah wore basically every day for an entire summer despite the heat, when he was just learning to talk and walked around proudly, saying, "NOOK! I POOP! I POOP!" sending his brothers into fits of laughter.<br />
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I have so many precious memories of Winnie The "Poop" that I was hopeful that he would put it on one more time. The tag inside said 3T-4T. Would it fit?</div>
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"Noah, will you try this on for Mommy?"</div>
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"Mommy, dat was from when I was a baby. I am FOUR and a HALF," he declared with a raised eyebrow. (note: the HALF is very important.)</div>
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"Pleeeeaassseeee?" I looked at him pleadingly, he looked right back at me with almost an exasperated face, as if he could not be bothered with this childish activity. But after I promised him a piece of candy, he grudgingly approved the costume try-on.</div>
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We slipped it on and it zipped up, but, as he pointed out, "Mommy, dat's tight."</div>
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Agreed.</div>
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Kind of like my jeans, kid. I get it. Only I have less excuses.</div>
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I laughed at my own ridiculousness. Of course it was tight! It was from when he was 2! The built-in Pooh belly, once so comfortable and squishy, looked more like a bowling ball, and his ankles were hanging out from below the cute little Pooh paws that used to pool around his feet. </div>
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"Can I take it off now, Mommy?"</div>
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"Yes, but can I PLEASE take your picture first? PLEASE?" I begged.</div>
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"OK, but don't share it with anyone." He gave me an I-mean-business look.</div>
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"I promise."</div>
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And I kept that promise- do you see the picture here? Nope, but it's on my phone as a reminder for me, that my little man is growing up and has needs and opinions and an interior life of his own that is worthy of respect. And the pic squeezing into Pooh this Halloween was not nearly as cute as the pictures of him when he was a baby in it anyways.</div>
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I unzipped the "Poop" costume and helped take it off a Zink boy for the last time. Noah saw my wistful face and felt the need to encourage me, "Mommy, I will wear something else, but I will still be cute, OK?" </div>
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And he did, and he was, and it was all good. He was a brave knight, slaying loneliness like any old dragon, stealing hearts and candy from all the fair damsels. I watched him interact with everyone and marveled at how he is growing up.<br />
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After we left the room of one of our friends, he said, "Mommy, Lillian asked my name so many times!"</div>
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"I know, buddy. That's just her question that she likes to ask. She knows you, it's OK."</div>
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"Yeah, I know. My feelings weren't hurt." he said, matter-of-factly.<br />
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He totally gets it, I thought. I marveled at his compassion for others, the way he is processing the world and the way he articulates it to me. I gave him a hug.</div>
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"My baby is growing up!" I said, in the standard "Awwwwwww" tone of voice I always use when I tell my kids that. And then Noah screwed up his little face and said something that made me pause.</div>
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<b>"Mommy, do you just like babies?"</b></div>
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He looked at me with concern. It was a sincere question from his four-year-old mind, worthy of the most sincere of responses. </div>
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"Oh honey," I melted into a puddle and held him close, "I loved you when you are a baby and I love you now. I love you all the time. I love babies but I love big boys, too. You are so special, and I love the way you are growing."</div>
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He looked encouraged and quickly moved on with his life, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. <span style="font-family: "gotham" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">What message am I sending my "baby" when I am constantly articulating my tug between having a baby and big boy, the same tug that he's struggling with inside? Obviously a strong enough message to make him wonder if having a cute baby was all I was into. I need to be careful with my words and through my own give him the words he needs to share his interior life in the ways he sees fit. So much to hold in my heart, and we were only halfway through Halloween. See what I mean? ALL THE HALLOWEEN FEELS.</span></div>
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The big bros got off the bus and we had a blast. An exhausting blast, as there is nothing quite like feeding four kids dinner and getting them costumed up on Halloween. And JUST as I am finally getting used to the flow if it, the little years are almost over. Isn't that life? We went for our last theme this year, our final in a 9-year streak of themes because we thought perhaps next year would be the year the big boys wanted to go out with their friends, which I totally respect. It was time to do it up right and savor one last trick or treat as a family of six. I left the bowl of candy on the porch in our skeleton's lap because as much as I love greeting my trick-or-treaters in my witch costume there was no way I was going to miss my own kids out as The Beatles.</div>
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Oh, how much fun they had. They were a hit at every house and Noah's joy spread down the street like beams of sunshine. Our kids scored so much extra candy for their costumes that I had to quickly shuffle about four bags of it away while they were sleeping that night. I couldn't tell if my face hurt from smiling or from the cold, but I think it was mostly the smiling. I soaked it up- their joy, their good humor, their cuteness and the pure fun of making people laugh and smile and clap and sing. They were so in character and they had ladies squeal over them and even had some people take their picture, which they thought was sooo cool.</div>
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After we warmed up from the cold, took off the costumes, sorted the candy, washed out the colored hairspray from Ringo and Paul's hair, got on jammies, brushed teeth and read stories, a tired-but-happy mommy and daddy were finally tucking the tired-but-happy boys into bed.</div>
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"Mommy, I'm never going to forget that," said Phil. </div>
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"Me neither, buddy," I said, and I walked over to tuck in Daniel.</div>
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"Mommy, I'm sorry. Today was really fun for us but I think it probably was a lot of work for you."</div>
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"Daniel," my heart ached at how sensitive he is and I felt ashamed that I had not pretended to be less tired at this point, "I'm sorry, bud, Mommy should probably do a better job of not looking tired. Yes, I am tired. But my heart is full from seeing you have fun. It was so worth it."</div>
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He smiled.</div>
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And it was. So. Worth. It.<br />
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It's easier now to be OK with the tired when I know that the days of being "hands-on" are slipping past, it was even easier after spending time at the nursing home earlier that day, where hands are no longer busy and rooms are quiet except for the sounds of the television and the beeps and purring of machinery.</div>
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And as much as I would love to hold one of my babies in my arms again, I can't go back to page one and live all the sweet moments (and only the sweet ones, right?) over again. <i>But we can try to live today the best we can, knowing that the other side of the coin of being happy is being tired, and vice versa, and that's just the way it is going to be for the season we're in. </i> As they say, you can have it all, you just can't have it all at the same time!<br />
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Paul and I went out for a rare date night last night to grab a drink and we talked about growing older. We'd only go back and do it over again if we knew what we knew now, we agreed. We wouldn't trade the lessons we've learned (most of them the hard way) for a hundred yesterdays with less gray hair and firmer skin, no matter how sweet those yesterdays were in our 20's and early 30's.</div>
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As much as I miss the little Pooh and Christopher Robin of Halloween past, there is so much joy to be grasped today. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6UBqnQLPqEr_NNneGw16a4DhtKO1Ju_LLa2krjKHTN-zbS6Xmo7QSQgUe0v1STltSEcXf3mhaIRPKSKg7cPPTS4ahiHanixedO-yxv-M9xHPYfIyaILeSF5vLnUzMG8oItS0t81GgNX_/s1600/_MG_1884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6UBqnQLPqEr_NNneGw16a4DhtKO1Ju_LLa2krjKHTN-zbS6Xmo7QSQgUe0v1STltSEcXf3mhaIRPKSKg7cPPTS4ahiHanixedO-yxv-M9xHPYfIyaILeSF5vLnUzMG8oItS0t81GgNX_/s400/_MG_1884.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean, seriously. How much do I love them? </td></tr>
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I turned 38 today. Time marches forward. Will they still need me when I'm 64? I hope they do. My prayer is that I can make the most of the time I have with my children, whatever time I am given. Thank you, God, for another year on this earth, another day to try over again to love my people the best that I can. </div>
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<i>"Any day with you is my favorite day, so today is my new favorite day." - Winnie the Pooh</i></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-73170254131262420642017-10-12T09:46:00.001-07:002017-10-12T09:46:42.083-07:00Hold On.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Letting our children go is a lifelong process for parents, one that we wrestle with again and again. Each parent has to wrestle with it in his or her own way." -Fred Rogers</i></td></tr>
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"I'm going. I have to go. I'm tall enough! PLEEEEEEEEEEASE????" Philip begged.<br />
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"Oh, honey," <span style="font-family: "gotham" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I cringed and looked over at the Round Up,</span> "I don't know."</div>
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I had made up my mind the first time I saw this ride seven years prior that the people who ride it must be absolutely CRAZY. With a capital C and a capital-all-the-other-letters CRAZY. The scientist in me understands the forces at work that keep you firm and secure, but the wimp in me says, "No, thank you. I'll be over here on the carousel."</div>
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Having watched considerably more episodes of NOVA than I have, Phil's eyes were gleaming with excitement for all of the g's he was going to experience on the Round Up. <span style="font-family: "gotham" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">My most responsible boy is also my biggest amusement park thrill-seeker. </span>Who could have a trace of fear when the laws of physics are so consistently enforced? </div>
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I stood there stalling with my ten-year-old tugging on my arm as my mind spun around, "What happened to the rides in kiddie land? But you were terrified the first time he rode those, too, Jen. Remember? You can't hold on to him forever. You need to let him go. He wants to, he's tall enough."<br />
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But there was no way I could watch him up there alone. I gulped.</div>
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"OK, buddy, but I'm coming with you."</div>
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Phil grinned and ran ahead of me. Instant regret filled me the moment those words came out of my mouth. Why did I say that? Now I must be the one who is absolutely crazy! I looked up at the ride- it was half full of kids, none of them over the age of 12, and it was spinning vertically as they screamed. I followed along behind Phil halfheartedly and plopped my hat and purse into the box next to the attendant. I took my place on the ride and gripped firmly to the peeling metal bars on either side of me, suspiciously eyeing the small chain in front of me, whose purpose I could hardly grasp, and wondering how old this ride actually was. Definitely old enough my parents could have ridden it as kids, which I later confirmed on wikipedia. Through my fear narrative, I took a moment to notice that the kids on either side of me were elated, most especially my Philip who couldn't stop chattering about the ride to come. </div>
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The college-aged ride attendant came over to this grown lady with white knuckles sandwiched between the tweens and gave me an encouraging smile. </div>
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"I'm 37 and I have to admit I'm a little nervous," I told him.</div>
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"You'll be just fine!" he said, as he walked around casually, balancing the ride and making sure everyone was secure.</div>
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The clank of the "on" lever, the whir of the motor, and we were off. I gripped the ride in terror, but when I glanced over the look on Phil's face was priceless. I screamed the entire time, mostly, "HOLD ON!!!" although the laws of physics were, again, consistently being enforced and the act of holding was not truly necessary. And I had to admit the view of the park from the top was pretty incredible. It was over before I knew it.</div>
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That may have been my first time on the Round Up, but it wasn't my last. After that first ride, Phil ran off and got right back on again, taking my Dad along with him. We ended up riding it a half dozen or so more times, and even brought some brothers along. And each time, I was befriended by the kids around me waiting for the ride to begin.</div>
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"I'm 8! We're here for my birthday!"</div>
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"I'm here with my aunt and uncle, they bring me here for special occasions!"</div>
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"I've been on this ride 27 times!"</div>
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"I'm a Steelers fan, but I don't even live here! Do you like the Steelers?"</div>
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You know, for a seemingly terrifying ride, it was actually pretty friendly. I made lots of new pint-sized friends. I also learned after the first time that if you just focused on the center of the ride, it was way less dizzying. And Phil's joy and pride in this new milestone made it all worthwhile.</div>
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As we stepped off the ride for the last time and prepared to leave the park, I couldn't help but reflect on the metaphor the whole experience on the Round Up had for my life as a parent.</div>
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<i>Daunting. At times terrifying. The overwhelming urge to hold on. White knuckles. Intermittent screaming. Nausea. The conflicting feeling that things are over too fast and not over fast enough. </i></div>
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Also- </div>
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<i>Fun. Full of pint-sized friends. Thrilling. Lots of laughter. New views and perspectives. Worth doing multiple times. Different than I expected, yet way better in surprising ways- especially if one can stay focused on the Center.</i></div>
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I've been reflecting on this more during my boys' fourth grade year. Philip and Daniel are crossing that bridge from "little boys" to "young men." and I am watching it unfold before my eyes. I have the overwhelming urge to <b>hold on</b> some days, while at the same time knowing that the whole point of parenting is letting go. My head knows that I can't cling to them forever, but my heart aches in the letting go. How could so many of those little days when they were one and two, or two and three, or three and four, have gone so painfully sloooooowwwwwwww, while those little YEARS simply flew?</div>
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Now these ever growing nine-and-ten-year-old little men stand before me, with compassionate hearts and great senses of humor and slightly more self control in using their shirts as Kleenex and their pants as napkins than they had when they were five and six. Where did those days go? Did I do right by them? Have I done enough, invested enough in their hearts? What will their future bring, and what can I do to ensure they are ready for it?</div>
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I can take hope and comfort from the Round Up, however. There, the laws of physics are consistently enforced, beyond my own power or will to influence them. </div>
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Philip and Daniel each have a plan for their lives, beyond my own power or will to make it myself. They have a reason for being here that is beyond my mind to fully understand but has been destined since even before my time on earth. <b>My job as their mom is to help them find God's will for their lives-</b> I can't make it up myself, I can't force them onto the path, but I can try to help guide them there. I can be their lantern to hold, I can be their safe place to rest, but I can't walk it for them, and I can't even walk it next to them clinging with white knuckles to their arm. Darn it, because I'd really like to. It's humbling and scary but also the most liberating thought possible. They aren't "mine." They aren't even Paul's. They aren't the world's. They are God's. And he's the Center of it all- for them, and for me. He's got us.</div>
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As necessary as it seems to hold on, I need to keep telling myself that it's also going to be OK to let go. </div>
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The ride may be over fast, but the memories remain.</div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-88686240201137528722017-09-12T19:28:00.000-07:002017-09-13T12:46:46.448-07:00In between.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Like the last few moments of a sunset, September calls us to an in-between space. The leaves begin to turn and the morning chill enters the air. We're on the threshold of Fall, clutching a pumpkin spice latte while still wearing our flip flops, mowing the lawn in shorts while raking the first leaves. We're in a liminal space. And in this sacred September, I've become even more acutely aware of that space between.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Maybe you're smarter than me, but I sure had no idea what liminal space meant until reading a beautiful <a href="http://teachbelief.blogspot.com/2016/01/todaywe-celebrate-manifestation-of.html" target="_blank">homily for the Epiphany </a>last year written by Deacon James Knipper: </span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-005a3c83-78d9-c1c5-8c3a-a97ae3b31af3"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>"The word liminal comes from the Latin word which means threshold – the space between and betwixt. It is the time that “life as usual” doesn’t necessarily feel right any longer – that change is needed – but you are not sure what to replace it with. It is when you are between what was once your comfort zone and that sense of newness in your life. It is a time when we need to pause…to resist the temptation to simply push through or retreat…but to be still and to listen."</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">His description of that place of threshold sparked a recognition in me, and has kept me open to the possibility of these spaces in my own life. There's a</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> particular beauty of the times in-between, the magic of uncertainty, the embrace of the feeling of being, as Pierre Teilhard de Chardin would say, "in suspense and incomplete". Those last few weeks and days before a new baby is born, as you're waiting to see who this little person is who will change your family forever. The week before your high school graduation. The search for a new job. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The wait for the test results.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> The last sunset of a beautiful vacation. The first few weeks as husband and wife. The night before the moving van comes. Each of these times calls to mind an expectancy and a sense of the unknown, and a "thin place" where God's presence can be felt if we only put aside the tendency to rush or push and be still and listen.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">11 years ago this fall, I found out I was expecting Philip. "What would being a mother be like?" I wondered for nine whole months. After he was born, the question was answered in the way my life expanded and changed in ways I could have never anticipated, and time became a snowball rolling down the hill until I was simply carried away by the momentum of it all. Daniel arrived less than 13 months later, a huge (both literally and figuratively) surprise that not only changed our family, but the trajectory of my entire life. Although I went back to my career of teaching high school science after Phil was born, the arrival of Daniel brought with it the need to slow down and take on a new role as full-time homemaker. I was reluctant to leave the identity of my career and considered the stay at home temporary until my return to the classroom, and I found myself there in a liminal space, uncertain in my new role while still knowing the change was necessary. Over the past 10 years of being carried along by the snowball, I've gone from the familiar to the unknown all the way until the unknown transformed into its own brand of familiar. Motherhood has gone from feeling as constrictive as a pair of low rise pre-pregnancy jeans to more like the comfort of some high-waisted maternity leggings. It wasn't so much a shedding of my previous identity, but an incorporating of everything I had been as a teacher and daughter and wife and sister and friend into the broadened expanse of this vocation. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Beyond my worryings of if there would be enough love for them all, these four tiny people expanded my heart a million times over. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Despite</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> my concerns about my lack of training in this job, all of the things I had done seemingly prepared me for this moment. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Who knew the high school drama club could come in handy with the endless pretend in those little years, where I was required to play everything from factory foreman to museum curator in elaborate little boy make-believes? My summers as a camp director at the YMCA filled my playbook with all sorts of entertainment and first-aid knowledge, and my career as a teacher sure helped me out when my dining room table became an impromptu classroom for the nature wonderings of littles. Even my sorority girl days came in handy, spending all that time in frat houses has been good preparation for what life with a husband and four boys was headed towards, and if my kids' bathroom still looks better than the bathroom at Harry's Chocolate Shop, I'm not doing so bad, right?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Deeper than that, though, upon entry into this space I was invited by my children onto a spiritual journey, one that was less the mountaintop moment I had imagined motherhood would be and more journey to the valley- humbling and self-emptying. Despite my initial efforts to not "lose myself" in motherhood, to resist the messy discomfort of growth and stay my in control Jen-centered self, these kids eventually just broke me down and broke me open. It might have been the day ants crawled out of my purse at church. Motherhood allowed me to embrace my need for grace in a way I could have never done under my own power. You see, before I had kids I thought I COULD and SHOULD do everything under my own power. Don't get me wrong, I loved Jesus and I adored God and I prayed for the Holy Spirit to guide me with this person and that problem and the other thing, but outside of Mass and prayer group and devotion time, I sure lived the rest of my hours like it all depended on me. In my mind the success or failure of every little thing was all up to my efforts- how hard I worked, the choices I made, the way I handled things, how hard I prayed. <i>Get it right, Jen, you only have one chance. </i> Only after realizing that there was no way that I could ever keep these four kids alive and grow them into competent adults on my own (I think the third child shattered that illusion), I went before Jesus, exhausted and covered in boogers and spit-up, mildly grumpy with my husband and sleep deprived to boot, with a layer of caffeine, concealer and smudgy-mascara over it all. In this state I offered this whole hot mess up to the One who made her.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>He was waiting. He has, since then, consistently seemed more than happy to help.</b> It is a daily offering, a laying at His feet of all of the things I want to cling to tightly and control, the simple knowing that all I need to do is keep my eyes and heart open and follow and trust that has made all the difference. Those things Paul said in the bible have become less flowery words to pin on Pinterest and more like a lifeline, a song, a love letter. "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." He is greatest when I am weak? It's not all about me? Who knew. I didn't. I'm slowly learning.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Now I stand in the space where the most physically rigorous of these years of raising littles have all but closed behind me. Wiping endless noses and tears and folding minuscule laundry and stumbling out of bed to put pacifiers back in babies' mouths have been replaced by the emotional rigor of shepherding four little souls out into the great big world and the new opportunities for humility that come along with that. I'm in the space between the toddler and the teen years, at the threshold of the next part of my journey. Noah starts kindergarten next August when Daniel turns 10- which will round out my decade of being a stay-at-home mom and open me up for the next adventure. Now, I will always be their mom, and my heart and mind will still be captured by the daily tasks of raising these kids. But, let's face it, without a baby on my hip or a tiny friend to buckle into a car seat on every errand, my hands will be a little more. . .free.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So, here in the liminal space of this Indiana September, my last as a stay-at-home mom to a preschooler, it seems to me that I need to live it as tenderly as I can. Could it be over yet? Every day with Noah seems now a little less like a pill to swallow as it did to me when motherhood was new and a little more like dark chocolate wrapped in shiny paper on my pillow. . .just sweet enough to be savored and a little guiltily a that. . .do I even deserve this sweet boy? Of course not. And what will the next phase bring, when Noah gets on the bus next year and I cross the threshold with 8 hours to fill?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">To answer I need only to look back at another liminal space in my life, the time right before I started my student teaching and prepared to graduate from Purdue. This September, 16 years ago, I was making $200 a week developing film in the one hour photo lab of Kroger, living with my parents, eating Taco Bell daily and more or less waiting for my life to begin. Little did I know that in a few weeks I would meet my supervising teacher, who would become a lifelong mentor and friend, that the school I was getting ready to student teach at would be the one where I would build my career, that the brand new RENEW group I had signed up for at church would launch a new phase in my faith journey, that in just a few months I would be at a Purdue football game and meet a handsome guy with sideburns and glasses and a big smile, and he would be my soulmate and we would get married and have four children together?!?!? WHO COULD HAVE GUESSED I was going to meet the guy who would be carrying me over the threshold??!!!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> I certainly couldn't, leaning on the counter of the Kroger photo lab that September, bored out of my mind as the clocked ticked by. God knew to be sure, but I was clueless. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And looking back at how it all played out, I am more than sure He knows now. What will be next for me, when this decade of quiet adventure is over? What will I leave behind and what will I gain and how will he use me and how will it all go down? I'm clueless but the faith side of that coin is living with the confidence that He knows. <b>He was here then, he's here now, he'll be here tomorrow. </b> Whatever I've been up to these past 10 years is surely the perfect preparation for the next phase of my life, God doesn't do it any other way. I couldn't have planned the last few decades myself. . .the way he wove all that together? Well played, Lord. You're the champ.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This week, the memory of September 2001 lingers in my mind for other reasons as well, as it does in our collective memory as a nation. Yesterday as we remembered the lives lost, our thoughts wandered to the fact that it can all change so quickly- on a beautiful September day or any day at that. Thinking of those who lost their beloveds on September 11 calls us to live this life tenderly and gently when we can no matter what phase of life we are in. What's next for us, we don't know. What do we do, those of us living in the space between? Where are we being called? What's He preparing you for right now? What does He have planned for me? I'm thinking all we can do is pray to live this moment, the only one we are guaranteed, well. To take the time to listen. To stand on the threshold and look out to the journey ahead, praying He'll take us where we need to be.</span><br />
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Lord, take me where You want me to go;</span></b></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">let me meet who You want me to meet;</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">tell me what You want me to say;</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">AND. . . keep me out Your way."</span></b></i><i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></b></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Father Mychal Judge</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">NYC Fire Department Chaplain</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">May 11, 1933- September 11, 2001</span></div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-78743840767371710922017-06-15T18:42:00.003-07:002017-06-15T18:53:10.250-07:00Forever six.<div style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">"The child is within me still. And sometimes not so still." - Fred Rogers</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">November 4, 1986. . .my parents had already tucked me into my yellow canopy bed with my array of stuffed animals, but I lay there in the digital glow of my purple clock radio unable to sleep. I was anxious. Distressed. Agitated. The next day, I was going to turn seven. S-E-V-E-N. I know kids are supposed to be excited about their birthdays but little Jenny most definitely was NOT. I finally couldn't stand it anymore and made the short walk across the hall into my parents' room, where I found my mom reading in her bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She looked up from her book at me in my jammies with my tear-filled eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't want it to be tomorrow," I pleaded, "I don't WANT to turn seven!! I want to stay six, Mommy! Make my birthday not come."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My mom did her best to soothe it away, but I can still remember the ache of that feeling. I don't even know where it came from, I just knew that I wanted to stay six forever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Six was awesome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Six was jump roping and learning to read. It was Rainbow Brite and puffy-sleeved dresses and watching the Cosby Show with my parents. It was stuffed animals and First Communion and Hi-C juice boxes and tag at recess and being friends with everyone. Being the youngest in my class, I had already witnessed most everyone around me turn seven, I had just decided I didn't want to join them. (This was a far different emotion than later when I witnessed everyone in my class turn 21. 😉 )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But on that night in 1986, there was no way to stop the clock. The clock turned, and I along with it. Seven. My mom and I still joke about that night, but it turned out that it wasn't the end of the world. I mean, there was cake, after all! I turned eight, nine, ten, eleven. . .and now I am checking in at 37 1/2. This might mean I'm a grown-up, but I still feel like I am doing a lot of growing. Will I ever arrive at being a grown-up? Sometimes I look around and I am not sure if I even want to. Over the years, as I grew I watched everyone around me "grow up", too. The kids around me got older, wiser, and many of them grew more cynical. More critical. Less enthusiastic. A little more "exclusive". Glossed in a veneer of cool and casual totally unfamiliar to our six-year-old selves. Well, unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for me I am not good at being cool. Or exclusive. Or cynical. I think there maybe there is still a part on the inside of me that has stayed six, and still wonders- why do we do this to ourselves? <i>Why do we "grow up", especially when growing up can mean hiding those parts of ourselves that can bring us the most connection and love? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I ponder this today as my little Joshy turns seven. As much as I love sweet, bright, enthusiastic and loving SIX, I couldn't keep him there any better than I could keep myself. All I can do is pray that as he grows, he keeps that six-year-old spirit inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, on this day, this is what I have to say to Josh. Maybe someday he'll go back and read all of the things his mommy wrote, and know just how loved he is. And maybe you'll read it and know how loved you are, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Joshy, I'm so proud of the way you're growing. I love how you fit in my arms just right for a hug, and run off the bus every day and leap right into them. I love your sense of humor and the insightful questions you ask and the way you make our family just right. I love your honesty, your genuine smile, and that adorable giggle that wells up from deep inside you until it overflows. I love how hard you work in school and how you never want to stop learning. I admire your faith and your reverence. I love the way you sing. I adore your patience and your pretend with Shopkins and your assortment of stuffed animals and your love of Dr. Seuss books and stickers and the way you cuddle up on the couch and watch Mister Rogers or Elmo with Noah just as easily as you sandwich between your older brothers to watch Star Wars or Pokemon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Part of me selfishly wishes I could keep you little forever, but since I can't stop the clock, I just want you to know that as you grow, it's O.K. to just be you. You are enough. Your genuine self? It is MORE than enough. You are just right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here's the thing. Other people around you are going to be testing out the great big world and trying on all different forms of their grown-up selves. Someday, those people may shame you for getting too interested in things. For trying too hard. For your enthusiasm. For trying to please your teachers. For following the rules. For laughing at all the funny things. For including people who are different. For singing, or wearing your favorite color, or for liking Disney movies or for your shoes or for taking your time or whatever thing that people of your age may have decided that they are currently too "cool" for. But even when that hot feeling of embarrassment burns inside you, don't let shame creep in and steal your joy. <b>There is no shame in being authentic, and nothing wrong with being you. </b> You might consider for a moment if you should be tougher, or different, or if you could somehow be just like everyone else. But even if you feel like you are on your own path, know you certainly are never alone. Lots of us have felt that, too. I've often wondered if I should stuff down the parts of me that are different. Could I be less sensitive? More jaded? I have even tried. But here's what I've learned: It's OK to turn the volume down, but please don't mute the parts of you that make you. . .YOU. You can't experience joy unless you live life wholeheartedly. God made you for joy, he made you so special, and he wants all of Y-O-U.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep growing, my love, but please keep that tender six-year-old heart, the heart that makes you cry when you see something beautiful or when you see someone sad, the heart that helps you be so quick to say both "I love you" and "I'm sorry."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep hugging. Your hugs are the best, the world needs them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep praying. Your childlike faith isn't naive, it's a gift from God.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep being spiffy. You can never be overdressed, really. I love your style. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You like to take your time- keep taking it. Please don't hurry when the world tries to make you rush. Rushing is overrated . .follow your own little drum.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep creating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wondering.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Singing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Noticing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Making new friends everywhere you go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Being YOU.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Grow big.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Grow strong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But always keep a little bit of that six-year-old self inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Happy 7th birthday, Joshy Pooh! We love you!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children,you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Matthew 18:3-5</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Matthew 18:3-5</span></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-63118511745165507482017-03-28T12:57:00.000-07:002017-03-28T16:32:25.067-07:00Invitation.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Noah turned four this past Saturday, and I think I officially have to say that my "baby" is no longer a baby. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I realized for the first time this year that Noah was born on the feast of the Annunciation. What a lovely day to be born into the world, the day where we celebrate the joy of a "yes" that changed human history. In the BIG scheme of things, Mary said yes to the invitation of an angel and the world has never been the same. In our little world, Noah entered as the fourth brother and our family changed forever. What joy, what light, what love he brings to our hearts. Is he perfect? No. None of us are. But he's perfectly Noah. Phil may be even more polite and more inquisitive, Daniel even more sweet and good-humored, Josh even more independent and gentle of spirit. But Noah brings something that is 100% Noah to the scene: an enthusiasm, a generosity, a spunk and a friendliness all his own. And upon his entrance to our family as the "last baby", he also brought with him an invitation. An invitation to slow down. An invitation to say yes. An invitation to not take ourselves too seriously. An invitation to joy.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">To be fair, all of my children came with that invitation, but I'm a slow learner. It took me until #4 to realize that the invitation to live life to the fullest was in fact addressed to ME. The first few times I think that the invitation got buried in the pile of diapers and the to-do list and the tiny laundry and sleepless nights and my closet full of ill-fitting clothing in four sizes and the endless cracker crumbs everywhere. Was it under there, like a leaking sippy cup long lost under the couch? I certainly didn't see it. I had the misguided notion that just because things were hard, it must mean I was doing them wrong, and if my children weren't "perfect", or I fell short of my own self-imposed vision of what a mother should be, I was failing. I thought I needed to change myself. I felt like a million voices were shouting at me- <i>be better, do better, do more, get it right, you only have one chance. </i> But then, deep within, a still small voice. . .<i>"God made you. He loves you just the way you are, and that love is the same yesterday, today, tomorrow and forever."</i> Maybe I don't need to be different, I just need to be me, only more free? Could it be? These past four years have been an adventure into that invitation to freedom.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Of course my Facebook memories on Saturday were full of treasured moments- the day Noah was born, meeting his brothers for the first time, his first birthday where we dressed him like Corduroy, his second birthday where he sang "Happy Birthday" to himself with such enthusiasm I'm sure the neighbors heard. . .</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When I clicked on that "see your memories" link, I expected myself to be sad, to feel the tug of wishing I could go back, just for one moment, to live Noah's babyhood again. But for some reason, this super sentimental gal who cries on a daily basis about anything from a soap commercial to a picture of a senior citizen and a puppy to a song on the radio. . .didn't shed a tear? Whoa. I needed to unpack this lack of emotion just to make sure my feelers were still operational. After some reflection, I realized that, just like Glennon says, as much as I love having parented, the actual parenting itself is pretty hard work. I wouldn't trade the hard earned wisdom gained through my mistakes along the way. Did I do it perfectly? No. Nothing is perfect this side of heaven. Did I "enjoy every moment because they are just growing so fast?" No. There were some moments where I really wished that life was a VHS and I could hit that fast forward button right through the hard parts, or a DVD and I could just go to the next scene, or maybe some Netflix and I could just fall asleep on the couch and wake up when it's over. But more often than not in the last four years, I have been taking the invitation to the joy right in front of me. It's much easier to say "yes" when you know it is your last time on the merry-go-round. And in taking Noah's invitation, I began to see so many others as well.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I can't go back and re-parent Joshy and Phil and Daniel when they were three-going-on-four. If I could, I'd take myself less seriously. I'd hug more and lecture less, I'd laugh more and worry less. I'd have more reasonable expectations for Phil: Just because he is three and the oldest of three brothers doesn't mean he isn't still THREE. I'd appreciate Daniel more: Just because he's so well behaved and sweet doesn't mean I can just ignore him until he needs me. I'd get less frustrated with Joshy: His mischief is the other side of his coin of independence. While, by nature of him being my "last chance", I was able to see Noah's interruptions as invitations to connect, I saw most of my older children's interruptions as, well, annoyances. What did I miss? I'll never know. I can only see those things now in hindsight. I was talking to a wise friend about these regrets and she said something about our kids that I will never forget:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>We still have them right now.</i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Now that's some truth. I think we all have regrets, but we can't dwell in Regret Town. It's a sad, dusty place to live. Regrets only find their value in the way we use them to inform our actions moving forward. I can't go back, I can't even go ahead, <b>all I have is this moment. </b> These boys, 9 and 8 and 6 and 4. I was there for them all these years, I'll be there for them tomorrow, but the only moment that I'm guaranteed is this one. I can't go back and fix my perceived mistakes, I can't look forward to know everything that will happen and plan how to handle it. I can just take the invitation to live and love. . .today. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And they still need me now, in ways that are different and specific and unique yet no less important than the ways they needed me before. The other day we were cleaning up the LEGO area in the basement. This is an activity that I try to stay far, far away from, as the only thing more painful than stepping on LEGO is trying to get your kids to clean it up. But Daniel invited me down to help them clean and there I was, sitting with a bowl on the floor, sorting while they chatted my ear off and peppered me with questions about this, that and the other. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Daniel grinned at me at one point and said, "Thanks for helping, Mommy! This is just what we needed."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"No problem, Daniel. I'm just trying to be the mom you need today."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He pondered that for a moment.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"You're always the mom we need, Mommy." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He put his arm around me, and in that moment, in the midst of the mess, I felt a spark of the divine.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">God interrupted our messy world when he showed up at the Annunciation with an invitation in a big way, but he's there with smaller invitations every moment of our own messy day, interruptions that bring us invitations to growth and freedom and joy. In a tiny, outstretched hand. In an unexpected hug. In naptime. In a couch full of pillows waiting to be cuddled into. Even in the burnt dinner and the broken toilet and the school project and the unexpected sick day and the mountain of laundry untouched for a week. The invitation is there to laugh at ourselves, to ask for and receive grace, to not take ourselves too seriously, to say YES. I tell myself if Mary could say "yes" to becoming the unwed virgin mother of God, I could probably say "yes" to, say, a blanket fort, y'all. If she could have a baby in a barn, I could probably, like, clean the toilet in the boys' bathroom. And if Jesus could die on the cross for us, I could PROBABLY find the strength to wash the dishes or read another bedtime story. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Baby steps. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm learning. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>God, please give me the eyes to see you as you appear.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>The wisdom to take the invitation as it arrives.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>The grace and peace and strength to be the mom they need today.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Amen.</i></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not babies. . .but always my babies. :)</td></tr>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-28380304371248568672017-02-26T17:12:00.001-08:002017-02-26T17:13:26.018-08:00Reconciliation.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Our dear Daniel has his First Reconciliation next Saturday, and I'm a little confused because, um, wasn't he just born? Eight years sure flies. We're preparing for his big day by completing the "Gift of Reconciliation" book our church provides. Last year, Paul and I took turns completing it with Phil, but this year I selfishly took over this task all on my own for three very important reasons. (1) While we do the book Paul has to put the other kids to bed. (2) Did I mention I get to do the book while Paul puts the other kids to bed? and (3) Daniel is the ultimate mini-me, and thanks to the fact that we are so similar he is also the child with whom I need the most reconciling. Imagine that. Not because of his sinfulness, really, just because of mine. I can't even imagine what he's going to confess in confession, the little dude is the sweetest. Wiping his nose on his sleeve? Taking too many turns on the Wii? I'd love to be a fly on the wall. But he's so excited for his big day, it doesn't even matter. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other night we were working through a chapter together and read the story of the prodigal son. "Oh, I LOVE this one." he said, and I agreed. We laughed, remembering how his Religious Ed class last year acted it out and had so much fun taking turns being each character in the story. Their little play was in a way a metaphor for life: we might all take turns being each of those roles at some point on our journey, right? Then we got to a new section: "Mistakes are not sins." Daniel started reading out loud and by the time he finished the section I was holding back tears. He was ready to move on to the next page, but I stopped him. I was feeling majorly convicted. I bit my lip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Daniel," I said. "I need to apologize to you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looked at me with some concern.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"D," I said, a tear running down my face. "I just realized that sometimes I get angry at you when you make mistakes. That's not fair. Mistakes are not sins. Mistakes are how we learn."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It's really OK, Mommy."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No, Daniel, it's not OK," I said, still crying. "That is not good of me. You need to make mistakes. We all make mistakes. I am sorry. I am so sorry I haven't been a good mommy to you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started to sob.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Daniel started to get desperate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"MOMMY!!!!" he crawled into my lap and put his arms around me. "You are a good mommy! Stop crying! It's OK! It's OK! I'm OK! I love you and I think you are a good mommy."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He cuddled his head under my chin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Will you forgive me, Daniel?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yes, Mommy, just PLEASE stop crying."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"OK" I grinned sheepishly and wiped my tears. He shot me a concerned look as he turned the page, but I pulled myself together and we moved on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven't been able to get that moment out of my mind since. "Mistakes are not sins." When he read that I was like, "OHHHHHHHH SNAAAAAAP." Got me. Mistakes are not sins. It seems so obvious in print. So why in real life do I respond to my children like they are something intentional? We all make mistakes, and as much as I personally hate making them, how will you learn and grow without the opportunity to try and fail and do better the next time? So when Daniel spills his milk or loses his iPad case at school or forgets his lunch bag or misplaces another library book or gets spaghetti all over his face at dinner or shoves his laundry in the drawer the wrong way, I'm not sending him a very good message about his essential humanity if I lose my patience with him. I need him to develop the loving internal voice to be kind and patient with himself, and in order to do that I need to give him the gift of words that can build his character instead of tear it down. I can already tell that I have been failing in this by the way he profusely apologizes for his mistakes, "I'm so sorry, Mommy, I'm so sorry. I forgot to make my bed, I'll go do it, I'm so sorry. I forget all the time" or "I fell at recess today, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did that. I shouldn't even play soccer at recess. I'm so sorry." Ouch. If that doesn't tell me that I need to nurture that sweet little heart, I don't know what does. Our world is in such desperate need of kindness and peace and reconciliation right now. If I want it out there, I had better get to work up in here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The psalm last week at church was a favorite of mine, "The Lord is Kind and Merciful." That one is so encouraging, but humbling as well. God is so amazingly abundant in His mercy that not only does he overlook our human failings and mistakes, He also forgives all of our on-purpose sins. He's just pure love, and He adores each of us. I get to be a beneficiary of the grace and mercy of our loving God every day of my life, and I am so grateful. But I need to admit that I can always do a better job of passing that grace and mercy on to my children, and being slow to anger and abounding in kindness every day is a goal I am working towards. As they have grown older, I've come to realize even more the abounding kindness I need right here in my home. The world can be cruel out there, our home needs to be a place where gentleness reigns. I also need to help them become functioning adults, so there is room for correction and discipline and teaching and learning in there, too. I've got to stay in tune with the balance. As one of my favorites, Glennon Melton, says, "Don't be so concerned with raising a good kid you forget you already have one." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">God made all four of them just right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We moved #4 into a big boy bed this past weekend. . .never too early, really. I even made it before my target date of February 30, two thousand and never and he was totally out of his crib before his fourth birthday next month. ;) He has been over the moon excited, which is so cute but also makes it a little hard for his bunkmate, Joshy, to sleep. The other morning in the kitchen Joshy was crying, "Mommy, Noah NEVER lets me go to sleep! He is always trying to talk to me and get in my bed!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried to remain serious but started to giggle a little bit. Oh, the irony. I was getting ready to point it out but Phil beat me to it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Josh, when you were three you used to do the SAME THING to us every night! You cost me like $1.50 every week!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh my goodness, Phil, I totally forgot about the sticks!" We laughed remembering how for a while they had such a problem getting out of bed and being silly that we gave them each 8 popsicle sticks and every time they got out of bed it cost them a popsicle stick, or $.25 of their $2 allowance. That worked for everyone except Josh, who is totally Captain Silly and could have cared less about money. You can't put a price on funny. And now the tables have turned and his three-year-old brother drives him crazy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Daniel chimed in, "Remember when I was three?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cringed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh, Daniel, I couldn't forget. I'm really sorry about that buddy."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah, you guys put a CHILD SAFETY KNOB on the inside of my door when I got out of bed too many times so I couldn't get out! Not cool, Mommy!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Daniel, I am so sorry about that. If I could go back and be your mom again when you were three, I would do things differently. That was not the kindest parenting on my part."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Daniel laughed, ever the picture of forgiveness. "It's OK, Mommy. Look, I'm fine. I turned out great."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He grinned at me and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, "I'm just right."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grinned right back at him and ruffled his hair. He put his arms around my waist and looked up at me with his big blue eyes and tousled blond hair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He HAS turned out fine, despite all my mom fails.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He's so forgiving, and at the very least all of my failures give us a chance to celebrate the gift of repentance and grace and mercy and reconciliation over and over again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He's a marvelous creation, and he doesn't need fixing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I did fix his hair though. That one was on me.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy First Reconciliation, D. God's grace and blessings on you always.</span><br />
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-59005330573693767082017-02-22T15:19:00.000-08:002018-01-09T03:43:05.647-08:00As advertised.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i>"Parenting is hard. Even when—ESPECIALLY WHEN—you’re doing it right."- Glennon Melton</i></span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">One day Daniel stopped me mid-sentence to tell me, "You know what, mommy? You have a lot of sad stories."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What do you mean?</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Well, like anything we come up with you have some sort of depressing or scary story for that."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Listen, kids, I'm a mom, I'm just trying to teach you my LIFE LESSONS."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Like, for example, how when I was about 4 or 5, I begged my parents to buy me Grape Nuts cereal. I asked for them so persistently every time we went to Marsh that my mom finally just gave up and bought me a box. It took me one grainy and dry bite to realize that Grape Nuts contained neither grapes nor nuts. Box of cereal: $4, Lesson: Priceless. Don't believe everything you see on TV, my darling children, or you might end up with a whole bowl of super gross cereal.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And any time my kids have ever asked for a toy they see in a commercial, I remind them of the sad, sad story of Baby Skates.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Now little Jenny LOVED Roller Skating, and she loved dolls, and she loved watching the Smurfs on Saturday mornings. So, when Jenny saw a commercial for a rollerskating doll named Baby Skates during her Smurfs, she was obsessed. I am going to insert the commercial for your review, and you can see why little preschool me HAD TO HAVE THIS DOLL.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I longed for Baby Skates. Absolutely pined for her. I mean, just LOOK at her??!!!! There were many things as a kid that I longed for that my parents never gave me, either because they couldn't or because they knew it wouldn't be a good idea, and for that I am deeply grateful. But I am also grateful that I did get a Baby Skates, because she was a big old life lesson in one little box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I finally received the coveted doll, I couldn't believe that she was mine. I remember sitting on the beige linoleum in our dining nook and removing her carefully from the cardboard and plastic. She looked a little more flimsy than she did on the commercial, but I was undeterred. This baby was going to amaze everyone!! I saw it on TV! I set her up on the floor, fully prepared for the awesome performance I had in my mind. Baby Skates was a little wobbly, but I finally got her upright and switched her on. She was vertical for a full 3 seconds before face-planting, her little plastic legs still kicking, tiny yellow wheels of her roller skates flailing in the air. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hmmmm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was not as advertised. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tried for a while until I realized that there was absolutely no way Baby Skates was going to fly on my linoleum the way she flew on the sidewalk on TV. Wait- the sidewalk! Maybe that would work! So I tried the sidewalk- but that was even worse! Any little bump and Baby Skates was done. I went to my mom in tears and she sympathetically tried to help me, but we soon learned that any flying that Baby Skates was going to do would have to be done with my own two hands. Mattel had sold me a box of LIES. I looked at my mom, crushed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You know, Jen," Mom said. "Not everything you see on T.V. is true. Can you see now that you can't believe everything you see in a commercial?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I did see. I may have only been about 5 years old, but I sure felt ten years wiser.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Baby Skates was a good lesson for my consumer life, but it is also a good lesson for life in general. How many times do we feel like life is "not as advertised?" I think my first true lesson in the not-as-advertised nature of adulting came when we brought our firstborn home from the hospital. I had longed for a child, I PINED for a child, I felt destined to be a mother. My mind, shaped by movies and sitcoms and Johnson's Baby Powder commercials, had me convinced that I should be in a perpetual state of joyful maternal bliss, gazing at him in wonder just like the resin Madonna in my nativity scene. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Instead I discovered that as a new mother I was spent- mentally, physically, emotionally- from birthing my first child. I was anxious about keeping my son alive, as this seemed like a huge responsibility and I was unsure who qualified me for this. I was still in pain, even little things like walking up the stairs made me want to cry. Phil didn't sleep at all, so I was in a new realm of "tired" I had never experienced. And don't even get me started on breastfeeding! And then layer on top of that the guilt/shame cycle of not feeling like I was ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT with my precious child. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My maternal state was not-as-advertised.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a Grape Nuts moment, and nothing was as delicious I thought it was going to be. WHERE ARE THE GRAPES? WHERE ARE THE NUTS HERE? My first inclination when a feeling like this happens is that I must be doing something wrong. Maybe if I just buy the right thing. . .maybe if I was a different person. . .maybe if I just made myself better. . .it wouldn't be hard. I'm doing something wrong. I'm wrong. Everyone else has it together but me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then, same thing happened to me when I was 27 that happened to me when I was 5. . .my mom came and picked me back up. "No one really tells you how hard being a mom is, Jen." she said. "It's hard for everyone, though. Being a mom is just hard. It's OK."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Right when she said it, freedom. I understood, because those aren't just words for my mom, she's backed it up her whole life with action. My mom has shown me in her living that not everything is easy, especially the really worthwhile things. And just because it is hard doesn't mean you are doing it wrong. Maybe, it's just hard. But it's worth it. Keep on keepin' on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This lesson keeps coming up again and again. When the kids are fighting. When the bills aren't paid. When the pile of dishes and mountain of laundry just won't quit. When the cat gets sick, someone has a fever, the car is in the shop and the furnace breaks. When we get on social media and we hardly see a single person tackling their mountain of dishes or breaking up a squabble over a toy. In fact, everyone seems to be smiling and heading on vacation and showing off their hot bods and new outfits and shiny manicures and well-decorated homes. Is this how my life should be? What am I doing wrong? Why is my life not-as-advertised?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our culture sends one message, but there is a deeper truth. Not every day is picture-perfect, and if I expect them to be I'll be setting myself up miss the imperfect mess of joy right within my grasp. Nothing is perfect this side of heaven. But in the midst of our earthly struggles, I'm learning there is room for so much joy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can't claim to be a biblical scholar, but I can say I've never seen a place in the scripture where Jesus promises His people that everything will be easy. Or where He tells us to buy something to solve our problems. . .or if we just lose weight, or get a better job, or a new car, or have flatter abs it will all be good. More like he said deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me. Blessed are the peacemakers, go be one. Love your neighbor, wash each other's feet, don't worry about tomorrow, ask God for what you need. I've got your yoke on my shoulders, you go rest. He didn't promise us it would always be sunshine and roses, but he sure did promise He would be there, right in the midst of the mess with us, to pick us back up and put us on our feet again. Commercials and Facebook might deceive us, but I believe there's a loving heart at the center of the universe whose promises are 100% for reals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, when I start feeling life is not-as-advertised, I just try to remember that there's a lesson in everything if I look for it, and maybe even some good health at the bottom of that bowl of Grape Nuts. It may not all be picture perfect, but by God, there will be JOY. And if you ever start to feel like maybe things are hard because you're doing them wrong, kick that lie to the curb. You are awesome, just the way you are. Let's show 'em, Baby Skates.</span></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-42828403683465335632017-01-13T08:20:00.000-08:002017-01-13T08:20:16.179-08:00Just the way you are.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Noah and I were trekking through the Aldi parking lot on Sunday, trying to stay warm and avoid cars while we made our way into the store. Suddenly, something caught his eye,</div>
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"A button, Mommy! Nook!! Somebody lost their BUTTON!!"</div>
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We froze right there in the middle of the freezing parking lot to marvel at a tiny yellow button stuck in some slush.</div>
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I had a moment of recognition.</div>
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"Noah!" I squealed, perhaps a little too excitedly, "do you think that is CORDUROY'S button???" I looked at him with a raise of the eyebrow.</div>
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He looked at me, his eyes wide for a moment, then he raised his eyebrow right back.</div>
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"Silly Mommy, Bears don't live at Aldi." he scolded.</div>
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"Yeah, you're right." We laughed and made our way to the shopping carts.</div>
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Corduroy must have been on his mind ever since, because the other day he asked if I could read it to him. I squealed, again probably a little too excitedly, because Noah NEVER asks me to read to him. He's so busy, so wiggly, so loud, so funny, so loving, but not necessarily so. . .cuddly. Until today. We dug through the shelf to find the beloved red book and he snuggled up in my lap right there on the bedroom floor. I started to "read", although at this point reading is optional. Corduroy is pure memory. </div>
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<i>"Corduroy is a bear who once lived in the toy department of a big store. Day after day, he waited with all the other animals and dolls for someone to come along and take him home. . ."</i></div>
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I drifted off into auto mode, the way moms and dads do when all of the inflections and the voices and the pauses and ways you turn the page come back as pure muscle memory. But by halfway through the story, when Corduroy had gone up the escalator and was exploring mattresses for his lost button, my eyes got misty. By the end of the book, I was choking back tears.</div>
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<i>"I like you just the way you are," she said, "but you'll be more comfortable with your shoulder strap fastened."</i></div>
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<i>"You must be a friend," said Corduroy. "I've always wanted a friend."</i></div>
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<i>"Me, too!" said Lisa, and gave him a big hug.</i></div>
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Corduroy was Daniel's book first. Reading to Daniel was my job when Paul and I were in divide-and-conquer mode at bedtime in our crazy days of two-in-cribs and two-in-diapers and two-under-two. The glider where I rocked him was right by the window, overlooking our tiny postage stamp-sized backyard with the big walnut tree and the old garage that bloomed around it with purple lilacs and lilies in the spring. I can still feel little Daniel in my arms, his blankie and the Corduroy book in my lap, rocking, rocking, rocking as I gazed out the window, no need to look at the pages anymore. We read our paperback copy until it fell apart and had to be replaced. Since then we've bought every other Corduroy book and enjoyed them all. Josh's favorite stuffed animal was a small keychain we call "little tiny Corduroy" and we even dressed Noah up as Corduroy for his first birthday. </div>
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Yeah, we did that. No shame in my Corduroy game. But in my heart, no matter who I am reading it to, Corduroy is always Daniel's story. And that curious little bear in the green overalls who doesn't even realize he is missing a button, enjoys the little things in life, and just wants a friend? He is totally my Sunny D.</div>
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So, the tears poured out.</div>
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I had a hard week with Daniel. And the hard week has very little to do with Daniel and a whole lot to do with his mom. I had lost my patience with Daniel enough times since last Thursday that we all started to feel it. I didn't lose it with any of my other kids. Just Daniel. Daniel who has never said a mean thing about anyone in his entire life, who has a heart of gold, who has never excluded anyone from anything, who has never even squashed a bug. Daniel who has never carried a grudge and is always, always the first to forgive. <span style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My sweet little Sunny D. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">By Sunday, I was feeling like a horrible mother who couldn't get herself together. </span></div>
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Monday, I had to do some soul searching.</div>
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<i>Why is it easier some days to be kind to strangers and acquaintances and friends than it is to be kind to my own family?</i></div>
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<i>Why do I treat my kids like projects that I somehow need to complete by the age of eighteen?</i></div>
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<i>Why are there times when I treat my kids as obstacles to my work instead of AS my work?</i></div>
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<i>Why do my heart and my head not always come together and agree on what is important?</i></div>
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Lisa knew what was important. Corduroy was perfect just the way he was. Would he be more comfortable with his shoulder strap fastened? Sure. Would he like a pocket? Of course. But he didn't need any of those things to be loved by Lisa. Lisa gave him the biggest gift we can give and the one we all hope to receive, <i>"I like you just the way you are."</i></div>
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I asked Daniel for his forgiveness on Monday, and he gave it freely because, well, he's Sunny D.</div>
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Being the Lisa to his Corduroy is a daily choice, but I'm going to keep making it. . . because everyone deserves to be loved like that.</div>
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And honestly, I could stand to be a little more like Corduroy and Daniel. If I can find the wonder in an escalator or a washing machine or a pocket? Well, then, joy is within my grasp every day.</div>
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So I'm praying for eyes to see my children as God sees them.</div>
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For the wisdom to put their behaviors in perspective.</div>
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For a heart that loves them as God loves them. </div>
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For the grace to accept them and celebrate them <b>just the way they are.</b></div>
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To remember that above all, my child is my neighbor.</div>
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And we're all just walking each other home.</div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-29246790154001773572016-11-08T13:35:00.001-08:002020-09-03T10:28:58.306-07:00The Days of Our Lives. . .<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yesterday's sunset. :)</td></tr>
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<span>I got my first teaching job fresh out of college as a December '01 Purdue grad. Although I was completely unprepared (when are you ever ready?) I began teaching algebra and physical science at a small, rural school southeast of Indianapolis. The drive wasn't terribly far, yet the culture felt like a world away and there I was a stranger in a strange land. . .one new face among many veterans, taking over a position that had been vacant for the entire school year. The students' circumstances were challenging, to say the least. Many had little structure or discipline, low academic skills, unstable home lives, and/or lived in poverty. As their dewy-faced and optimistic young science teacher, I was determined to be the very best I could be for them despite the obstacles. I was met with some skepticism, some resistance, some outright defiance, but ultimately and most importantly with a lot of love. Kids really just want to be loved and cared for, no matter how little or "big" they are.</span></div>
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<span>One of the most interesting aspects of the school was that it was so small that our high school students had lunch all together, followed by. . .wait for it. . .recess. Um, recess? My mind was blown. I didn't ask too many questions because, hey, that gave the teachers a blessedly peaceful hour of time to eat and prep, which was welcomed in the middle of an often challenging day. My first day of teaching, I dismissed my students to the cafeteria and clip-clopped down to the teachers' lunch room, all dressed up in my black suit and high heels, the same outfit I wore for my college graduation, dark green grade book in one hand, little black thermal lunch bag in the other. I sat down at a cramped folding table in the tiny room, which had a slanting ceiling, yellowing walls and looked as though it was perhaps a utility closet that had simply been reclaimed and deemed a lunch room by virtue of the microwave in the corner. All wide-eyed and innocent, I unwrapped my cucumber and rye bread sandwich while the teachers around me kvetched, gossiped, worried and grumbled. Hardly anyone said a word to me or asked me a question, which I understand looking back. Why bother to get to know the new girl when no one thought I would last long? My tummy was a little queasy as I excused myself early and left lunch, and my mind swirling with all of the things I had just heard. I felt like I was in that scene in Dumbo with all the lady elephants, and maybe I was Mrs. Jumbo. The thought of that lunch every day for the rest of my career did not appeal to me and definitely wasn't going to nourish me. </span></div>
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<span>But, oh, there was a better way. At the end of my first week, a friendly face popped into my room. It was the biology teacher, our classrooms connected by a door right next to my desk. She was a young mom several years older than me, petite and practical and smart and determined to make the best of our challenging job. I liked her from the first moment I met her. I also noticed that I had NOT seen her in the "teacher's lunch cave" during my gloomy daily visits.</span></div>
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<span>"Yes. It's, um, interesting?"</span></div>
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<span>"Yeah. You won't see me there," she said with a wink. "I eat lunch down here in my room. I'm not trying to be antisocial but I've got to stay positive and it gets negative down there. Do you want to join me?"</span></div>
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<span>Um, DID I????? Yes. Yes, I did. And so began a new lunchtime tradition. I'd come right through the door that connected our rooms at 11:30 and we'd heat up our lunches in the microwave she kept in our stock room. Then we'd sit in her dark classroom and enjoy the second half of Days of our Lives. . . because in addition to our kids getting recess they also had classrooms with full regular TV reception. I know, right? Sometimes we would chat about the events of Salem during the commercial breaks, and we always laughed that we never really missed anything by not seeing the events of 11-11:30. We'd shake our heads at the ridiculousness, speculate what Stefano might do next or what would become of Bo and Hope. And as the closing credits rolled and the sand poured through the hourglass, we'd part ways refreshed to finish getting ready for our afternoon classes.</span></div>
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<span>That safe space she created for me in her room and our daily visits to Salem saved my first year of teaching. She gave me the freedom to say "no" to something I felt socially obligated to, something that was detrimental to my spirit. By her example, she taught me that we can know our limits and set boundaries for ourselves. She knew she was a better teacher and mom if she took that time for herself each day, and she took me along for the ride.</span></div>
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<span>So much sand has gone through the hourglass since then, but I'll never forget the lessons learned in those days. They've come back to the forefront recently in the current election cycle. In the last several months, Facebook, the treasured "lunchroom" of my work-at-home-stay-at-home-mom self, has become eerily reminiscent of the dreary closet-cave of my first teaching job. As an extrovert I count on my social media interactions to supplement my need for connectivity. Even when isolated and surrounded by tiny kiddos, I could log on and share a laugh or read a thoughtful article or a heartwarming story with my fun adult friends near and far. But when every time I logged on to my happy place I was bombarded with images and opinions and grumblings and worries and complaints and gossip and attacks on people I loved. . .well, I didn't exactly feel like I was being led by the still waters to refresh my soul.</span></div>
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<span>I took a break from Facebook. For a whole week. I know, right? But it was a big move for me, Ms. Facebook junkie. I stepped back in tentatively, but I am learning to pay close attention to how I feel. Only you know your limits, and what you can plant in the garden of your mind. I've worked hard to find mine, and every time I log off social media, I try to do a gut-check about how that interaction made me feel. Was it worth the time? Was it nourishing to my soul? If the answer is no, I am trying to modify. I can't pour to my family if I've emptied my pitcher on Facebook. I'm a work in progress, but aren't we all?</span></div>
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<span>Last week I was with one of my favorite new friends, a lovely woman that Noah and I visit every Thursday at the nursing home down the street. We never talk about politics, but she shared with me that she was worried about her son. "He just spends so much time watching the news and thinking about this stuff!! What with the Hillary and the emails and the what's his name? Trump? It's all he talked about when he was here visiting. What is the point?"</span></div>
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<span>"Oh, I know. I can't watch the news. It just isn't good for my mind," I said.</span></div>
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<span>"I am so glad to hear that!!!" she clapped her hands gleefully. "I can't watch it, either. You know," she stopped and looked at me seriously, "we have one most precious gift, and that's our time. <b>How you spend it defines you.</b> It makes you who you are."</span></div>
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<span>If my friend who has lived 91 years and is confined to her bed is careful about how she spends HER precious time, WOW. . .shouldn't I be, too?? My soul sister gave me a lot to think about, reinforced by our priest at mass on Sunday.</span></div>
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<span>"When all is said and done," he said. "We don't belong to Donald. We don't belong to Hillary. We belong to God."</span></div>
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<span>BOOM! DROP THE MIC, Fr. Dan! Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief. My nine year old laughed and we grinned at each other.</span></div>
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<span>Father went on to share with us that God is the glue that holds everything together. He's beyond all time. He doesn't see time the way that we do, He sees eternity in a glance. He loves us. He made us. We are His, and no matter what happens with Donald and Hillary we will always be God's. It's not about this life, it's about eternal life anyways. </span></div>
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<span>No matter what happens today. Or tomorrow. Or the next. We're loved forever.</span></div>
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<span face=""><span>"No matter what happens."</span></span></div>
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<span>Now if that isn't some comfort and grace for the rest of our days, I don't know what is.</span></div>
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<i><span>Time is your gift to me God.</span></i></div>
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<i><span>Help me to spend it wisely,</span></i></div>
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<i><span>Loving my people.</span></i></div>
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<i><span>Being a friend.</span></i></div>
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<i><span>Building your kingdom.</span></i></div>
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<i><span>Bearing your light.</span></i></div>
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<i><span>All the days of my life.</span></i></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-62170448423925289462016-10-04T18:10:00.000-07:002016-10-04T18:10:03.525-07:00Blessed and Broken.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonSil4uShxmJzObCKhUGjb_acSJuDEZrk5bvsvMKlQ5LVmKEqrK324thqrKaEqN9eljtdWjCWBdeno9ntTh886CDSNc0D2k-jKXa0JbpNOGIAAxzL1d5P-W8MswGurmXkn8beQggQJ1gg/s1600/8484014133_1772d843a8_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonSil4uShxmJzObCKhUGjb_acSJuDEZrk5bvsvMKlQ5LVmKEqrK324thqrKaEqN9eljtdWjCWBdeno9ntTh886CDSNc0D2k-jKXa0JbpNOGIAAxzL1d5P-W8MswGurmXkn8beQggQJ1gg/s320/8484014133_1772d843a8_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sea of Galilee (photo by Sara Simmons)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Sunday morning, my friend Chrissy and I sat in the prayer circle at Religious Ed with our first graders sharing our favorite Bible stories together. Prayer Circle with Chrissy and our kiddos is the highlight of my week. First. Graders. Are. Amazing. I was so humbled by how much some of these little ones knew as we talked about the Word. After we went around the circle and shared some of the awesome things that God has done for His people, I asked them if any one of them had heard MY favorite bible story, the story of the Loaves and the Fishes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Ohhhhh, Ohhhh!!" one enthusiastic little sweetheart declared. "That's when a little boy gave Jesus a few pieces of bread and some fish and Jesus fed five thousand people with it with big baskets of food leftover!!" Other little first graders nodded their heads enthusiastically if they had heard the story, others sat there with eyes wide in awe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"God can do miracles!" I said. "Isn't that awesome!??" We all agreed that it was, indeed, awesome. Thank you, God.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I've always been fascinated with the story of the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand, but it wasn't until last year that it started to take on an even more special meaning to me. I was reading the phenomenal book, <u><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jesus-Pilgrimage-James-Martin/dp/006202423X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1475629450&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Jesus, a Pilgrimage</a></u>, by one of my favorite authors and spiritual thinkers, James Martin, SJ. This book is a travel memoir, a history lesson, a spiritual text and so much more. It is lighthearted and funny and well-researched and profoundly wise. It took me nearly a year to read it but it was a year well spent. So well spent, in fact, that I circled right back and started reading it again. The narratives shared in this story of Fr. Martin's pilgrimage to the Holy Land broke open the Gospel in a new way to me. I felt like I was falling in love with Jesus all over again as I reflected on his life with new eyes and new ears. There were some pages where I had to just close the book and spend a few days pondering some knowledge bomb that Fr. Martin had just dropped, and his reflection on the miracle of the loaves and fishes was one of those times:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>"God can take any small offering that we make</b>- a kind word, a brief visit to a hospital, a quick apology, a short thank-you note or e-mail, a smile- <b>and multiply it.</b>"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"All we need to do is bring what little we have, generously and unashamedly. At Tabgha, the disciples seemed embarrassed that there was not enough food for the crowd and were about to send everyone away hungry. <b>But Jesus knew whatever there is, God can make more of it. </b> But first we are asked to offer our loaves and fishes, no matter how inadequate they may seem. Only then can God accomplish the kind of true miracle that occurred at Tabgha."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Oh, how these words soothed my soul.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">How often do I feel like I am not enough? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Well, at least once a day now, usually sometime either right before or right after three of my four little buddies get on or off the bus. Everyone needs me during those times, individually and specifically and desperately and for completely different reasons. There's so much to hear and say and do and listen to and sort out about feelings and hunger and sadness over something that happened at recess and pride/worry over graded papers and stress over homework and JUST ONE OF ME for all of it. And along with the influx of need comes a torrent of backpacks and papers and lunchboxes and shoes and gravel from the playground and Pokemon cards collected from the bus. Also, activities and dinner and homework and reading and showers and brushing teeth and cleaning up AFTER dinner! It's so intense that one evening last week I flopped on the bed at about 6:30 PM, only to have Paul prod me and say, "JEN!! C'MON! We still have like two hours to go!! DON'T GIVE UP ON ME NOW!" I laughed and dragged myself up off of the bed, but this is no joke. These school days have got me like whoa. Don't get me wrong, being a parent of littles was also very intense. However, that intensity happened in small bursts throughout the day- hungry baby needing milk, crying toddler needing a hug, preschooler that needed to poop. . .ALL RIGHT NOW!! And then they all napped. Repeat cycle. But those days that felt like I had lived four separate days in one have given way to days where much of my responsibilities as a mother to these souls has been mostly concentrated into a four-hour period from 4-8 PM. You know the expression, "You can't pour from an empty cup?" While my kids are at school, I feel the need for way more than trying to fill my cup- I need to dig a well. If there is no deep well of peace from which these thirsty little souls to draw it's going to get crazy up in here. Yet the ability of my boys to draw from the well so much between 4 and 4:15 has me in need of more than just a deeper well. . .I need a miracle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Thank God I know the Source of those.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The not-enoughness often crashes over me in the times where I am just spread to thin. Between working and cooking and cleaning and shopping and volunteering and wanting to be a good mom and wife and relative and friend and community member, I'm not always sure if I can meet all of the expectations I have placed upon myself. Like trying to get the last bit of Smart Balance to make it over four pieces of toast in the morning because I forgot to buy more at the store, I can often feel like there's a little bit for everyone but there's just not enough of me to go around to fool anyone. When I'm divided four ways and spread out as far as I can go, can I really cover it all? I feel like I'm always dropping balls. Actually, I don't feel that, I KNOW that. . .who neglects to change the sheets frequently enough, forgets to bring the church offering envelope, forgets school picture day, forgets to sign the homework sheet, forgets to put the laundry in the dryer, forgets to turn the crock pot on, loses a bill at the bottom of the pile, lets the gas light in the van turn on and forgets to make it to the station until the little mile indicator reads single digits. Oh, yeah, THAT'S ME!!! I forget all of those things. The thinner I spread myself the less attention to detail I can provide. And when I lose the details, I think I'm failing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">BUT GUESS WHAT.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Good news.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We're not called to be butter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We're called to be BREAD. We're food for the world. Jesus asked us to be like him and give ourselves to his Father. If we offer ourselves to God, he's going to make us PLENTY. He is the God of miracles. He promised, and James Martin said this is true, so, you know, I'm going with that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So, this has been my goal ever since reading his reflection on the scripture. Can I offer myself to God fully. . .can I give him all of my loaves and fishes and not hold any back? The little boy in the story didn't keep anything in his pocket for himself, he handed it all to Jesus. How tempting it is to give just as much time or energy or effort as I feel like giving to my family and keep some back for my own needs. But if I trust fully, and keep my heart right with God's, he can take whatever feeble offerings I can give and make them enough to feed the people we both love. I just have to give it my all. He'll bless and break it and make it enough with leftover to spare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Last Monday was "one of those days." My three older boys got off the bus, just in time to drop backpacks and get in the van for Daniel's piano class. Except that when they got off the bus, two of them were crying, for completely different reasons, and one was hanging his head for being the source of the tears. Uh-oh. I couldn't figure out how to get them all across the street, let alone how to get them in the van in one piece. How can I unwrap and attend to all of these hearts and get to class on time when there is just one of me? Josh was sobbing hysterically. (his seat got moved on the bus) Phil was sulking. (he was unkind to Daniel and a friend called him out) Daniel was crying. (the center of his world, Philip, had hurt his feelings) Noah was. . .well, just being loud (because, why not??) Before I lost my ever-loving mind, I took a deep breath. This was a bless-it-and-break-it moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"God, I'm giving it to you. I don't know what I am going to do but make it enough for all of these people. You're super creative."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And, He is. We made it to piano (in time!!) and I left a still sobbing Joshy in the car while I ran Daniel up to the door. Somehow I managed to calm Joshy down on the way home and convince him that the front of the bus was going to be amazing and he was going to make new friends up there. (he already has) By the time we got home, he was ready to hug it out in the kitchen and ran off with Noah to play Hot Wheels. Phil had run up to his room, and this was the heart that really needed work. I breathed deeply as I climbed the stairs. I unlocked his bedroom door with the handy key located on the door frame and found him in his bed, huddled under the covers, crying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"I hate my life."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Well, I find that insulting because I basically, like GAVE you your life, you know." I teased.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He snuggled down deeper under his pillow to escape me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I asked a few questions about the bus but he wouldn't talk. I could tell this was going to be a tough one. My introverted sweetheart had been trying to be a "cool guy" on the bus at the expense of his little brother. He knew he had done wrong. But the chances of getting him to talk about it at this point were low, and I looked at the clock nervously, time was ticking until piano class pickup. I heard a fight breaking out over some cars in the family room. There just wasn't enough of me, enough time, the right words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I closed my eyes. "Bless it and break it, God. Send your Holy Spirit because I sure do need it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And somehow, in that next 15 minutes, a transformation occurred. It was kairos, God-time, as I got Phil to slowly unfold. We talked about kindness and love and family and brothers being forever and feelings just being for a little while. He relaxed to the point where I could tell he no longer "hated his life." So I seized the God-given opportunity to give him a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Listen, buddy, I am giving you this hug," and I squeezed him SO TIGHT. "And I want you to save it for 30 years. Because someday you are going to have a little boy and he's going to get in a fight with his brother on the bus and you are going to need to say these same words I just said to you and give him this big hug and you can tell him it's from both of us."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Phil smiled. I could tell by the sparkle in his eye that he was imagining himself in thirty years with kids.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Maybe you'll even name one of them Daniel." I said with a wink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Yeah, there's like a 50% chance I would name one of them Daniel."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Oh, that's good. I bet they will love their Uncle Daniel, too. He's so fun. And their Uncle Josh. And silly Uncle Noah."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Phil giggled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"And you guys can all come over to my house on Sunday and I'll cook you dinner. All your favorites" (as long as it's still chicken nuggets) ;)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Phil liked this idea. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Now, before you go to bed tonight, please find a way to make it right with Daniel, OK?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It took all the way until bedtime, but Phil looked across the room at D and offered him a sincere apology. Daniel accepted it in his true Sunny D fashion- he'd already forgiven Phil and was so excited to just move on. I turned off the big light and left them there reading third grade chapter books in the glow of their small lamp: their blonde heads peeking out of their matching beds in the semi-darkness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Whew. I couldn't have done that by myself. I turned and offered a prayer of gratitude. "Thank you, God. Thank you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">God, take all that I am</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All that I have</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Use it for what you need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Bless it and break it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Make it enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Make it abundant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It's all yours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">God can do miracles. Isn't that awesome!?? Thank you, God.</span></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-66291094617171299292016-03-19T07:12:00.005-07:002016-03-19T07:12:59.813-07:00Following.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">A few weeks ago, my dear friend Penny and I had the opportunity to see one of our favorite authors, Glennon Doyle Melton, speak. Glennon is a truth teller and hope spreader, with a delightful wit and a spiritual gift of bringing graceful and peaceful (or simply hilarious) words to any situation. I started following Glennon several years ago, when her "Don't Carpe Diem" post went viral. Her words cut straight to my heart and I quickly proceeded to read every word she had written and become a part of the <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/" target="_blank">Momastery</a> community. Instantly, I knew I had found my tribe. The women who follow Momastery are kind, gracious and accepting. They have a heart for the world. . ."there is no such thing as other people's children" and "sister on" are the kind of battle cries you find there. They don't sugar-coat the brutiful nature of life, but they choose to be grateful and embrace laughter over complaint. And they lift their sisters up both in words and deeds, such as through togetHERrising. To be in a room full of "Monkees" with my dear sister in Christ, Penny, was an unforgettable experience. With light slanting in the gorgeous stained glass windows and the laughter and tears of women who just "get it" raising up to the rafters, it was pure Love, Spirit and Grace. Glennon said so many amazing things, but one of her final thoughts that came from an audience question has really stayed with me.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">A young woman a few pews away from us stood up and took the microphone. She asked Glennon how we should approach social media. There are so many good things (like Momastery!) and so many negative things, especially in this very political year. How do we use it the right way?</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">"Wow!" I turned to Penny. "That was a great question." We all hung expectantly waiting for Glennon's answer. In typical G fashion it was brilliant and helped give us clarity. She discussed how social media is a real world for us, we live our lives there. . .people fall in love, make friends, laugh, cry and all of the things we do face-to-face. But we have to be smart about how we use it, as social media shapes our reality. I wrote down these words of wisdom she shared at the end.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">"Choose who you follow on social media intentionally. </span><strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> That is who you give power to."</strong></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">"You form your thoughts by who you follow. </span><strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Who do you want to be? </strong><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Arrange your social media news feed to reflect that." </span></div>
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<strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">"We will always be what we consume, </strong><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">be intentional and choose wisely."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;">How beautifully she articulates and confirms the things we have all suspected to be true. My reality is very much shaped by the media I consume. When the kids were very little when someone asked me if I had heard about</span></span><i style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;"> (insert globally significant current event here)</i><span style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;">, I would ask, "Um, was that on Sesame Street?" because if it wasn't, I was pretty sure I hadn't seen it or heard it. I lived in a bubble of DVR'ed episodes of Mister Rogers, Word World, Ellen and Sesame Street. This was before I had a Facebook account, and now I am a little </span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">embarrassed</span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;"> to admit I really do get most of my news from Facebook. (I'm pretty sure I am not the only one, though!)</span></span></div>
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Since social media is my reality, I have to be careful about how I spend my time there. As my television friend Mister Rogers says, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFzXaFbxDcM" target="_blank">"Do you ever grow ideas in the garden of your mind?"</a> My head is a precious place, and I have to be careful about what I plant there, right? The internet is full of weeds (COMMENTS SECTIONS, anyone???), and also full of seemingly delightful things that can take over if we let them. I remember my neighbor Jo Ann telling me over the fence when I was quite new to gardening to plant my mint in a separate pot or it would take over everything else in my garden. I think the same kind of principle can be true of our internet lives. Even things that seem good and entertaining can choke out the other good things growing there if we let them. FOR EXAMPLE. . .following the local news SEEMED like a good idea. Until I ended up so heavy with the weight of the sadness in our city that I would end up angry and depressed with the articles popping up in my feed every three stories. I decided to unfollow the local news and instead just follow trusted friends who follow the local news, so they could alert me to the important stuff. Only you know your mind and what you can plant there!</div>
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It was delightful one day when a friend introduced me to the "unfollow" button. I had no idea that this existed, and it is incredibly useful for the people who try to plant weeds in your mind, but you still love them and don't want to unfriend them. Unfollowing is like, "We're still cool if I saw you face to face, but I can't let you in my head every single time I get on the interwebs. Not happening." If you tend to carry the weight of other's problems like I do, unfollow can be a powerful tool for helping manage the load. If there is someone I haven't seen since 1994 and they enjoy using social media to vent about everything under the sun, you had better believe we are moving our friendship to unfollow status. Other people may be able to brush it off easily, but I am too susceptible to letting other people's problems take up precious head space.</div>
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The other thing Glennon urged us to consider is who we DO follow, as in following the people who live lives that we admire, who call us to be our best, who reflect our hearts. I am fortunate to have a lot of those friends. I love encouragers, and we all need more of them both virtually and in our real life. Don't you just love those people who just make you smile every time you get on facebook?? And it is helpful to follow people with views different from our own. . .they expand our perspectives! So I don't instantly unfollow anyone who votes differently than I do or eats differently or spends differently or lives differently or whatever. I look, I watch, I listen, I learn. That's what being human is all about!! But if someone constantly uses an attacking, negative, hurtful, or complaining tone, I need to make the same kind of decision about them that I make about people in my real life- If I know someone like that, we're not going out for coffee or sitting at the same lunch table, OK!? We're just going to be on, "I'll say hi to you when I run into you in the grocery store" status, and maybe I'm not even stopping. We can't let those toxic peeps in our personal space on social media, either. </div>
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Since I'm seeing more how media shapes our reality and Glennon's words are so fresh in my mind, I am going to take a few days off of Facebook to really contemplate them. I've been really upset recently about some things that have been going around in our community and in our nation. Since Facebook is shaping my perspective of the humans around me, I feel like the world is angry at each other- everyone from my friends to our local and national leaders and POLITICS- UGH!!! - and my heart hurts. It just hurts. And then my mind just starts spinning and I'm sad. I was worrying over this in my kitchen last night when Paul came home. </div>
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"What's wrong, Jen?" he asked, as I forlornly dropped sun dried tomatoes on some pizza.</div>
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The kids were arguing in the basement and my mind was spinning with something angry someone had just written to a friend of mine on social media and I was just so. . . SAD. I wanted to fix it all and I couldn't.</div>
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"Honey, I just want peace on earth. I want peace in my home and in our town and in our world. How do I get that??? I'm just so heartbroken."</div>
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"Jen," he said. "Start here."</div>
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And he yelled down the basement stairs, "HEY YOU GUYS!!! BE KIND TO EACH OTHER!!!"</div>
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And we laughed. </div>
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He's right.</div>
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I need to start here. Peace starts here. Just like Mother Teresa said. . .it begins at home. I need to immerse myself in my surroundings to get a more real perspective, and do some serious reflecting on who I follow and read on social media. . .<b>who do I give power to? Who do I let live in my head? </b> I hope after I do this, I am able to come back with a more fresh and healthy perspective of the <b>good</b> in the world. I know Facebook will go on without me for a few days, as much as I like to imagine that everyone NEEDS me to like all of their pictures. . .their pictures are super cute and lots of other people will like them in my absence. LIFE WILL GO ON WITHOUT YOU, Jen. Step back. Plant your mint in a separate pot before it takes over.</div>
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I've gotta protect my heart and my head. </div>
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I've got too many people right here to love.</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-68793650846606330842016-03-16T10:05:00.003-07:002016-03-16T10:05:59.811-07:00The Bar.<br />
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St. Patrick's Day is a special day for my family. My Irish grandma, Darlin, loved St. Pat's and we always celebrated with green carnations to pin on our shirts, yummy food, stickers, cards and all things sweet and Irish. Paul loves it, too, and from before we were even married and up until I was pregnant with the third Zink boy, we hosted an annual bash at our basement bar. So many fun times were had, and I have two rubbermaid tubs full of St. Patrick's Day paraphernalia in my garage (and lots of incriminating photos of our friends tucked away for when we are old and gray) to prove it.</div>
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After we moved into our new home, one of our first goals was to build a bar just like we had at our Irvington bungalow. We optimistically brought the 4 barstools with us, boxes of glassware, beer signs, kitschy decorations, the whole deal so we could recreate the experience. Then we realized that we have a lot of kids, and we're doing good most days just feeding them and giving them baths and keeping them in clean clothes and let's face it. . .alive. So, we had to set the bar for our bar a little lower. After four years of sitting in our basement just waiting for a bar to be built, we finally had the realism and common sense to move the barstools to our garage so our kids had more room to play Lego. Someday, those barstools will party again. Maybe not with us. . .maybe at a frat house at Purdue or something. . .but someday. For now, they hold our car mats and we use them to climb up and get high stuff. Whatever.</div>
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Even with the demise of the Zink bar, we still loved St. Patrick's Day. One year on March 16, as I geared up to get out all of the decor (still in the boxes) and Lucky Charms and green outfits after the kiddos went to bed, I had some disturbing things happen.</div>
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First, Phil came home from preschool COMPLETELY JAZZED and asked if a leprechaun was going to come to our house like the leprechaun that came to visit them at school. Um, what?? That's a thing?? My world of what I thought St. Patrick's Day was (drinking delicious beer and wearing green shirts) was shattered by the fact that in some parts of our culture, the celebration of this holiday involves imaginary visitors that I need to fabricate and then incorporate into my web of lies.</div>
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"Um, guys, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" I said, totally floored by this new information.</div>
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"Mommy, all we have to do is leave him a note! He'll come to our house and mess stuff up and leave us treats!"</div>
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I looked around my house. It already looked like multiple leprechauns lived there, along with perhaps a treeful of Keebler elves. The last think I needed was some damn leprechaun coming in and jacking up my already beautiful mess. There was flour all over my kitchen counter, the floors were filthy, breakfast and baking dishes piled in the sink, sticky bowls and spoons on the counter, the bathroom was trashed, the rug was littered with toys, and I still had snack, another meal and baths left to go before closing time.</div>
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In order to process this information, I did what all good moms do, which is turn on PBS kids and go in the other room to figure things out ALONE. With my phone. And some caffeine. Sometimes when I am just mentally lost, I zone out and get on Facebook. You guys, this is the most horrible of horrible ideas. When am I going to learn? Guaranteed if you are feeling confused or down on yourself and you get on Facebook, the first thing you are going to see is people living beautiful sparkly lives who share none of your struggles and being flat out awesome in your face. I have a generally healthy self concept, so I can normally handle people's highlight reels without any personal toll but this was not a good day for scrolling.</div>
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Of course, the first thing I saw when I got on Facebook was the beautiful and precious St. Paddy's crafts that my friend had prepared, and pictures of the green toilet water and funny things their leprechaun had done to them (like put flour all over the kitchen!) while the kids were napping. I looked around my house again. . .hey, my leprechaun spread flour all over the counter, too! And is yellow toilet water kind of like green toilet water? Kind of like a pot of gold?? I started to laugh. There is no need to compare myself to that awesome mom. I've got my own beautiful kind of St. Patrick's Day right here. I quickly came up with a plan B before Super Why was over, excited to put it into action before the morning.</div>
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We made it through the rest of the day, making mess upon mess, and the boys left Shaun the Leprechaun a little note before Paul and I tucked their sparkly clean and p.j.'ed up little bodies into bed and kissed those squishy cheeks.</div>
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"Jen," Paul said as we entered the kitchen. "The house is trashed."</div>
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"I KNOW!" I said. "I have a plan. Trust me."</div>
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Now, I'm not sure if after all of the years Paul has been the sidekick to my plans if he REALLY trusts me or not, but he went along with it anyways. Good husband.</div>
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"Get down the decorations, honey. We've got a new kind of leprechaun up in here."</div>
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For the next two hours, I cleaned the house while Paul vacuumed and decorated with all of the fun accessories from our party days. The flour spills were erased, counters were buffed to a sparkly shine, toilet cleaned, floors mopped and even some dusting with ACTUAL PLEDGE might have occurred. I wrote the kids a note from Shaun the Leprechaun, explaining to them what just went down.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhbQq0ZiZu1KS4296eS5Da1pI5J_WidLNKdqDNOErSDdAtOJn7crIF8IzrddcazLYHGl63eFyV0O9WYA5ZiW1g6EQNrrMEhhyphenhyphen79wZIlbgqCRyFKdTeFWeCtDL7RmplLuVnbdTfdKnL_4N/s1600/IMG_0756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhbQq0ZiZu1KS4296eS5Da1pI5J_WidLNKdqDNOErSDdAtOJn7crIF8IzrddcazLYHGl63eFyV0O9WYA5ZiW1g6EQNrrMEhhyphenhyphen79wZIlbgqCRyFKdTeFWeCtDL7RmplLuVnbdTfdKnL_4N/s320/IMG_0756.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Hi,
Philip, Daniel, and Josh,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I
got your letter! Thanks for helping cleaning up your house before I
arrived tonight. I wanted to answer your question, Daniel. . .yes, I
can act like a stinker sometimes. A real stinkpot, as you say. All
of us leprechauns do. But to be sure, the very same leprechauns who
are bad sometimes are the very same leprechauns who are good
sometimes. So, tonight, I took an idea from my cousins the elves.
Do you know the ones? The little guys who helped the shoemaker and
his wife? Well, I know your Mommy and Daddy work really hard. And
that your mommy has been busy playing with you in the sunshine all
week. . .so that means she didn't have a lot of time to clean up all
of the sand and dirt and messes! So, tonight while you were
sleeping, I cleaned it all up for you and your mommy and daddy. .
.right down to the toilet! I even put up some decorations. I hope
you like them! I also hope you like the pot of gold that I left for
you. Enjoy and be good boys. . . and just remember even us stinkers
have good deep down inside!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">With
love,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Your
friend Shaun the Leprechaun.</span></span></div>
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They woke up in the morning elated. TREATS!! They were a little confused as to why their Leprechaun cleaned instead of made mischief, but all I am saying is you need <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">to set your own bar.</strong></div>
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You hear that?</div>
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I don't like to toss out advice but this is one thing I am pretty sure of.</div>
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Set your OWN BAR.</div>
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So, this St. Patrick's Day, wear green or don't.</div>
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Drink Beer. Or don't.</div>
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Do fun crafts. Or don't.</div>
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Have a leprechaun that comes. Or don't.</div>
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But whatever you do, do you!! Only you can be yourself! Have fun!</div>
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Happy St. Pat's from the O'Zinks!</div>
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Memories of St. Patrick's Days past. . .</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-32162841803581685262016-02-25T12:54:00.003-08:002016-02-26T03:39:32.932-08:00Before you know it.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter 2011</td></tr>
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A few years ago, in the midst of my gray-skied, messy-haired, smudgy mascara, exhausted hot mess of a winter with three kids three and under, I found myself reading a powerful little book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1591280818/" target="_blank">Loving the Little Years</a>. I recall turning on two consecutive episodes of Sesame Street to finish it as I sat on our couch (which was devoid of cushions) and kids squirmed all over me and bounced on the bare springs. I couldn't put it down. There were so many gems of wisdom, but one that stopped me in my tracks was a moment where she said something to the effect of, "If things get crazy, just look at the clock and in ten minutes it will be over. Just put your head down and power through."</div>
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I thought to myself, "Oh, hell, no. That can't be true. That's too good to be true. There's no way." But, since she had like five little kids under the age of five I figured she might know what she's talking about. So, the next time things got crazy (Example: 5:45 PM: Phil had just thrown up on the floor, Josh was crying for a bottle, Daniel had just gleefully dumped out an entire basket of toys in the middle of the kitchen and dinner was not even close to in the oven.) I decided to give it a try. I looked at the clock. Instead of wallowing in self pity and despair and wishing Calgon would just come and take me away already, I put my head down and got to work. By the time 5:55 had rolled around, everyone had stopped crying, the vomit was off the floor, kids were playing with the dumped out toys and the frozen pizza was in the oven. And I was in awe. It worked?? It WORKED???? IT WORKED!!!!!! And it continued to work, over and over again. I have had ample opportunities over the past 5 years since reading that book to put it into practice. At LEAST once a day all of my kids are crying at the same time or the couch is unstuffed or there is marker all over someone and someone else has to poop and someone can't find their shoes and someone isn't wearing pants and mommy forgot to do the laundry and we have to leave the house in five minutes. But as long as I power through instead of locking myself in the bathroom, it's over before I know it.</div>
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Just yesterday, I was teaching a class at the boys' school. As a former high school science teacher and general lover of kiddos and science and all things kiddos and science, I was having a blast teaching my little after school enrichment class about flight as we designed and redesigned our own paper airplanes. But Daniel was super disappointed because his design didn't live up to his expectations. He started to cry mid-class and by the time we reached the car he was in epic tantrum kicking the seat meltdown mode because he felt Mommy didn't help him. I was exhausted from a full day of parenting followed by teaching and the fact that I had hauled Josh and Noah along with me for this little adventure. I knew when we got home I would have to not only unpack everything, but get all of these kids on some sort of task WHILE MAKING DINNER because it was already 5:30. And then homework? And baths? And stories? And bedtime?? Oh, no. Honestly, I wanted to scream at Daniel because he would not stop crying and kicking and Josh and Noah WERE screaming at Daniel to be quiet. But as we rolled closer to home, I looked at the clock. "It will be over before you know it, Jen," I said to myself. "Just do the next thing." With that perspective, I took a deep breath.</div>
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"Daniel," I said. "I love you even when you are really mad at me. I love you all the time."</div>
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His wails subsided a bit.</div>
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"I am sorry that you are mad at me but I want you to know that I love you."</div>
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A little ray of light broke through, even though he was still protesting that it was "the worst day ever."</div>
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We got in the house and I shuffled Phil to the basement, turned on a Mr. Rogers for Noah and Josh and started to make dinner. Daniel stomped into the living room with a book. After a few minutes I went in.</div>
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"Hey, buddy. You want to come make some muffins with me?"</div>
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This is his FAVORITE THING that we used to do all of the time when he was little, and he is always sad that he doesn't get to make muffins with me anymore now that he is in school all day. I figured it was worth switching up my dinner menu from to have a moment with my boy.</div>
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"REALLY??!!!" he said. "YES!!"</div>
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He bounded in the kitchen where I had some orange juice and popcorn waiting for him, and after he fortified himself he started to push his chair over to the counter where my muffin-making mess was in progress.</div>
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"Um, Daniel, do you think you might be a little tall to stand on the chair?"</div>
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"Oh, yeah," he giggled. "Maybe, Mommy." and he grabbed a stool from the bathroom so that we could stand shoulder to shoulder. To be honest, he barely even needed that. </div>
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Wow, those days were over fast.</div>
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We mixed the muffins and I looked at the clock. A little more than ten minutes, but still pretty true after all these years. The mess had subsided. It was over before I knew it, and it was peaceful in my house. . .at least for that moment. I'll take 'em when I can get 'em. I patted myself on the back for mastering that art of putting my head down and powering through the difficult moments, but God wasn't quite done with my heart yet.</div>
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Later that night I was reading another book that has been challenging and encouraging me,<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hands-Free-Mama--Do-Perfection/dp/0310338131/" target="_blank"> Hands Free Mama</a>. I love her message and one of those messages is that it will all be over soon, so don't miss it. I like to think that I am not a distracted mom, but in many ways I am so guilty of living in my head. This book gently calls me to accountability. I read a passage in here that stopped me in my tracks just as Loving the Little Years did years ago. Rachel was talking about how she used to dread when her kids brought their folders home from school and she hated unloading them. Just one more thing to worry about or sign or look at or throw away, just one more input in her already busy and distracted life. Ouch, I could relate. I kind of dread all the folders, too. And the WORST part is, Josh is so, so excited to show me his papers every day yet I am so worn out by 2pm when we slosh in the door from preschool pickup that often I barely even look at them, or promise he can show me later. Then, as if she hadn't gotten me enough, at the end of the chapter Rachel asked if there were times in your child's day, such as bedtime, homework, meal preparation or carpool that you currently view as an inconvenience that you could instead use as a time to connect. Crap, I thought. Am I supposed to just pick ONE of those??? Because I pretty much wish those parts of the day away EVERY SINGLE DAY. The past few weeks especially, I have not been able to get the kids showered and in bed FAST enough, have been totally guilty of turning off the music and asking for silence on the way to and from school and cringed and grumbled about homework more than my second graders do. But Rachel's book was a kind reminder that these times, the busy and challenging and mundane and boring and tedious and all hyper kids and repeating yourself a million times and big messes and buckles and snaps and zippers and brushing teeth and combing hair are the IMPORTANT times. In fact, most of my life appears to be made up of these times so it does not seem in my best interest to wish them away. How often do I just try to power through: get those kids on the bus, get them buckled in the van, get them tucked into bed and will them to fall asleep so I can just have a hot second to relax. Yet these are the times I am going to miss. They will be over before I know it. How easily I forget.</div>
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So, there's the delicate balance, friends. The two sides of the coin once again.</div>
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Power through, it will be over before you know it.</div>
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Savor it, it will be over before you know it.</div>
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Today as we came home from preschool, I cranked the music that Noah had selected and told Josh I couldn't wait to see his papers. He was so excited. He couldn't make it to the big blue couch fast enough and we went through all three papers in his folder in excruciating yet glorious detail. It took LESS than ten minutes, even with the full play-by-play, and the look on his sweet little face was so worth savoring.</div>
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There's a time to power through and a time to savor, a time for every purpose under heaven, right?</div>
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God, help me discern when I need to power through. When I need to savor. </div>
It will be over before I know it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite boys on the big blue couch, 2013</td></tr>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-22796613312205263692016-01-19T12:36:00.002-08:002016-01-19T12:36:45.209-08:00Melting Snow.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;"><i>Dwelling in the present moment</i></strong></div>
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<strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;"><i>I know this is a wonderful moment.</i></strong></div>
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<i>— Thích Nhat Hanh</i></div>
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Last week was the first snow of the season here and the kids were beyond excited. It was pretty enough that I think even most of us grown up folks were excited, too. . .there's nothing like that first snow clinging to the trees and making everything sparkle to brighten a dreary winter. The boys couldn't WAIT to go sledding! But school days and early darkness meant that the days of the week passed by and we still hadn't loaded everyone up in the car to make it to the big hill.</div>
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"Mommy, can you please, please take us sledding after school on Thursday?" Philip and Daniel begged me. "We are big enough now you don't even have to worry about us. You can just watch Noah and we'll take care of the rest. Pleeeaasseee??!!!!"</div>
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The thought of taking all four of them sledding by myself was about to give me a panic attack, but one look at their hopeful little faces and I knew I had to say, "Yes."</div>
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"Oh, Mommy, YES!! This is going to be awesome. Pick us up from school. We'll be car riders! Can you come get us early? How about right after PE. We don't want to miss PE."</div>
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"Nice try, kids, but I don't think they are going to let me take my kids out of school and miss the NWEA test to go sledding. HOWEVER, Noah and Josh and I will come get you right after school and go straight there, OK??!!"</div>
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"YESSSSS!!"</div>
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And for the next day they planned and giggled and decided who was going to be on what sled and what kind of cool tricks they could do and all "Can we take the snowboard?" and "Don't forget to pack my warm gloves!" I looked at the weather forecast and it was supposed to warm up on Thursday, but the temperature looked like it was going to at least start cold and steadily increase during the day. Eternally optimistic, I decided there was enough snow that even if it got warmer and started to melt, there'd still be enough left after school for at least a little bit of sledding. It would be even warm enough we wouldn't even have to bundle too much! Although I have a science degree and a little more than the basic awareness about the temperature at which phase changes occur, I'm not so easily constrained by things like reality in my daily living.</div>
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So, all day I prepped for our plan. Noah and I went to Target to buy a 4th sled. We even went to the sledding hill to test it out. The snow was melting but there was still enough left on parts of the hill that we had some good runs. We made snowballs and laughed and enjoyed our wintry fun. But by the end of our time there we had to shed our coats. It was getting downright warm, enough to send Frosty the Snowman into panic mode. I looked at the sun beating down on the hill and listened to the sound of dripping water everywhere, did a little more math as to how much of this was going to melt before 4 pm and thought, "Oh, dear, this might not be good."</div>
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But, STILL ETERNALLY OPTIMISTIC, I went through all of the motions. . .packed the bags with the snow gear, loaded the four sleds in the back of my van, tossed bananas and fruit snacks into my bag, buckled in the little brothers and headed off to school to pick the boys up. The sun was smiling (a little cruelly, I might add) upon us as my van sloshed through melted puddles of snow all the way to school.</div>
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I found the boys chattering with one of their sweet former teachers. "We're going sledding!!!!"</div>
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She looked at me quizzically. "Here?" she said, "Or. . .are you driving someplace. . .far away!?!????" </div>
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"Um, here." I said, now a little embarrassed that my lack of connection with reality was on display for all to see. "We're just going to check it out and see what we can see!"</div>
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"Oh, well, have fun!" she smiled at me and gave me a worried look. I gave her a confident thumbs up and headed out into the lovely 50 degree sunshine-y day to go sledding.</div>
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As the boys herded to the van they were still chattering away. "You know," said Phil. "The top of the sledding hill is at a higher altitude. It might even be colder up there so there's more snow!" </div>
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I giggled, enjoying his optimism, too.</div>
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"Hey, there's snow between those trees!" Daniel exclaimed, pointing at a hill covered with large trees, snow still filling their tangled roots. "Although, we probably couldn't sled there. That'd be kind of painful."</div>
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"We could sled on the grass, right, Mommy? I mean, that would be fun??" said Josh.</div>
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"SLEEEDDDIIINNNGGGG!???!!!" Noah squealed as we turned the corner that headed towards the hill, his memories of just a few hours before getting him psyched for the adventure ahead.</div>
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"Guys, we're just going to check it out. We'll give it our best shot, OK?" but at this point I was getting more than a little worried.</div>
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I turned into the drive and in front of us was a bare sledding hill. The gate was closed and locked shut to block the parking lot, I am sure to deter optimistic/crazy folks like us from coming to sled on the soggy remains of snow.</div>
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In the back seat, Phil instantly burst into tears. "We were car riders for THIS!!!?????!" </div>
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Daniel and Josh looked forlorn. Noah, ever cheerful, started pointing out other patches of snow in neighboring yards, "We sled dere? Nook, dere's some snow!"</div>
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I pulled out of the lot and out onto the main road. I didn't really have a Plan B but it was time to come up with one on the fly. "That's OK, kids, off to our next adventure!" And I steered the van towards a nearby park. There was no sledding hill (or any large hill there, for that matter) but I remembered from when I used to take the boys there in their toddler days there was some shade and also lots of little hills. Maybe there would be a scrap of snow left and a little bit of fun to be had. As I navigated into the muddy parking lot, Phil's cries in the backseat got more desperate, "HERE!!!?? This is NOT what I had planned!!!" Daniel told him to cut it out, and Phil reached across the seats between them and punched him in the chest. A knock-down-drag-out-fight was about to take place in the 3rd row. It was time to get out of the van- AND QUICK!!</div>
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"Guys, let's just see what we can see."</div>
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Noah was out of the van in a hot second, off to explore the playground with Josh right behind him. Daniel looked at the (still crying) brother next to him, his two other brothers playing happily on the playground and said, "Hey, Mommy. I think I'll take those snow pants now."</div>
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This left Phil and I in the van alone. As we watched his brothers play, tears continued to streak down his face. "Phil?" I asked him gently. He crossed his arms, turned his head and made a tearful grunting sound. </div>
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I was at a critical crossroads here. There was a large part of me that wanted to be angry with him and tell him to get over himself, as the tears of an eight-year-old throwing what was by all appearances an epic temper tantrum are not my favorite sound. But as I felt that agitated and frustrated feeling welling up inside of me, I decided to just pause and take a deep breath. As I let him cry, I thought about the lesson that this might be trying to teach me. How often do I cling to my own plans, and grumble and drag my feet when my day or my week (or my life) doesn't go the way I imagined it would? It's certainly OK to be disappointed. When things don't meet my expectations, how hard is it for me, even as an adult with YEARS of experience with things not going my way, to shift my mind into forward mode and release the vision I had in exchange for the reality of what is happening the present moment? I needed to give Phil some grace, as there are many times I so desperately need it myself.</div>
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"Honey, have you ever hear of Plan A?"</div>
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"Merp."</div>
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"That's not even a word. Have you HEARD OF PLAN A???"</div>
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"Humph."</div>
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"Again, a yes or no would work."</div>
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"OK, yes."</div>
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"And if I said, 'Life is all about Plan B, what do you think that would mean?"</div>
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"I don't know," Phil said, avoiding my eyes.</div>
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"It means, sometimes things don't go the way we planned. But then we have to try and find a new plan. . .plan B!"</div>
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"Humph."</div>
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"OK, have you ever heard the phrase, 'Wherever you go there you are?"</div>
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"Merp."</div>
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"Again, merp is not a word. So let me enlighten you. It means you can't change the past, all you have is the present moment. Where are you right now?"</div>
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"The playground"</div>
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"Riiiiggghhhhhhtt. The sledding hill is closed, we're at the playground. We can't go back and make the snow un-melt. This is where we are."</div>
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"Humph"</div>
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"Alright, I've got another one for you. Have you ever heard, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?"</div>
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"Kind of."</div>
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"So, when things don't go your way, you just have to make the bet of it, sweetie. I know, I'm disappointed, too. I've been planning for this all day. This is something I struggle with, too. We just have to choose our attitude and make the most of it."</div>
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Later when I recounted the story to Paul he asked me if I could have possibly worked any more cliches into that conversation. Maybe, maybe not. But, I think it worked. I shut off the van and left the door and trunk open, then I headed over to where Noah was playing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Phil sneak out of the van. He had pulled his boots on and was in the middle of the snow in the adjacent field making a snowball.</div>
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It wasn't long before he made his way over to the playground. </div>
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In a few more minutes, he was back to the van for his hat and warm gloves.</div>
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And a few minutes later, returning for his snow pants.</div>
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And after about 10 minutes, he asked for a sled.</div>
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Then another.</div>
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And another.</div>
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And another.</div>
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And before I knew it, all four sleds were out of the van and four little boys were gleefully sledding down the tiniest hill imaginable, having the time of their lives.</div>
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In the van on the way home, Josh was overwhelmed with how things turned out. "Mommy, I didn't think that was going to be fun but that was AWESOME!!"</div>
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"I agree, buddy! </div>
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I agree."</div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;">I am realizing that there is so much beauty to be found in the "melting snows" of life. The moments that don't go the way I planned can have a divine loveliness all their own. . .but the only way I am going to have eyes to see that beauty is if I release the vision in my head of what I thought it was going to be. Once I let that picture go, I am free to live in the present moment. "It is what it is" my Dad always says. "Live in the now, man." in my best</span><a data-mce-href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vaQ-Y6kLOM" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vaQ-Y6kLOM" style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; color: #047ac6; cursor: pointer; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Garth Algar</a><span style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;"> voice. "Today is a gift- that's why it's called the present." (I had to work in JUST A FEW more cliches </span><span style="color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em;">in case Paul reads this.)</span></div>
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It wasn't what we had planned.</div>
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But it was fun.</div>
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And it was beautiful.</div>
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An hour of sweet childhood, savored in the melting snow.</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-16962519738304285052016-01-12T08:39:00.000-08:002016-01-12T08:39:16.104-08:00Little Golden Thread.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">We're all just walking each other home. ~Rumi</strong></div>
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When I was a first-year high school science teacher, I spent a LOT of time at school, as all first-year teachers do. Everything was new and overwhelming and I had no depth of previous experience to draw from, so I usually spent each evening pulling together my lessons for the next day while feebly trying to recover from the ones I had just taught. Although in later years I would still often work late, there is nothing in the world quite like the particular exhaustion of the first-year teacher. Around 6 pm I would still be slumped over the keyboard of my Mac, three hours past the end of my "day", high heels discarded beside me, the sides of my hands covered in Vis-a-Vis marker, the sleeve of my denim jacket dusted with chalk. A human eraser, if you will. My desk would typically be littered with a half-eaten bag of M&M's, a lukewarm Coke, piles of papers, broken pencils and random things I had confiscated from my students during the day, love notes. . .gum. . .those little skateboards you skate with your fingers. My heart would be full but my mind would be vacant as I tried to pull my act together.<br />
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And this is where Bruce would find me. Bruce was our evening custodian, in charge of cleaning my room in the science wing as a part of his rounds. If you are a first-year teacher, my prayer is that you will have a Bruce in your life. Just when I felt like I couldn't go on, there was no way I could get together the energy to make it to the copy room and run that lab I had just created let alone set it up, Bruce would pop in with his big smile, his white hair, and his hearty laugh. That little bit of friendship and human contact would be just enough to bring me back to the land of the living, and he'd send me off to the copy room with a smile on my face.<br />
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Our conversations were usually nothing profound, he'd tease me about being a "rookie" and how late I was working (again) and we'd catch up about family and weather and the like. At Christmastime, he noticed I was stringing up a few lights around my room and offered to bring me some trees from his house to decorate. Of course, I couldn't turn him down so we trimmed my room together, giving it that little touch of cheer that was even more special because it came from a friend. We chatted so often about so many of the same things that I can't remember, but one conversation in particular has stayed in my heart all these years.<br />
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It was a spring evening and the sun was just slanting in when we ran into each other in the hallway, I on my way to the copy room and Bruce pushing his trash can towards the Physics end of the building. We stopped to chat as usual, but when I asked how he was I noticed tears starting to form in his eyes. It wasn't long before tears started to spill out of mine, too. Cancer. He had cancer. They found spots on his brain. I can't even remember the details because my mind was swirling, "How could this happen to my friend?" Of course, in typical Bruce fashion, he was trying to be positive as he explained everything to me, but I could feel the undercurrent of hurt and uncertainty in his wavering voice. Time froze there in the hallway, the moment etched in my mind. Then he said the thing I will never forget. <br />
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"I just didn't know. They never told us. They never told us smoking was bad for you! If I just would have known, maybe. . ."<br />
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As his voice trailed off, the look on his face, the confusion and pain in his voice, they were enough to break my heart. Although he could have easily been my grandfather, he looked at me pleadingly as a small child would. <br />
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"How could he have known?" I thought to myself. And if he had known, would it have changed anything? <span style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">There are no guarantees in life, no magic formula one can follow for a perfect one free of pain.</span> The one thing I did know, even at the ripe old age of 23, was that there was no use in him beating himself up about tobacco or anything else for that matter. Forward is the only way time goes.<br />
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"Bruce," I said, trying to comfort him. "There is no way you could have known. It's OK. It's OK, Bruce. It's not your fault." And I made sure I caught his eye so he could see how much I meant it. <br />
"It's not your fault." <br />
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He bit his lip and nodded.<br />
I hugged him.<br />
I believed that with my whole heart. <br />
I still do.<br />
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I think of Bruce often, especially any time I feel myself getting hung up or worried about the choices I make for myself or my family. Sometimes we just don't know. I believe we're all just trying to do the best we can with the physical, financial, and emotional resources we have available to us. So any time I get hung up on a decision and researching and thinking and weighing options, I tell myself, "You know, Jen, sometimes you just aren't going to know. Just do the best you can." <span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> And what kinds of choices are the things that are the most essential about us, really? What remains when we are gone? The answer, from my friend Bruce, is simple. </span></div>
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The most important choice is how we treat people.</div>
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What remains is kindness. <br />
What remains is love.</div>
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Bruce and I cried a little bit more together that evening before we parted ways. The next few years brought many changes in our lives. My classroom was moved and I had a new evening custodian, Bruce was on and off work, I became a much more efficient teacher (spending less evenings slumped over my computer in exhaustion and more actually living an adult life) and eventually left for my first maternity leave. Shortly after my son was born, I learned that Bruce had passed away. I wept for my friend, but mostly for myself. I would never see his tall white-haired frame rounding the corner to greet me with a smile, we would never share a laugh or a story or a lukewarm Coke again.<br />
I rejoiced that he was free from pain.</div>
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But cried because he didn't know. </div>
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He didn't know the impact he made on my life, the little golden thread of friendship woven into the tapestry of my being. I had been blessed just from being a beneficiary of his kindness and warmth at a time when I was a little bit lonely and more than a little bit tired.</div>
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And he'd never know because he thought he was just being himself. . .emptying the trash, doing his job, sharing a smile on the way. Never imagining that there was anything special or "golden" about it.<br />
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I am also imagining that there are some things you just don't know, too.</div>
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There are people out there whose lives you are touching today that will remember you for years to come. </div>
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You are weaving yourself into the tapestry of the world by your mere presence in it.</div>
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Just you. . .showing up at work or yoga or preschool, just you. . .going to the grocery store, going to church or the gym or the library. Just you. . .working on your latest project, taking that conference call, picking up the mail or the dry cleaning, posting on Facebook, reading stories to your kids, taking your car for an oil change. </div>
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Yet even below our awareness, through the simple living of our daily life, we can be making a difference in someone else's.</div>
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Who knows what stranger or friend our kind smiles are touching today? Who really needed a laugh and we gave it to them? Who was lonely and our "hello" made them feel less alone? Who saw our F<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">acebook post and it gave them encouragement? </span></div>
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Were you the answer to someone's prayer today? Was that kind word you said going to be a golden thread in someone's tapestry, the way Bruce was in mine?</div>
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It's awe-inspiring to imagine the impact you are making in everyday ways.</div>
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So, just keep being you, little golden thread.</div>
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You're being woven into so many people's lives, and all you have to do is be yourself.</div>
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We all have a lot of choices to make today, and sometimes we just aren't going to know.</div>
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But the most important choice is how we treat people.</div>
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What remains is kindness. <br />
What remains is love.</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Hope and faith will both come to an end when we die. But love will remain. Love is eternal. Love comes from God and returns to God. When we die, we will lose everything that life gave us except love. The love with which we lived our lives is the life of God within us. It is the divine, indestructible core of our being. This love not only will remain, but will also bear fruit from generation to generation.</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Henri </em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Nouwen</em></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-3879294041453025052015-12-18T12:42:00.001-08:002015-12-18T12:47:01.365-08:00Wonder.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRvwXuLf1NxbvmcMUzM7yfAcjTsnBtUnq1YFyTSEsDSy9Th2YInMEwZp9FqNXgrOPerrM05Y5MXqbQfPfOGzrnpIg79vVzFtx1U9yX6P-u-FyYtMKrKSCMtm9pk3di-PqvbOat1JWqI-H/s1600/2015-12-16+10.30.05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRvwXuLf1NxbvmcMUzM7yfAcjTsnBtUnq1YFyTSEsDSy9Th2YInMEwZp9FqNXgrOPerrM05Y5MXqbQfPfOGzrnpIg79vVzFtx1U9yX6P-u-FyYtMKrKSCMtm9pk3di-PqvbOat1JWqI-H/s400/2015-12-16+10.30.05.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meijer joy.</td></tr>
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My kids are my teachers. </div>
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I started out parenting with the notion that somehow the goal of my parenting should be teaching my kids how to become functioning adults. That task seems a little daunting since I barely consider myself adept at "adulting". Changing your oil, balancing your checkbook, remembering to renew your license plates, buying life insurance, scheduling your dental visit. . .adulting is so boring. Who wants to prepare for that?</div>
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And then there are my kids. Hardly anything is boring to them. A bug! A funny cloud! A red bird! A piece of candy! Going to the Library!! Little Caesars Pizza! Watching The Lego Movie for the millionth time! Pancakes! Minecraft! The joy meter is high for whatever. Paul and I took them to downtown Indy a few years ago to see the lights and they were literally RUNNING down the street- "LOOK! A parking meter! LOOK!!! A man playing a saxophone!!" All of the things that our adult eyes gloss over were the most wondrous things ever, we hardly even needed lights to make it magic. They were making such a spectacle Paul and I agreed that perhaps we should get out more. (Is the grocery store "getting out"? If so, I'm nailing it.)</div>
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A lady stopped me in Meijer yesterday and pulled it all into focus for me. Meijer is full of blessings these days. I used to kind of dread going to Meijer before I had kids. . .it's huge, so many choices, pushing around a big heavy cart, trying to remember everything on my list. . .meh. Add tiny kids to that mix. . .eeeek! One time. . .true story. . .I actually almost blacked out in the frozen food section with a Baby Bjorn full of Daniel on my chest. The combination of trying to grocery shop for my family and some majorly messed up postpartum thyroid levels left me crumpled on the floor next to the chicken nuggets at east side Meijer. People sort of side stepped past me like I was just another crazy person. And maybe I was. (Seven years ago was a hard time.) But now that I have Noah, Meijer is an outing that I truly look forward to. I tell him we are going to Meijer and he squeals with glee. He skip-runs into Meijer, his feet light with joy. We stop and greet the greeter and catch up on his life. Noah thinks his name is Penny because he always gives him a coin to ride Sandy, and he always walks away shouting, "Bye, Penny!! See you later!!" We then visit the lobsters, the fish, the toys, swing through the home goods and hit up the seasonal decorations. We stop and make friends with employees and customers and take our sweet time, since mostly I'm just stocking up on beer, whiskey and random things like molasses and tahini you just can't find at Aldi. Yesterday, as Noah was gleefully looking at the fish and shouting out all kinds of exciting things about the ones in each tank, this friendly customer rolled up and stopped by us. She smiled as she watched Noah running back and forth in front of the fish tank.</div>
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"Wow, we should all be like that, shouldn't we?"</div>
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"I know," I said. "Don't you just love the excitement?"</div>
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"Yes. If we were all a little more like that the world would be a better place," she paused for another moment before pushing her cart down the dog food aisle, leaving me behind with a smile and new eyes for Noah.</div>
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She is so right! What a wonderful world it would be. And what a privilege it is to be a parent, to be in the presence of these tiny teachers. Because of them, it's possible to get excited about trains and fire trucks and inflatable Christmas decorations and maybe even Little Caesars pizza. Through children, we get to experience the magic and the wonder of childhood again, and isn't it just what we needed? <span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> The world today seems so. . .overwhelming. Crime and assault rifles and hateful rhetoric and abuse and corruption and war and refugees in crisis fill the news. Despair tempts every time we click an article in our facebook feed or turn on the TV. Yet as Henri Nouwen says, "When I have no eyes for the small signs of God's presence - the smile of a baby, the carefree play of children, the words of encouragement and gestures of love offered by friends - I will always remain tempted to despair."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Truth, Henri.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">God's presence is all around us if we only have eyes to see. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">There's the despairing and weary world. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">And then there is Hope. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">It's no coincidence that Hope arrived as a tiny baby in Bethlehem, a</span>nd is born to us again each day in the spirits of children.</div>
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Daniel, my seven year old, is teetering on that that transition from little kid to big kid. Things that didn't embarrass him before now make him blush, he loves Pokemon and Star Wars and anything potty humor, and friends are now cooler than Mommy. I'll do anything I can to capture his little kid moments one more time, as I feel his babyhood slipping through my fingers with more than a tinge of regret. On our way home from choir practice this week, I heard his sweet little raspy voice from the backseat.</div>
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"Mommy, I know you are probably going to say no, but can we please, please, please go see the Christmas lights tonight?"</div>
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I sighed a little bit thinking about how it was going to be out of my way and I was going to have to make a left turn in crazy traffic to get to the light display at the local farm equipment dealer, and I would also have to figure out how to turn off my headlights which I had never even attempted, and we'd be getting home later. . .man I sounded like an adult in my head. Adult-y Jen started to say "Maybe another time."</div>
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Then I caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror. Those chubby cheeks get thinner with each passing year, but behind the little boy gap-toothed grin I saw his baby face looking back at me, all hopeful, pleading eyes and sweetness. </div>
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I melted.</div>
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"Sure, honey. Just promise that we'll go back again with Daddy, OK??"</div>
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"OK!!! I will! I promise!!"</div>
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And two little boys squealed with glee. I turned the car and took them to the lights. They were glued to the windows of the car as we made our way through the display, oohing and aaahhhing and remembering all of their favorite things.</div>
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"Thank you, Mommy," Daniel said. "This is awesome."</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">I am so glad I didn't get so busy adulting that I missed the lights sparkling in his eyes, the pure, unfiltered joy and wonder.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">And as I navigated my van through the winding path, my eyes couldn't help but sparkle, too. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Help me see with new eyes, Lord.</span></div>
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Help me be tender and hopeful like Daniel.</div>
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Help me wonder and dream like Philip.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Help me imagine and giggle like Joshua.</span></div>
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Help me love and rejoice like Noah.</div>
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Help me see through their eyes, which are so much like Yours.</div>
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And I'm just going to leave this right here. . .</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjltRNpQQ3g" target="_blank">A baby just like you</a> (by John Denver, written with Joe Henry for his son, Zachary.)</div>
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The season is upon us now<br />
A time for gifts and giving<br />
As the year draws to its close<br />
I think about my living</div>
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Of Christmastime when I was young<br />
The magic and the wonder<br />
But colors dull and candles dim<br />
And dark my standing under</div>
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Oh little angel, shining light<br />
You've set my soul to dreaming<br />
You've given back my joy in life<br />
And filled me with new meaning</div>
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A savior king was born that day<br />
A baby just like you<br />
And as the wise men came with gifts<br />
I've come with my gift too</div>
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That peace on earth fills up your time<br />
That brotherhood surrounds you<br />
That you may know the warmth of love<br />
And wrap it all around you</div>
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It's just a wish, a dream I'm told<br />
From days when I was young<br />
Merry Christmas little Zachary<br />
Merry Christmas everyone</div>
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Merry Christmas little Zachary<br />
Merry Christmas everyone.</div>
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Now if that doesn't make your eyes sparkle. . . :)</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-69031655744893538862015-12-09T04:06:00.000-08:002015-12-09T08:19:32.380-08:00Safety- what I wish I would have known.<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
I just watched an<a href="http://www.prettyloaded.org/" target="_blank"> online video training women about safety</a> and I had a flashback to my early twenties when my roommate, Winnie, and I were just out of college and enjoying the freedom of our first "real" apartment. <br />
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We had so much fun in our apartment together. I would pick up my grandma and she would come over and cook with us, we'd have friends over to watch the first season of American Idol, Winnie would practice her cheerleading moves in the large mirror in her bathroom and I would spend hours modeling outfits from my huge walk-in closet. We weren't home much because we both worked a lot (she as an engineer/dancer and I as a first-year teacher) and we had boyfriends that we spent a lot of time with, so often we were just home to sleep. But, at least it was a pretty place to sleep!</div>
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And this wasn't a dirty college apartment like the one we subleased during summer classes at Purdue, but a beautiful brand-new apartment with tray ceilings and real furniture and a huge, open kitchen. It was located in a central area close to the interstate and shopping and even though it was on a main road, felt very secluded and quiet because it was in the back of the apartment complex. We had selected a first floor apartment because we liked the floor plan and architectural details, and we loved the convenience of no stairs or doors between us and the parking lot. We never gave the "open" model of our apartment complex any thought, we just felt it was easier to not have to buzz people in and open and close and unlock extra doors when unloading groceries.</div>
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Then, on an early spring night I was jarred awake shortly after midnight by the sound of my roommate screaming "JENNIFER!!!!!!", accompanied by the loudest banging I had ever heard. I jumped out of bed and ran down the little hall to find Winnie, phone in hand, frantically dialing 911 (while meanwhile screaming "I'm calling 911!" at the top of her lungs) as the door to our apartment shook on its hinges. I didn't think, I just started screaming and threw myself against the door with Winnie to hold it shut as the two men on the other side were gearing up and charging towards it. After the third attempt our door was hanging off of the hinges at the top but still standing by the force of our tiny bodies pushing against it with all of our might. The predators must have determined that the screaming and banging at this point was too loud and ran off. By the time the police arrived, we had piled up furniture against our door to hold it shut, and we were shaking and crying as we huddled on our love seat together, still terrified they would return.</div>
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Winnie recounted the story of how the events unfolded, and it was clear how her wise actions saved us from something awful. Close to midnight, someone knocked on the door to our apartment. I was already asleep, but Winnie was still awake working and heard the knocking. She went to the door and peeked through the peephole to see two men standing there in our hallway, wearing seasonally inappropriate clothing. "That's funny," she thought. It was a warm and breezy spring night, and they were wearing winter hats and large, dark coats. At this point, Win thought that maybe they were just at the wrong house, so she ignored it and went back to her room.</div>
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Then they knocked again.</div>
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She didn't answer.</div>
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And again.</div>
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She stayed still.</div>
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Winnie was getting nervous. This seemed more intentional than "wrong apartment" , but she wasn't going to take the bait. She didn't wake me up, but she huddled on her bed awake and alert. Then, she heard a knocking on her window. Now she was really terrified, too terrified to move. In her memory, she feels like this all lasted about 15 minutes as heard the two men going around the outside of our apartment, as she lay there in her bed shaking. They tried her window and the patio door that led into the courtyard before they finally returned to the main door in the hallway. Winnie pressed herself against the door to listen, and heard one say to the other, "If we go at it together, we should be able to get in." That was last thing she heard before the first terrible bang shook our door and I woke up to the sound of her screaming.</div>
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We were so, so lucky.</div>
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Later that night (a night in which we obviously didn't sleep), long after the police had left and we were still desperately trying to contact the maintenance guy, Zach, to come fix our door, I went into my room and noticed that I had my window open just a crack. It was so pretty that night, I went to sleep with it just like that to enjoy the breeze. What if they had seen that crack of a window behind the bushes in front of it?? I shuddered and slammed it shut. There were so many "what if's". Thank God we were OK.</div>
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The next day after work, we went to every apartment in our building to explain to them what had happened. Our neighbors across the hall said, "Oh, yeah. We heard that. We didn't know what was going on." (???!!!!?????!!!!) Our neighbor upstairs whom we had never met, gave us his phone number. "You call me if ANYONE bothers you," he said. "I'll be down in a heartbeat." We felt comforted, but of course not comforted enough to still live there. In the light of what had almost happened all of the mistakes we had made when selecting our apartment were glaring. We broke our lease and left intact with many lessons which I hope someone else can benefit from.</div>
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1. <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Choose apartment location wisely.</strong> All of the things we loved about our apartment were also the things that made it easy for predators to target us. That easy interstate access and lots of traffic around it makes it easy for strangers to watch you without raising a single red flag. The location: First floor, secluded at back of the apartment complex, backed up to an office park (the predators didn't even have to drive into our complex to get to our apartment, they likely parked in the office complex adjacent and walked right through the thin line of bushes to get to our building) and having no doors where you need to buzz in visitors. . .all of these things were stacked against us. Even in the same complex, if we had selected a higher level apartment in a more central and prominent area, we would not have been such easy targets.</div>
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2. <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> Know your neighbors</strong>. Not everyone in an apartment complex is friendly, but pay attention to who lives in your building. We did not really do that, it didn't feel important to get to know them if they didn't want to say more than "hi.". But if the young family across the hall knew us and cared about us, they might have done something when they heard people trying to break down our door. (Again- ???!!!!?????) It never hurts to put yourself out there and say more than "hi" to your neighbors! Lesson learned.</div>
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3. <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Be aware of your surroundings.</strong> The police said that it is likely that these men followed one of us home from an event to find out where we lived. Situational awareness helps. We were pretty oblivious most times coming home, just focused on getting in the door with whatever we had brought with us.<br />
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4. <b> Listen to your mom.</b> I am pretty sure my mom warned me about ALL of these things and I dismissed it as being overprotective. Moms are smart, they aren't just worrying for no reason. They love you and have imagined every possible scenario to protect you. I know because now I do the same thing!</div>
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They never caught those men, which scares me as to which women they might have targeted next. My roommate and I were so, so fortunate. Although there are surely things we could have done differently or better in that situation, we survived by the grace of God. I hope that in sharing the lessons we learned, it can help another woman to be safe and enjoy her freedom and independence.</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-86013225956148976872015-12-08T14:04:00.000-08:002015-12-08T17:53:57.443-08:00Don't worry.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even Mary had a toddler. ;)</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">After a particularly rough time at mass, one that involved Noah PHYSICALLY EXITING the church at one point on his way to the parking lot (would that he had the keys), I came home just a little bit more weathered and worn. I gave Joshy a marshmallow and sent him to his room to enjoy it and looked over at my sweet little Noah (so rotten just a few minutes before). He looked angelic there in the kitchen, and even though the time was already behind us I felt the behavior was at least worth mentioning. So, I tried to put it in my best two-year-old words as I knelt down in front of him.</span></div>
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"Hey, buddy, I'm kind of sad about Noah at church."</div>
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He stared at me oh-so-innocently.</div>
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"I really need you to stay with mommy, OK?" </div>
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He looked at me thoughtfully. Then, he said in a sweet voice and with a tone wayyyyy beyond his two years. . .</div>
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"It's OK, Mommy. Don't Worry. It's over."</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">I had to try hard not to giggle as he toddled off to his toy train. Leave it to Noah to drop the truth. Noah always says, "Don't Worry." any time I look sad. He's my little living, breathing Gospel. And he has a point, why worry? Oh, wait, I'm a mom! That's what I do! I have a gift of finding something to worry about in any situation. Maybe you share that, too. But outside of my little mama worries like if my kids are getting enough sleep and enough protein and what's with that cough and let me go in and make sure that they are still breathing, I wrestle with that nagging worry that I am somehow not the best mom for my kids. Like, if Phil had a different mom maybe she would have found out a solution for his eczema by now, or if Daniel had a different mom maybe he wouldn't have been so overlooked as the perfect toddler and preschooler he was, or if they all had a different mom maybe they would be more athletic, or have better opportunities in life or WHATEVER. The list of my perceived failings loves to knock, and it's a constant battle to keep them all outside my door.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">I did hear Father say, however, just before Noah disappeared down the aisle and excused himself to the narthex to play with the angel tree toys, something really profound. <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">God chose Mary to be Jesus' mother before Mary was even CONCEIVED</strong>. God wasn't like, "Oh, that teenager Mary looks like a good one. Maybe I'll pick her." He CREATED Mary to be Jesus' mom. <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">And that same level of intention goes for each of us.</strong> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Boom. . .drop the mic. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">How humbling and how empowering it is to think that God <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">chose</strong> Philip, Daniel, Joshua and Noah for me- not just before <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">they</strong> were born, but <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">before I was born</strong>!? As if my whole life and the whole universe was leading up to this moment?? And yours, too? </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Out in the narthex in the shade of the angel tree, I met another mama with a toddler doing the same thing as mine. She was clearly my new soul sista because she was wearing an Evy's Tree hoodie (obsessed!) so we smiled at each other and laughed about toddlers at church and how somehow we thought this was going to be easier than bringing all of our kids after school without our husbands. Is there really ever a convenient time to bring a 2-year-old to mass? Probably not. I laughed and told her that I figured Mary understood. She's our girl. I mean, Mary had a two-year-old once, too! And I am sure that even though Jesus was without sin, he was still T-W-O! Because when you think about it, it's not like Noah is sinning when he is misbehaving in church. He doesn't even know how to sin! He just wants to explore his world and pursue his personal agenda, very little of which involves sitting in a pew, no matter how engaging the music and the sermon. And when you think about it, how lovely that he feels comfortable enough in church to trot right up the aisle and find the angel tree all by himself, and is so familiar with its layout that he can navigate solo to the side exit to the parking lot? Sure, I'll go with that.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">And, you know, some people gave me some grumpy looks, I'm not going to lie. I have a standard apologetic look that I give people when my kids are wiggleworms at church, which is met with a face that expresses either:</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">A. Sympathy (Oh, I'm so glad that's not me!)</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">B. Empathy (Oh, sweetie, I've been there!)</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">C. Apathy (Must. avoid. eye. contact.)</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">D. Antipathy (I will give this mom the grumpiest face I have so that she never wants to sit near me again and she knows what an epic failure she is). </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">I will say that choice D. keeps me humble. Because, you know what, as much as I would love my kids to behave like angels so I don't look like an idiot, I've been around long enough to know that kids have a mind of their own and I might just end up looking like a fool because of their behavior. It has happened MANY TIMES BEFORE. It will happen again. But I've also emptied myself enough to know how much I need Jesus, so I am going to get myself at His table whatever it takes. I don't need to worry too much about the shifting opinions of the world if I'm right in my heart with Him. And if I just stare at the floor or over people's heads while exiting the sanctuary, it's like I don't even know if the people have chosen A, B, C or D! You kind of feel the D's burning into you, but just walk faster, right???</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Plus, I am so confident that our girl Mary understands. Although it was never written down in the records, the evidence of the years of care she gave in raising Jesus show. And despite the crazy today, I am now more aware than ever that our children were chosen for us so long ago and with a Love so big that we can't even wrap our minds around it, the same way Mary was chosen for Jesus. That perspective makes it easier to dismiss those voices of worry when they pop into my head, and compels me to live my life today with more intention. Before I know it, <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">it's going to be over,</strong> just like Noah said. I'll be the person in the pew choosing A. B. C. or D. as the younger mama wrestles with a crazy toddler in the pew. For the record, </span>I am planning on giving her "Look B". And if I see her afterwards, I'll be <strong style="line-height: 1.57143em;">sure</strong> to tell her she's doing a great job, too. </div>
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Don't worry, mom.</div>
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You're doing just right.</div>
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And Mary's got your back.</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Shine until tomorrow, let it be</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.</em></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-79886908341270639112015-12-01T19:06:00.000-08:002015-12-01T19:06:05.338-08:00Lonely.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning as I stuck the last yogurt in a lunch and peeled the last banana, I realized that I had once again failed to plan enough food to last until my next trip to Aldi. Silly Jen, trying to buy groceries on Saturday to last until Wednesday!! So, since Noah and I are super European like that, we headed to Aldi after preschool dropoff to pick up some essentials to get us through the day. . .bananas, milk, apples, frozen broccoli, yogurt, and marshmallows. ESSENTIALS.</div>
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If you have shopped at Aldi before, you're familiar with the cozy shopping experience. If you see someone while you are getting your shopping carts, it's pretty much guaranteed you will cross paths with them again at least five more times before you leave the store. I never say goodbye to a friend I run into in Aldi until I am pulling out of the parking lot, otherwise it is awkward when you run into them four more times. How many times can one say goodbye, really?? There are just no goodbyes at Aldi!! Today as I was getting my cart, there was a sweet older gentleman right next to me. I would later find out as we stopped to chat next to the jelly that he is turning NINETY next Monday, but we'll get to that in a second. It all started with a smile somewhere around where the potato chips transition to corn chips in Aisle 1. I smiled at him, he smiled at us. Smiles are magic bridges. Noah said "Hi" as our new friend leaned over the cart and asked him if he was excited for Christmas. Since the only thing I had to do was postponed today and we got nothin' but time, I started to tell him about the boys' excitement this morning for December and how they were going to have a hard time waiting 24 more days for Santa. We laughed together thinking about little kids and Christmas.</div>
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"I'm still like that a little bit," he said.</div>
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"Well, you're going to have to wait 24 more days, too!" I teased him.</div>
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"I know." His face got just a little bit sad and I could tell he was thinking. "Well, maybe not as excited as I used to be." He paused for a little bit before he brightened. "But I have grandkids and even great-grandkids now!"</div>
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"Oh!!" I replied. I love it when people tell me they have grandkids, because then you know they are going to have a lot to tell you! Plus, I have the magic question to ask. I say, "Do your grandkids live close by?" I don't know when it popped into my head to start asking this question at the grocery store, but it really feels like the key that unlocks some great conversations with people. I probably ask it at least five times a week and it never fails me. </div>
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Today was no exception.</div>
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Time froze as we stopped there by the condiments and he started to answer. He told me about his grandkids, and his grandson's wife who has breast cancer. She's only 32. They have a four year old and a one year old. She's fighting it and she's almost done with chemo, but she's got a mastectomy and a hysterectomy coming up. My heart started to break thinking of this mama. "THIRTY TWO??" I asked, with tears forming in my eyes.</div>
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"Thirty two," he replied. "With those two little ones at home. I wish I could go see them, but I can't travel anymore. My wife is in a nursing home and I don't want to leave her." </div>
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Ouch. My heart started to break a little bit more.</div>
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"Ohhhhh." I said, and I must have looked sad because he changed the subject.</div>
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"How long have you been married?" he asked.</div>
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"Twelve years!" I said proudly. "We just had our anniversary on Sunday! How about you?"</div>
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"My wife and I have been married for sixty nine years!"</div>
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"SIXTY NINE!! Wow!! That is really special."</div>
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"I go see her every day at her nursing home."</div>
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"Is it close by?" (I don't know why geography is my favorite question, but whatever.)</div>
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"It's in Greenfield. I go see her every day but it makes me so sad because there are people there who never have visitors, they go for months without someone coming to see them. They just sit there. . .all alone."</div>
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At this point I'm really starting to tear up, imagining all of the people at that nursing home with no one to come and see them. Meanwhile I am mentally trying to calculate how I could find out who they are and how fast I could get to them and maybe I don't even need groceries if I just run to Greenfield right now??? </div>
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"Oh, that makes me so sad, too," was all I could say.</div>
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We stood there in silence for a moment.</div>
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"Loneliness really IS the greatest poverty isn't it?" I said, the words of Mother Teresa spinning in my mind.</div>
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"You're telling me. I go home to an empty house after this. It's just. . .lonely."</div>
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I felt like there was nothing more and a million things more I could say to that.</div>
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We started to walk, not really saying goodbye (Aldi rule) and we shopped our way through the rest of the store. Noah stopped to play with the toys, I talked to a lady about fruitcake, laughed with a couple who were arguing over whether the husband needed Star Wars figurines and got all of our groceries (for today). Eventually my new friend and I ended up past the checkout at the bagging table together.</div>
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"I hope you have a Merry Christmas!" he said, as he pushed his cart past me toward the sliding door.</div>
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I patted him on the back. "You, too," I said. "Merry Christmas." How much feeling could I put into those words to let him know how sorry I was to hear about the loneliness and his wife and his 32-year-old granddaughter-in-law with cancer? Merry Christmas could barely touch it. As I watched him shuffle his cart outside I wished I had gotten his name. </div>
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His name!! Maybe I could still get it. I scanned the parking lot for him as I left, maybe it wasn't too late? Maybe I could still find out who he was?? I thought he would be loading his groceries by me, or I might see him at the cart return, but. . . no. I stood by my van for a moment and watched the vehicles of the other customers we had been shopping with pull out of their respective spaces. Still he was nowhere to be seen. I reluctantly turned away. As I pulled out of the parking lot and headed off on the short drive home, I turned over our conversation with tears in my eyes.</div>
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Will Paul and I get to share that many years of marriage? </div>
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There's no way to know. </div>
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But today it feels even more important to love and appreciate my husband now, even in the midst of our thick and messy days of parenting young kids where it feels like everything- our time and money and patience- can get stretched so very thin.</div>
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Will I be alone in a nursing home someday? </div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">There's no way to</span><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> know. </span> </div>
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But right now it feels even more important to hold space in my heart for the lonely people, to go seek them out, to bring a smile and some comfort and human connection wherever they are found. </div>
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Could I get cancer like that young mom? </div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">There's no way to</span><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> know. </span> </div>
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But just thinking about it makes it feel even more important to live gently and tenderly in the time I have, appreciating the health I have and holding tight the people I have. </div>
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Will I live to be 90? </div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">There's no way to</span><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> know. </span> </div>
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But today it feels even more important to remember that life is long (if we are lucky) and will be full of all sorts of times. Busy times and crazy times and times full of little children on our laps, these times where we spend all day being needed and only dream of going somewhere alone. The days where we can barely buy enough food to feed them all will transition to the days where we are pushing the cart through the grocery store just picking up a little milk, a pack of cookies, a few eggs for just ourselves. </div>
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There will be all kinds of times to be sure, and this wild and crazy and full and stretched one isn't forever.</div>
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Will I ever see my new friend again? </div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">There's no way to</span><span style="line-height: 1.57143em;"> know. </span> </div>
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But there is no doubt in my mind that I was meant to run out of milk and bananas, so I could be there this morning, so I could meet this kind and brave man and learn from him.</div>
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But maybe I'll start going to Aldi on Tuesdays now. Just in case.</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2104595387318969146.post-6500695868992930822015-11-19T13:54:00.001-08:002015-11-19T14:03:53.889-08:00Soft and fluffy.<br />
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I need to admit something. I have a little problem. A fluffy, white problem to be precise. And no, it's not the kids unstuffing the couch on a regular basis.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPKY2V3nhUoQKUJUja_o3cRRV7Tg684cIpWAcVxmJNopqlaM0dKYVg1-k4_3WfShGSRoQmaCW-lzZdtQsqFE9L-72zyk_UsAeA18XoR_j0JlomyXh7sVJ7T50ov-staDy_DRd_a-aieBv/s1600/IMG_1581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPKY2V3nhUoQKUJUja_o3cRRV7Tg684cIpWAcVxmJNopqlaM0dKYVg1-k4_3WfShGSRoQmaCW-lzZdtQsqFE9L-72zyk_UsAeA18XoR_j0JlomyXh7sVJ7T50ov-staDy_DRd_a-aieBv/s320/IMG_1581.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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(That's just a minor fluffy, white distraction.) </div>
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It's marshmallows.</div>
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Confession: I love marshmallows. They are so cute!! And sweet and soft and fluffy, just like me!! And my kids love marshmallows. </div>
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How do you think I get them to smile for family pictures??</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTg322li8hcsNo6VPaiKq1v50Kf-VLozTN8i6ANPIWZ-ZBgL71_zHLtPWfEtmrclG_Ai2ifCkv1JQxxvJ3jYpk34_0epaWZGoV3j196lzE2jtRrngLCO2j82AXHoRWRpul0eJflkQp3Vl/s1600/1957640_10152805058906368_951304029868526447_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTg322li8hcsNo6VPaiKq1v50Kf-VLozTN8i6ANPIWZ-ZBgL71_zHLtPWfEtmrclG_Ai2ifCkv1JQxxvJ3jYpk34_0epaWZGoV3j196lzE2jtRrngLCO2j82AXHoRWRpul0eJflkQp3Vl/s320/1957640_10152805058906368_951304029868526447_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hello, everyone gets a marshmallow if you smile!!!</div>
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How do you think I get Phil to take his allergy medicine? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x4WYVli_dfWsvj0Omrw31zKC8JxL-zGnJD5flnaGPV_9fpR7R9sdidZE5Ti3iUM3He8wWUuOCILQJIz5L_BI_ljkBzD2mrRyCm_s054pbFISv4qKubLT7Y4xcaygGQ-fmeFpVv6DRX3O/s1600/_MG_9666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x4WYVli_dfWsvj0Omrw31zKC8JxL-zGnJD5flnaGPV_9fpR7R9sdidZE5Ti3iUM3He8wWUuOCILQJIz5L_BI_ljkBzD2mrRyCm_s054pbFISv4qKubLT7Y4xcaygGQ-fmeFpVv6DRX3O/s320/_MG_9666.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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HELLO!!! Put it in a marshmallow!! Works for pets AND 2nd graders.</div>
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If we are having a rough day, I'll just make it rain mini marshmallows in my kitchen Lorax-style. </div>
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<a href="http://www.kitchenstewardship.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Lorax-movie-bears-marshmallows.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.kitchenstewardship.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Lorax-movie-bears-marshmallows.png" height="172" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22px;"> PROBLEM SOLVED. </span></div>
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Yesterday morning, my Dad and I were watching Noah run around the house in a circle. Wiiiiiiith a marshmallow in his mouth. My Dad looked at me like, "Um, Jen?" Busted. I am pretty sure I missed most of parenting 101 but I do remember something on the back of the marshmallow bag about being a choking hazard. I might as well hand him a dry cleaning bag to play with and let him hang off the mini blinds while he carries that thing around in his mouth. Dad and I extracted it and went on our way, but it wasn't long until Noah got in the pantry and found himself some of THESE.</div>
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OK, OK, I am going to admit. Buying these was not my best choice. But I feel like I say "no" to my kids so many times, for so many things they want. They are the askingest pigeons in town and I am like the bus driver all. day. long. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7YmDmmlsZvIR7a_MsHM2Acgw9LNOPqBZY2LNUwHkmq6Wdp1Rc3Iis1k2Inbuwsww-_DRbJ1jQD0V4r2S6l0_0lOXzVPdw82IF3RvRtssw2GN2VEwKLxSxvxX1B_TJC7qeAUfsEeaYZA/s1600/don%2527t+let+the+pigeon+drive+the+bus+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7YmDmmlsZvIR7a_MsHM2Acgw9LNOPqBZY2LNUwHkmq6Wdp1Rc3Iis1k2Inbuwsww-_DRbJ1jQD0V4r2S6l0_0lOXzVPdw82IF3RvRtssw2GN2VEwKLxSxvxX1B_TJC7qeAUfsEeaYZA/s400/don%2527t+let+the+pigeon+drive+the+bus+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And honestly, most of the time they aren't even asking for much and I am not able to give it to them. They don't even want to drive the bus! So I always say yes to the extra hug and kiss and when they asked for the $1.99 bag of Jumbo Marshmallows at Aldi?? Of course I said yes! Make it rain!! And there isn't even food coloring in these, ALDI, BABY! 90 calories!!?? #worthit.</div>
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Paul came into the family room last night and said, "Honey, we need to talk."</div>
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(uh oh.)</div>
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"What is it, dear?"</div>
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"Honey? Why do you keep buying marshmallows?"</div>
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"Um, I don't know." (Um, I do know. Magically delicious.)</div>
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"Do you know how many bags of marshmallows we have in the pantry?"</div>
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"I have no idea." (Actually, I sort of had an approximate idea)</div>
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"Like FIVE, Jen. Like one on every shelf. I think that's enough marshmallows. Marshmallows aren't even good for kids!" and he looked at me with that sort of sweet half-bewildered half-disappointed face you might use to talk to a puppy. "Are you buying them every week?"</div>
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"Mayyyybbbeeee????"</div>
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"Honey, I don't even have many opinions about parenting our kids or what they eat, but this. This, I am pretty sure of. Less marshmallows."</div>
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"OK, honey."</div>
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I took some time to ponder that. I am sure a few years ago I would have said "I CAN FEED THE KIDS AS MANY MARSHMALLOWS AS I WANT, DAMMIT!!" and left it at that, but I am slowly learning that occasionally Paul has valid points that bear weight on the parenting of our children.</div>
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So, I pondered it all of the way through yoga (<a href="http://manythegifts.blogspot.com/2015/06/namaste.html" target="_blank">where I try to work on my marshmallow belly</a>- a problem more related to four kids than actual consumption of marshmallows) until about halfway through half-boat I burst out laughing.</div>
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And couldn't stop laughing.</div>
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Until Paul could no longer do yoga either and finally relented with, "WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT!!??"</div>
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"Honey, you just had to have a marshmallow intervention."</div>
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"I know, Jen. It was serious."</div>
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And we were both laughing.</div>
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"MARSHMALLOW INTERVENTION!!"</div>
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There are worse things that could happen. Marshmallow interventions are my new favorite thing. I am glad I took the time to listen to Paul because I think that was necessary. Five years ago, I might not have done that, I would have made up a story in my head about how Paul doesn't really understand what it's like to be me and how deep my love is for marshmallows and for our children. Also, if I hadn't gotten defensive I might have taken the marshmallow intervention very personally and started to beat myself up. I have also slowly been learning that mom guilt is not productive either. </div>
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Later that night I got on Pinterest quickly to look for something and the first post on my feed was "The Perfect Schedule for a Two Year Old." I took the bait and was immediately disappointed to find that the perfect schedule for a two year old did not include marshmallows or PBS kids or running errands. Well, crap. Should I beat myself up? But I look at my Noah. So happy, so loved. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTQpMKLxLIvfFAjLOg488bj2YXDA-LpRBeWIpZrgKjDem0JzMeVVL4sGZ2e6fSkgjo178v37ahGsVDHBfcsgpj8VT0e0scMS9LdOhqqJWhfrn2mjaaJx5wbMnxCuqQY73cNrVz1VpbuFY/s1600/mobile-2015-02-03+12.46.22-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTQpMKLxLIvfFAjLOg488bj2YXDA-LpRBeWIpZrgKjDem0JzMeVVL4sGZ2e6fSkgjo178v37ahGsVDHBfcsgpj8VT0e0scMS9LdOhqqJWhfrn2mjaaJx5wbMnxCuqQY73cNrVz1VpbuFY/s320/mobile-2015-02-03+12.46.22-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And I decided that was great for that mama and her two year old but I would do what was great for mine. And maybe I could take a tip and throw in some more crafts when I got around to it, that looked nice. </div>
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We learn, we move forward. We know better, we do better. You take what works for you, and disregard the rest. We owe it to ourselves to be gentle. I have to be soft and fluffy with myself, just like a marshmallow. Only with (slightly) less marshmallows. </div>
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I can do this. One day a time.</div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06729316494452223838noreply@blogger.com1