The Tattoo Every Parent Needs

Photo: Meena Kadri, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Yulya Balaeva, Creative Commons, cc license

She's got it tattooed right up her arm, this mom friend I know. You can see it curving up through rust-colored vines.

And I think of it this morning as I plunge hands into scalding hot dish water, and slide in the yolk-encrusted plates and swirled red and yellow congealed ketchup and mustard. Smells emanate from a mysterious bowl until a molding tomato slips into the dishwater.

I know. One busy weekend away and the dishes mount to high heaven.

The Mother's Day herbs and flowers sit jaunty on the table still, as I deliberate which pot to plant them in, and soap bubbles rise up to cover this batch of dishes.

Because after the accolades or not, the happy Mother's Day or not, the next day still has dirty dishes and garbage to take out. And I always have a choice. Am I doing this for them, for their thanks? If that's the case, then any accidental non-recognition has the power to sap me of joy, or only-temporarily infuse me with it.

I think of her tattoo this morning, after a weekend where I was gone all day Saturday for work, my husband was gone all day Saturday, and my teen babysat her little brother for hours, while college-boy crammed for exams. If my audience is them, then I am controlled by oscillating emotions.

My scruffy green dishrag swipes softened egg yolk from a plate and it slides off with ease now, after time in the water. Setting it on the rinse side of my sink, I stare out the window, think of the Chicago airport, and feel around in the sink for another dirty plate.

"Where are you from?" the ball-capped guy asked me, after I shrugged my shoulders at the TSA security delay causing us all to merge lanes. We stood there, barefoot at security, our belongings in plastic bins, attempting to merge two lines of people down to one.

"Minnesota," I smiled.

"I knew you weren't from here," he quipped. I had run into nothing but pleasant people in my short day in Chicago, but his inference was interesting.

Lifting my water faucet at home this morning, I trail hot water over shining dishes and set them aside to dry. I picture my friend's tattoo, and smile.

Her tattoo? The Greek word doulos trails wispy around her delicate freckled wrist.

"I wanted a reminder of who I'm doing all this for each day," she explained quietly, shyly. "The diapering, the dishes, cleaning, you know? It means bondservant to Jesus."

Bondservant is the Greek word for a servant who has chosen to stay on with the family even though they could be released. Their freedom has been secured yet, out of love, they choose to stay on with their master permanently. It implies respect, loyalty, deep feeling. Standing next to a wooden door post, a special earring would be driven through the servant's ear, publicly marking the difference.

"I wanted a daily reminder of who I am really serving each day," she tells me, softly tracing the tattoo with her fingers.

The dishes are done, and I step over to crush some rosemary leaves between my fingers, releasing the tantalizing aroma into my kitchen. My family's gifts are beautiful and thoughtful to me, and I love serving them. I know how prone I am to grumble on some days, though. Remind me then, will you, who I'm really serving? My desire is for that joy and kindness to mark me fragrantly.


(Linking too with Ann.)

Can You Picture When It Switched For You?

 I remember when it switched.

You had always been my comfort-Mom, the one I called upstairs late at night when my middle school friends and I had scared ourselves with sleepover ghost stories. Sara's tales of a come-alive puppet proved too much for us that summer, and suddenly my five-foot tall rag doll Jenny was terrifying. We could almost see it sitting up and slipping nearer, so we yelled as loud as we could-- Amy, Sara and I-- hoping you could hear us downstairs and across the house. You came, prayed with us, laughed at our foolishness, and probably scolded us some too, but you took the doll and our fear away with you.

Dad was our protector, you were comfort, and all was well with the world. It's not that you two were perfect, but you loved us, you loved God, and you lived authentically before us.

Minnesota corn fields turned to Pennsylvanian's green rolling hills, and then to Liberia's lush African wetlands. Some months into our new home there, it happened.

You and I had been taking long hikes across town to the open air market and back each day, sloshing through mud puddles where the dirt squished up over our flipflops and between our toes, or swirling up cyclones of red dust in the dry season. We carried heavy plastic bags of groceries home each day, and guzzled down water they sold in tiny plastic baggies. In our green cement block house with no electricity, refrigeration wasn't an option, so any perishable foods had to be bought and eaten each day. We feasted on juicy mangoes, creamy avocados, fresh glinting-scaled fish that slapped in dead motion against my legs as we walked, and pineapples.

Wow, our African friends worked hard. We joined them, living with them, beside them, and jumping full-blast into their way of doing life. Squatting between our knees, we rubbed sloshing clothes in buckets by hand, hanging them dripping from clotheslines. You kneeled beside coal pots, blowing red embers to flicker into flame, and you cooked new African dishes each day over steaming metal pots.

At night, our family of five sprawled happy and relaxed under mango trees and in hammocks, listening to neighbors toss jokes between cement block porches and an orchestra of crickets. We loved our life there, but the learning curve was sharp as we struggled to catch up to our strong hard-working African friends.

After months of drawing water from the well, walking miles to and from the market, and the endless loads of laundry by hand, malaria slipped in quiet one night. And that's when it switched.

You were feverish and pale, shaking with chills under as many blankets as we could find in our African home of one hundred degree weather. Tie-dyed sheets flushed crimson and shook under your shivering frail body. Nauseated, dehydrated, and weak, you pulled your sheets to your chin, and I peeked in worried.

It's not that you were ever invincible, but I unwittingly thought you were, and then suddenly you were dangerously ill, and the world stopped.

I brought you water, urged you to drink, and tried to make you laugh. In the kitchen, I reminded my siblings to continue their school, and then numbly chopped potato greens, diced onions, and tried not to burn the rice. Time slowed.

I remember when it switched. And this friendship now, this relationship, is sweeter because of it.

Moms and dads of all ages, we can and should still be comfort to our kids, but when it changes and they get to comfort us as well, that is a good thing too. As sisters, brothers, friends together, we continue. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, to the mom who still comforts me, and yet who lets me comfort and pray for her too. I enjoy doing life together.

(And I am blessed to have a dear sweet mother-in-law as well, whom I enjoy doing life together too. You will get to meet her in another blogpost.)

What Every Comparing-Prone Woman Needs to Know

This lovely woman's photo found here by Dan Hutcheson, Creative Commons, cc

I can see it now. The twelve men hunkered down around a small Middle Eastern table, knees brushing up against each other, carefully trying to edge their muddy feet away from the clothing around them.

Similar to Mardi Gras or the Super Bowl, the city was flooded with people in for the big event of the Passover. Rented rooms, hotels, and banquet halls were going fast, and this leased room didn't appear to have come with a hostess.

With no one there to handout the typical Hospitality Welcome package of a wet towel to clean up from the day's travels, each man had strode in, stood awkwardly by the door for a moment, and then crouched down at the table. Even the marvels of Roman engineering couldn't halt the dust and mud that accumulated after just minutes of treading on the busy roads outside.

Striving to look nonchalant, the twelve men skipped the traditional step of washing off the day's dirt, and stooped low to eat. Scooping fragrant garlic hummus and eggplant mousaka into folds of brown pita bread, they laughed and ate, pausing to pop oiled olives into their mouths.

Mid-meal, their teacher stopped eating, brushed some crumbs from his face, and stood up.

Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power and that he had come from God and was returning to God, so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was around his waist. (John 13:3-5)

I am struck each time I read this by the word "so." Grammatically and linguistically, the two parts of that sentence are linked and clearly connected. Knowing who he was, and where he was going, compelled Jesus to serve. Knowing who he was and his purpose freed him to set aside any needs to prove he was the best, the highest, the most acclaimed. Knowing who he was freed him to serve in humble joyful love.

In my day to day life, when I remember who I am in Jesus and what my purpose in life is, I am freed to humbly serve others. When I remember who God says I am, I don't need to be threatened by others' successes or failures, nor do I need to compare myself, worrying that I am falling short. 

Knowing who we are in God's eyes and why we are here, we can then pause and love others in humble joy. And our true audience? He's watching and smiling. 

The Love that Leaves Us Breathless

Photo: Flickr User: Daniela Silicz, Creative Commons, cc

There is a woman I know. Blonde hair hangs short on her neck as she races up and down stairs a million times a day, laughing breathlessly at the pedometer she wore for a week to count the steps. Steps that swept in love through peanut butter and jelly toast to a daughter with special needs, steps that answered worried calls from a child who wants to know she's near. My blonde haired friend kneads bread, measures gluten-free alternatives, and makes suppers from scratch, because that speaks love to her family's health. She hikes steps countless times a day, and her love for family tumbles over.

There is a woman I know. Brown curls tease the sides of her face whether she is cracking jokes or sharing about hard days. Wrapping arms round her kids, they pray "in Jesus' big and strong name," bringing all things to him. And on those hard days, when child mental health anxieties flail tiny limbs against a mother's safe body, this woman cushions in silent weeping love. In between occasional childhood angst, laughter rolls across a kitchen that smells deliciously of egg rolls and home made plum sauce, and her entryway screams welcome. I see love spilling across burnished hardwood floors and scattered shoes.

There is a woman I know.

She looks like you.

I see you. I know the way you care for your family on the days that you are tired. I see it in your kids' faces and their zipped up jackets when we pass in the hall or meet in a store. Scrounging creatively for meals after a tiring day, you still have homework to inquire about, spelling words to glance at, and the mystery of three mismatched socks on the floor.

I see you. The way you work to care for your man, striving to see him --really see him!--to love him, to learn his needs, to want the best marriage, even on the hard days. I see you.

Our God sees you too. You are loved, delighted in, prized. His very name means breath, pneuma, and his love for you tumbles over, spilling out, filling us with life.

There is a woman I know. She looks like you, and her love leaves others breathless.

(and counting with Ann at A Holy Experience...)

How to Be the Mom They See

Lemon and cherry tulips stood in vases tall when I walked into the kitchen, gifts from my man and my look-alike man-child too. "We biked to the store since you had the car," they breathed heavily, grinning, hair tousled by the gusty wind.

"Can we play a game of Speed Scrabble together?" my socialite son asked, dumping plastic tiles across the scuffed table top.

Four year old Daniel had carefully guarded a smushed cupcake and hand-print flower art-piece since nine am Sunday School. Pushing it into my hand now, he offered it to me.

"But Daniel, this is your special cupcake. Are you sure?"

"Mmhmm," he nodded, "It hurts my feelings, and I don't want it anymore."

The red frosting licked off, a chocolate cupcake peeked through inside the zip-lock bag. He must have meant that he didn't want any more of it. I grinned and thanked him. He smiled, and rocked back and forth proudly.

"Mom, can I serve you?" she asked, my willowy daughter, shiny hair bobbing at her chin and catching the light.

"Wow, thank you. That feels odd," I admitted. "Thank you. What do you have in mind?"

Her handwritten card offered babysitting as we took a nap, and then a hand massage and manicure. Later that afternoon, I followed her out to the back yard where towels marked off a lounging area in the grass. Nail polish, moisturizing coconut oil, and manicure items were arrayed nearby. Shyly, I sank back into terrycloth, closed my eyes, sought out the bird calls amidst the sound of passing cars, and slipped into peace.

"I love you so much, Mom," she stated quietly, grinning self-consciously.

"I love you too, Morgan. I am so thankful to be your mom. I'm so sorry for the times I don't do a nice job at it." We talked more.

Silence fell from a pure blue sky. The wind and robins blew, and passing cars hummed.

"God, make me worthy. Make me how they see me, help me to be the best mom I can be, reflecting you." Prayers dripped from a humble heart, seeking Him. Gratitude counted gift after gift, increasing my eye to see, and learning to name them anew.

To be the mom they see --to be the mom they need-- drives me to prayer, humility, joy, and to my Father's heart. 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose, and Ann at A Holy Experience.

Underneath the Mom Hat... It Stirs

The sun sinks behind the bustling farm supply store to my right, and pink twilight stains treetops outside my deck window. A moment more and the pink is gone, with navy clouds tangling in the trees.

Kenny G's sax trills, and quiet settles over my home. Four-year old sleeps, my teens have disappeared downstairs, and I steal moments.

The stillness seeps in. Once the clamor of dishes and bedtimes pass, we all -- moms and women everywhere -- grab something and sink deep into cushions, quiet, and calm.

For me, tonight, it's a smooth-rolling gel pen and paper to scroll across. Writing wells from deep within, an outlet for me.

What is it for you tonight? What speaks quiet rejuvenation for you?

Carved from an Artist's hands, we all have subtle ways we create--perhaps without even knowing it. I know people who spill art by slicing and dicing savory dishes; by baking hot bread for family; by snipping and stitching fabric or wielding hot glue guns; by freezing beauty through 35 millimeter film and pixels. Others create with splashes of vivid pigment; swirls of oil on canvas; precision pen and inks; or breathtakingly tender moments on a couch with preschoolers and stories that kidnap imaginations. Artists weave words; stamp cards; graphic design; lilt melodies; run with graceful abandon; bring life from gardens deep; and lovingly build up the people near them.

Whatever art stirs in you, friend, steal moments to meet it. 

Ignore the dirty dishes, the scattered toys, the disheveled bedroom for a few minutes. Stop. Quiet yourself. Look up to the Artist who made you, and then create art: on paper, canvas, sheet music, in your home, and in the people around you.

I love hearing from you. What speaks quiet rejuvenation to you today? What art stirs in you? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience to thank the Artist, and with Emily in a Dare to Love Yourself.

Multi-tasking Moms and Stirred Up Spirits

Hissing, bubbling coffee percolates nearby, steam rising from the black appliance top. An airplane drones sleepily overhead as cool breezes pour through my open windows. 

Morning forays into facebook earlier had alerted me to further uprisings in the Middle East. Clicking to BBC world news, I read and prayed, scrolling pages. 

Wiping kitchen counters, slicing cucumbers, and planning an apple cobbler, I prayed for the Middle East, coordinated school, and washed dishes. Daughter draws manga art behind me now, preschooler alternates between being a puppy and waving swords, and teen son recovers from an aggressive 24-hour virus he caught at his daycare job. We wash hands often now, count the hours and wait to see if it has infected our home as well. 

Sipping fresh-brewed coffee, I ponder newly-found words and concepts in the ancient biblical book Haggai. In that setting, God-followers had started strong with some rebuilding work, but after long opposition, they had stopped, assuming it was not the right time. Several years later, God spoke to them saying that now was the time to focus on his rebuilding efforts. He told them to be strong, to give careful thought to their ways, and he said that he would be with them. Lastly—and I love this—the ancient text writes, “So the Lord stirred up the spirit of Zerubbabel, and the spirit of ____ and the spirit of the whole remnant of the people. They came and began to work on the house of the Lord Almighty, their God, on (Sept. 21, 520 BC).” 

Our spirits can be stirred up by any number of things, some wrongly, some well. It can lead to good actions or poor actions, as we see so often in the news. This morning, as a multi-tasking mom, sipping coffee and God’s word, I want to be stirred up by His spirit for His purposes.

Hi, you. What multi-tasking projects are you working on today? Where are you reading lately, and what is God stirring up in your spirit? (From email, click here to join in.) 

(Did you see Cabinart's blue coffee cup print framed there? Check out this California artist's site.) 

Trying to Be a Good Mom

Silence descends on our home now. I flip on soothing music, cut some cheese wedges, and curl up next to the computer.  

It’s hard work being a mom.  

In stress and angst over school, schedules, or their social life, my teens’ emotions can escalate. Sadly, mine do too. 

We have had real estate home showings the last three nights in a row – for which we are thankful—but the interruptions to homeschooling and the constant cleaning take their toll too. 

Yesterday I was crabby. One of my kids was having a rough time with a subject and was consequently sending ripple effects of anger and angst around them. Stirring rich red curry on a white stove top, trying not to spill any for the upcoming showing, we read through sentences about electromagnetism. 

Today after two hours of showings, we returned to a spotless home, and resumed homework. Another kid and I sparred about homework expectations and freedoms. 

 

It’s hard work being a mom. 

Pausing the cyclical battling conversation with one of my teens, I trundled up my toddler, prepared him for bed, and kissed him good night. Walking back into the living room to an angry teen, I silently prayed and checked my own heart and attitude.  “Jesus, I don’t want to be angry so often. I don’t want these battles. Help me to be a great mom, a great teacher, and a great follower of you.” 

This morning’s Bible study lesson kept springing to mind. Old Testament prophet Jonah was throwing a temper tantrum with the God of the universe, and God asked him, “Have you any right to be angry?”

Do you have the right to be angry here, Jen? 

The funny thing is that… I would have probably been miffed in Jonah’s place too. His pride was on the line and he may have just seemed discredited to his peers and a watching nation. His professionalism might have seemed tarnished now too. Pride again. 

Yet God asked him again, “Do you have any right to be angry?” 

So walking back into my living room, I realized how often I felt crabby and angry lately, even for seemingly accepted reasons.  I didn’t want to be like that. Often it had to do with my pride too. Do you have any right to be angry, Jen?

Nope. Not really. The God of the universe loved me. His gifts stack high around me in family; friends; life; breath; pulsing, vivid grass, blossoms, trees; imminent lilacs… 

Pulling up the office chair next to my teen, I started with a shoulder hug, and a humble quiet voice. “Hey, I really want to be a good mom and a good teacher here. Let’s talk…” 

The tension visibly melted in both of us. Stresses, motivators, and deeper triggered issues were brought up. Humbly, slowly, we clicked on the screen and worked together. The angst faded away, replaced with light laughter and peace. 

Thank you, Abba, for restoration, for calm, for a changed attitude in me. Teach me, please. Teach us. 

Hi friend. What have you been thinking about this week? What are you learning? 

Leadership Teams and Seeking God's Leading

At work today as the church Body Life Coordinator, I have been brainstorming the small group line ups for this fall. My desire is to not simply create events for events' sake in today's overly-busy world, but to prayerfully choose what will best benefit my church body. My desire is for them to be connected with each other as a church family, to grow, learn, serve, be transparent, and to support each other as we all strive to love and serve Christ more. So I seek out feedback from the congregation and seek out my Abba Daddy's heart, wanting to hear His voice.

As summer winds down to a close, I imagine that your women's Leadership team meetings are kicking into last minute high gear too. If you have one or two last spots to fill for your speakers 2011-2012 lineup, let me offer you first pick of a brand new workshop for this year. Or feel free to use any of my other messages.

Preschoolers: Intentional Parenting

By request, a workshop on parenting our preschoolers and toddlers with a larger purpose in mind. With the high energy of constant “Why’s?” and “No, Don’t Touch that!,” it’s too easy to simply parent reactively, or in pure survival mode.  We have all done that. Take this chance to sit back, peak into God’s word, and get the larger purposes involved in parenting preschoolers and toddlers. Walk away with handy tips to diffuse tantrums, enable choices, retrain rude mouths, and build peaceful sibling relationships. Plus be inspired anew to create a sense of awe and wonder for our kids’ Creator! 

Contact me and my speaker board at (763) 780-9812 if you are interested. In the meantime, may you and I both enjoy sitting at the feet of our Abba/Daddy.