Finding Joy When You're Fighting to Stay Afloat

Photo Credit: Carolyn Pinke

He's singing and the echoes bounce off shower walls, YMCA tiles, and slip under door number three to us in the family locker room outside. Daniel's happiness slides out and over, a cacophony of joy in a bathroom of strangers. The door cracks and he appears, hair wet swirls on his forehead and standing tall in the back. His face is flushed from hot water after a cold swim lesson, and he slips small toes into grey camouflage snowboots, humming cheerfully.

"I was thinking about God," he tells me, shifting his balled up red towel and damp swimsuit to me as he plunges arms into bunched up blue jacket sleeves. "He's the king of kings, God of gods. He made everything --galaxies!"

"He is! He's so cool. The one true God, huh?" I open the door of the locker room and we head past the basketball court where Daniel peers through glass walls to see if his friend is there. "How were front scoops?" I ask, knowing this was a hard swim technique we had prayed about just an hour earlier.

He grins wide and talks, adjusting his jeans waist as he walks, and skipping occasionally.

I grin. "Yay, thank you, God. He helped you. He's always listening and helping us through things, huh? You worked hard and persevered too. I'm proud of you, bud."

Holding hands, we walk across a dark parking lot, alert for red taillights.

"Whooo, it's cold," he shudders, pulling his hood up, and we drive home looking at the Christmas lights and talking.

Happy December, friend. Wherever you are today, know that your Abba God sees you, hears you, and knows your thoughts. Talk to him and watch him join you in those lanes, swirling you through the face-in-the-water-front-scoops of your own stories. You are loved and delighted in. Then burst into ricocheting praise to him in whatever shower stall or room you're in.

Smiling and learning about God from a wet-headed eight year old, I remain,

your sister and friend, Jennifer. What are you learning and reading about lately?

If you are not receiving my posts by email yet, welcome. Simply enter your email address in the box under my bio in the top right of the page. Don't miss a post and be part of any special invitations too.

Under Your Pile of Hats, I See It

Sitting side by side at the kitchen table, we are surrounded by slivers of blue, green, and black construction paper.

Photo of Neptune and moon Triton, NASA Solar System Exploration, Creative Commons cc license

"Here, this will be the volcano," I say, taping a grey three-dimensional cone onto a round blue sphere. "This is the ice lava. Wow, a volcano that erupts liquid nitrogen that freezes anything it touches! Can you imagine?!" and I act it out to Daniel as we attach tiny blue strips of paper to the inside of the volcano. "What a cool God!"

My seven year old grins at me, eyes wide, his haircut growing out in spiky tufts. He swings his legs excitedly under the table and picks up more paper.

"Mom, can we do some more?" he asks, his small red and black scissors poised in mid-cut.

Pausing for a moment, I waver. Because in the throes of efficiency, I had already switched hats. My Homework-Helper Mom hat was already off, my hand raised to don the Lunch-Coralling hat. Next up was Bill-Paying Mom, and Dish-Washing Mom. Homework-Helping-Mom was due again soon when 11th-grade Morgan and I would study Algebra 2.

(Don't ask about Dusting Hat. She hasn't been seen in weeks. Laundry-Folding-Mom works Saturdays, after Mark and the kids bring up toppling baskets of clean laundry. Who am I kidding? Laundry-Folding Mom just needs to tackle the growing mound of clean clothes that have been on the side couch all week, occasionally carried away and hidden in the bedroom when guests show up.)

My hats and To-Do lists are already lined up in my mind when Daniel asks it: "Mom, can we do this some more?"

Splashy colored paper, two scissors, and several glue sticks line the cherrywood kitchen table. South-facing window sunlight warms the dining room. Five flower buds swell slowly on the new green orchid branch.

"Sure, bud. That sounds nice," I say, sitting back down again. I pick up a scissors and start cutting.

"Did you know that Neptune has at least 27 moons? This icy-volcano is on the moon called Triton. Isn't God amazing?"

We pass glue sticks in silence and cut into green, blue, and red paper, the sunshine spreading warmth across my shoulders.

Our Creator God who invents ice-forming volcanic lava wears the hats of Creator, Father, Sustainer, Provider, Encourager, Savior, and Rescuer-King. In striking strength and beauty, he dons them all effortlessly.

I know you have a stack of hats, my friend. I see moms and dads who swipe on and off hats that read Provider, Meal-Maker, Child-Chauffeur, Band-Aid-Applier, Bedtime-Enforcer, Drink-Getting,  Bill-Paying, Present-Wrapper, and Homework-Helping mom or dad.

God leans in and pulls you into a deep hug. He sees you and delights in you. You are loved. You are enough in Him, and you are held and sustained by Him. Merry Christmas! We celebrate our Rescuing King wrapped in baby clothes.

If you are not receiving my posts by email, welcome. :)  Simply enter your email address in the box at the top right of the page. Don't miss an article.

On their First Days Back to School

Photo: cx33000, Flickr user, Creative Commons cc license

An imperceptible noise wakes me and I turn. Red digital numbers gleam 6:44 am and I am grateful, Thanks for waking me up, God. I slip quietly out of bed, wanting to hug and pray for John on his first day back to school.

Yellow kitchen light washes streaks across a dark living room carpet, and I can hear John around the corner.

"Hi," I grin sleepily and hug him, my eyes still creased against the brightness. Tall, broad-shouldered, my twenty year old is packing a lunch. Bagging baby carrots, a ham and wheat sandwich, and looking around for chips, he already has a plastic container of yesterday's fried rice.

"I'll be at school all day today," he says, closing the bread bag.

"There are apples," I murmur.

While he is gathering his lunch, I pray aloud for him, asking God to give him safety in rush hour roads, energy and excitement for his college classes, connections with his professors, and a good year of learning. He stops and smiles, "Mmm, thanks, Mom."

We hug and move to the front stairway entry where he loads his backpack.

"Oh hey, here is a red notebook for you!" I scramble away for a moment, returning with a simple single subject notebook, a traditional gift for my kids each year when they used to journal often. "It's your favorite color."

"Thanks," he grins, flipping it open. "Um..." and he shows me. An assembly error has stapled all the pages upside down. We laugh, and John grabs his bag.

"Have a great day," I say, sitting small on the steps above him. "I'm proud of you for getting up early for your classes, for getting a lunch, and being so organized. You got this! You can do this."

"Thanks, Mom," he says, and he opens his heart up more on his way out the door, and I am so thankful for this morning of seeing him off.

Thanks, God, for waking me up. What a gift.

When Scrunched Up Faces Reveal Secret Fears

She is laughing so hard that the sound ricochets up the steps.

(Not my daughter.)   Photo Credit:Alpha Chen, Creative Commons, cc license

"Oh no," she giggles in surprise and glee, "oh no." And the squealed laughter and mirth bubble up from deep within her. My daughter's laughter is known for being unrestrainable, uncontainable, and loud. Her delight is infectious, and her laughs and guffaws fill a room.

Silence now shuffles across the downstairs and glides noiselessly upstairs to where my husband and I are working. Computer keys tap staccato and night falls navy twilight through the deck door glass. Two firs loom tall, mirrored in glassy reflections of a yellow lit-kitchen behind me.

Taped to the wooden pantry door is a curling paper of names. Names of scientists, surgeons, musicians, artists, political leaders, and actors mingle near journalists and writers. Names like Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Pablo Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci, John Lennon, Woodrow Wilson, George Washington, Walt Disney, Agatha Christie, Orlando Bloom, Cher, Greg Louganis, and Henry Ford are just a few. Famous People with the Gift of Dyslexia, the article caption reads, and I've taped it there as an encouragement for my family. My teens scoff slightly at the term "gift" and wonder some days if that is true. Dyslexia runs in our family, and we have only just recently been learning more about it, and finding ways to use the strengths that come with it to offset the challenges that it brings as well. For those on a spectrum of dyslexia, it just means their brain took a different route for reading.

As a mom who is learning more about this --both the advantages and the challenges of dyslexia-- I ache at times with the hurt and uncertainty I see ripple across my loved one's faces. Even though research is showing that people with dyslexia problem-solve better, remember details of stories longer, and can think outside the box in wildly creative ways, it doesn't change the anxiety that can sometimes spring up.

These facts and my words bring no comfort some days, and I watch it crumple across their faces, or scrunch up behind deep brown eyes that pool in hurt or scowl in protective anger. Their fear that they are not enough, not capable, not smart hurts my heart and wakes me up some nights.

Because whether loved ones in our lives approach reading differently, or see the world uniquely in other ways, the results are the same. We get to stand beside them, and point them to the truths. "You are strong, capable, talented, determined, and intelligent -- yes, intelligent! You are so valuable and loved. And you are created by an Artist God who loves you and has great plans for you-- for your joy and for his glory."

Her laughter has died down now, and it must be a quieter part of the show. She is one of the many loved ones in my life that I am so lucky to know. Her love of life and her zeal rise up around her, and her hard work to teach herself drawing and Mandarin Chinese impress and amaze me.

The two tall firs have disappeared into velvety blackness now, and the sound of computer keys grows still. Hidden by the night, the trees continue growing silently.

It's All About WHO You Know? (When Our Kids Lead the Way)

Photo Credit: Rudolf Vlcek, Creative Commons, cc license

 "I'll pray, Mom," he chirps, my six and a half year old standing on the frayed sewing bench that is my desk chair.

"Thanks, Daniel. I would love that. Morgan, John, will you pray with us too?"

"Sure."

They lope over good-naturedly. My broad-shouldered son looms tall over me -- they both do, actually. Nineteen year old John is a replica of his dad, and willowy sixteen year old Morgan leans over to grab my hand. I squeeze her palm on the right of me, grasp John's fingers firmly on the left, and smile to hear my six year old talk to the Creator of Galaxies.

Daniel asks God to "Help Mom with her lesson, and to be safe, to not die, and to make good choices." He thanks God for taking care of us, for the family, and for our house. I strive to remember every word, and even now fall short of explaining the sweetness and naturalness of his conversation with the World-Spinner.

Morgan pulls her long brown hair to the side, and prays next.

"Dad," she says calmly, and my heart is startled yet happy to hear her address the God of the Universe with such intimacy. "Dad, be with Mom as she talks today. Speak through her. Be with the women she'll be speaking to..." Morgan's voice continues.

And in between the words with the afternoon sun pouring spring's heat through our dining room window, we stand huddled around my desk. This place where I wrangle words, craft sentences, and seek God's face, soaking amazed in his delight for me -- this crammed kitchen corner at my desk is where we stand humble in God's presence and my children stride boldly, comfortably, into God's presence. And I am undone, overjoyed, and utterly thrilled to see this glimpse into their relationship with Jesus.

If nothing else comes of this day then to have been prayed for by these kids, it will have been worth it, I reason happily, and then marshal my thoughts again as John's masculine voice steps in.

"God..." he begins, and my lips crack in thankful gratitude, mouthing silent to my God, "Thank you, God."


Friends? We who are moms, dads, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas... we have the honor of walking into the throne room of the Most High God. And striding in beside us, or in front of us, or trailing in behind us, are the ones who are watching, learning, teaching. We get to converse with the God of the world! It is intimate, awe-inspiring, and a wonderful privilege.

The First Time I Ever Prayed THAT Before Vacation

His long toes and foot stretched out slowly from the backseat of the car to settle on my armrest.

"Is this okay, Mom?" John asked. Reflected in my sun-visor, his broad shoulders spilled past his third of the backseat, brushing against my daughter's. His leg slid up to the front seat's armrest, flexing out stiffness.

"No problem, John." I kissed the top of his foot.

The five of us bounced across the western half of the United States in our blue Oldsmobile on an eleven-day road trip to see relatives in Washington state. We passed crumbling wooden barns whose caving in was silent and imperceptible. Grasses and trees grew tangled through vacant windows and floorboards and, in a blink, the scene was gone. Wind turbines stood tall on hilltops, capturing the air around them in precise, non-hurried arms. Silver oil rigs bent low, faces to the soil, bobbing and drinking greedily. My daughter snapped photographs out the window of North Dakota's green foothills and up its winding caramel and navy-colored badlands. Placards boasted "the world's largest buffalo" and red and green rivers snaked among the bison.

Montana's disproportionate horizon screamed for attention. In a rancher's world with rattlesnakes and miles of brown sandy land between towns, the sky took center stage. Five-sixths of the world was sky, a massive blue ocean of air where wispy cirrus clouds curled and sketched before hiding away behind stony ranges. Clumped white cumulus clouds came next, throwing grey shadows onto the land around us. The highway carved through and over, around and under. My daughter snapped and clicked the camera feature of her dad's phone.

"Isn't there a silent option for the camera?" wondered my son, as his sister leaned across all angles of the car to capture the beauty she saw.

In Idaho and Washington, my six year old noticed his ears. "There's something wrong with my ears," he said.

"Oh, that's called popping. It's because we're driving up the mountains. Pretend you are swallowing food, or drink lots of water. It will help," I advised, swiveling to look over my left shoulder at him.

"Daniel, isn't God cool to make mountains? Wow, he's a good artist." We nodded together, my six year old and I, and the phrase appeared often in his meal and bedtime prayers that week. He thanked God for mountains and oceans, memories of splashing waves soon his most poignant.

Wet fog and mist clung to the bottom of ever-growing mountains, and we swallowed and gasped at the beauty.

We arrived eventually, of course, at my aunt and uncle's home, pulling into their yellow dirt driveway and crunching pebbles with our tires. Fresh peaches grew from their tree in the backyard, and the Yakima sun poured desert heat onto us as we hugged and exclaimed, getting re-acquainted again. The wooden screen door clapped shut behind us as we lugged suitcases and backpacks into the cool interior, and our voices disappeared inside.

And the prayer I uttered before leaving on this trip? The prayer I whispered on winding roads, and after late-nights... God, please make us delightful to each other and a delight to be around. Help us be kind, patient, and humble. Help us reflect you, your love filling us and coming out from us. 

Our Artist God coated mountains in greens, tans, and silvery blues, directed ocean tides, and granted that small prayer too. We pulled into our Minnesota driveway, eleven days later, after sixteen- and twelve-hour days of driving, still liking each other and thankful for the trip.

Hello, friends. I have missed you, and this time here with you. Thank you for your patience as I have been packing boxes, preparing for a move, and racing across country on a road-trip. 

How has your August been going? What adventures or savored moments are you collecting and holding onto carefully? Have you ever prayed any odd prayers before trips? 

Where to Turn When Life Tumbles and Scrawls Red

Photo: StudioTempura, Creative Commons, cc license

It was the red crayon scribbled against his tiny head of summer blonde hair that got me.

I tried to make light of it. "Let's color purple on Morgan's head when we get home," I grinned conspiratorially to my five year old son, winking at him.

Red crayon marked in detailed measurements where the brain wave imaging scanners would be placed. Glenn, the electrode-attaching technician at the epilepsy center, picked up another long wire, detangling it from the rest, and affixed it with clear glue to my son's head.

"See this?" he asked Daniel, "This is gecko tape, made just like gecko toes, to stick to things without pulling hair afterwards." He laid a piece of light blue tape on the back of my son's hand, and spread its pair across an electrode.

Soon twenty-five wires rose spider-webbed and -orbed from my son's head. Daniel clutched a small brown bear, looking tiny on a long white hospital bed. His blue and black sweatshirt was a soothing blanket about his chest. I adjusted a pillow and lay down beside him for the hour-long test. Lights flashed, blinked, and strobed into his face. Soon, the lights went off, and he could curl up carefully and try to sleep.

"It is actually perfect if he falls asleep," Glenn said, tapping keys into his computer and telling me about his son, daughter, and this career. I listened, responded, and then we fell into silence as I snuggled up against my tiny young son. The medical technician watched the screen capture brain waves in irregular waves and frequencies, and I stared at my son's chest, rising in short breaths. Daniel slept, and my eyes caressed his cheek, his long eye lashes, and his pointed lips.

The seizure this Tuesday morning took us by surprise. Nothing like that had ever happened to him or us before, and I raced down the steps after him. He lay crumpled on the ground face-down, until I turned him over. Glassy-eyed and lock-jawed, with stiff arms, he stared past me eerily, and I called for help. Later as he came out of it, our chests grew tight as we searched the internet for similar symptoms, and called his doctor.

On the way to the EEG, Daniel and I talked alone in the car. He was examining the dry body of a dead bee we had found, as it tipped and slid across a random dirty plate we found on the car floor. We examined the fuzzy yellow and black body, while I warned him to steer clear of the stinger, and we talked about what a cool Creator our God is.

"Mom, why did God make bees to have stingers?" he asked as the freeway sped by.

"You know, bees only need stingers to defend themselves and their home," I mused aloud. "I bet when God first made them, they didn't need to have stingers. There wasn't any death or sickness or sad things then. The bees didn't need to defend themselves or their homes. It was only later, when Adam and Eve were tricked by the evil one, ate from that one tree, and brought sin into the world that things changed. I bet bees got their stingers after that," I said.

Daniel smiled and sighed happily. "I love God!" he exclaimed. We talked about how cool heaven is going to be one day, and the great thing that God loves us so much, and is right here with us.

"And you know what? God has cool plans for you to do while you're here," I stated.

The highway coiled around a castle-like cathedral, leaned against some museums and parking ramps, before pulling docilely into a pay lot. I pushed a button, grabbed my ticket, and we drove in.

That night friends and family called, and one or two set up meals. Our family of five hugged each other close, unwrapped ominous-looking bulky new medicines, and read instructions with tight-chests. Throughout that night and the next day, (and as we now await Friday's MRI), our Creator whispered a song in my head, ancient lyrics that spoke calm into my fearful mind.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you" and "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you, O God, are with me."

And the Creator of the bumble-bee has plans for my wee summer blonde one, and for us, and for you, my friend. His heart can be trusted.

What You Didn't Know You Knew

(Photo Credit: Juan Pablo Gonzales, Creative Commons, cc license)

Six white crocuses bend and sway in the strong April breeze. We shiver and pull on sweatshirts inside the house, but can't bear to shut the windows on this sixty-degrees-in-the-sun-day. Spring has invaded Minnesota and pasty Minnesotans everywhere throw windows wide, strap on sandals, and pull out last year's shorts. And the brisk breeze lies about the warmth but none of us care. Donning a blue sweater, I curl up at the computer desk.

I've just spent thirty minutes combing IRS websites, FASA college loan pages, and working my way through automated phone services. And apparently, in this several week session between taxes and transcript stage, we do not exist. Automated messages are at their limits, and phone calls end unsatisfactorily. So, I laugh, shrug, and update my son's school.

And in this lull, my five year old and I curl up on the couch with his favorite fleece blanket. Wrapping warm against the crisp spring wind, I set him on my lap, and turn library pages. After books, we mix ice cream malts, and lick Cookies and Cream off the back of a spoon.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you," I sing, while putting away the malt powder. And there isn't really any fear there, but the words spring to mind anyway. Daniel looks up to catch my eye, a smile spreading across his face. He joins in singing, and I grin as we sing it again, adding jaunty shoulder bounces.

"Oh! Can we do my thing, Mom?"

And at first I don't know what he's talking about. "Oh, your Awana verse? Sure."

He runs to his room, returning with an orange puffy-painted fabric bag. Daniel reaches his tiny hand into the bottom of the bag and pulls out a creased book.

"I'm here," he points to the open page. We read his verse for the week. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. (Genesis 1:1). Adding hand motions, we singsong our way through it several times, and speak of stars and planets. I pull out his splashy children's Bible with riotous colors across the pages.

A minute or so later, we saunter away to other pursuits, and I'm struck by a fact. There is nothing I can tell you, nothing I can teach my kids, that is of more importance than God's word. Nothing else is solid, unmovable. Nothing else is stalwart, unshakeable. And those truths that we commit to song, to memory, are what will return to hum in our hearts. 

Because, friends, what we know that we know that we know is only this: God's words are life, and truth, and they last forever. And those words spring to mind at the oddest times. Slivers of a phrase tickle my conscious (...abounding in love...) and I type it into a word search to satisfy my need to know. (You, Lord, are forgiving and good, abounding in love to all who call to you. Psalm 86:5). Ahh, that's where it is. Abounding in love, and I grin at the pencil lines I've drawn in bouncing jumps beside the verse to help me remember.

Another verse slips in my brain, and I hum it quietly under breath. Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage. And I'm still learning what a heart on pilgrimage looks like in today's world, but recognizing that we're on a journey with God is step one, I'm sure. It leaves me hungry to know him more.

And fresh air blows strong throughout my house today.



(Linking with Emily.)

Of Love Stories and a Political Coup d'Etat for Christmas

Artist Richard Heeks

I'm belting out love songs from the eighties and nineties, as I splash dish soap across the sink, and my hand still aches from the scribbling.

Earlier, I scrawled handwritten words across three pages of lined paper at the kitchen table, trying to sum up the greatest story. An account of a warrior king battling to rescue his people who have lost their land (and themselves) to enemy-control. A people who don't know who they are, paupered orphans of the king, unaware of their identity. Throughout history, the warrior king sends messages and gifts to his loved ones, revealing his heart and his affection for them, but it always ends the same.

They forget who they are. They forget who he is. And history repeats itself.

This warrior who doesn't wait to "meet me halfway across the sky," and who "makes this a new beginning of another life." *

This warrior who saw that messages and messengers weren't working, put aside royal robes to put on human skin and crown through to earth. 

"Let me tell you about my kingdom..." he said again and again. He spoke of good news, open to anyone, everyone who would come; and he said, "I have come to give you life!"

This Christmas, it's a love story of a passionate warrior king who has chased you through the ages, wooing you, battling for you, and who is on a mission to reclaim his earth.

The King has come.

Merry Christmas, friends. Have a wonderful holiday week with your family and friends. I will be taking next week off to enjoy family, but look forward to talking with you again on Monday, the 30th. 

What are you excited about doing this Christmas week? What do you love most about the Christmas story? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation, or you can always hit reply to that emailed post.)

(Linking up with Emily at Imperfect Prose too.) 

* Thanks to Kenny Logins' "Meet Me Halfway" song.

What Teens are Saying about the Bible

He raises his hand vigorously, vaulting himself slightly off the floor in excitement.

At a youth group open forum night, the crumpled paper question asked, "How much time should you spend reading the Bible?" and my eldest let others speak for a bit, and then jumped into the fray as well.

"We were built for relationship." He's passionate, excited, talking confidently.

"And we need to eat food to live." Laughter ripples across the youth area, as teens nod, relate, and know how much this man likes to eat too.

He continues unfazed, and grinning. "And we need water to live. And, I believe, we need a relationship with God to really truly live."

"There's no set time that someone needs to read their Bible, but--"  John's friend beside him interjects ideas, and they stumble words beside each other, these two teens who bring their Bibles and grab hot drinks at nearby coffee shops some mornings together.

"I want this time in God's word to be like a hunger for me. Like I need it to live, but it doesn't always feel that way to me," John admits freely. "Sometimes it's boring, but I find that the more I make myself do it every day like a discipline, the more it becomes like food or a need to me."

"Because it's a letter from God to us." His red Bible cover is faded and worn, with a lifeguarding cross on the front. John flips his Bible open with intimate familiarity, and settles back against the wall to listen, as others add to the discussion.

Sitting on the floor across the room from him, I'm proud of him. I love that he is excited about God's word. It's something that God has grown in him over the years, and something we've prayed for in him.

And I'm convicted too. Tonight John teaches me. In the busyness of life, I haven't grabbed my Bible yet today, and I need to.

So, wanting this to be like food to me, like a hunger pain or need, please excuse me while I pick up my Bible, my journal, and slip away.

Where have you been reading from this week? (Those in email can join the discussion here.)

Rekindle a flame in your walk with God with any of these other posts too:
- "Naked Trees Scrape the Horizon" 
- "Smoldering Brown Eyes and a Neck that Smells Like Toothpaste"
- "People-Watching in Ancient Israel (& Seeing Myself)"

(Photo credit)

Why You're Never Too Old

"Mom, can you help me? I don't know how a do this," he says, tiny hands holding two halves of a blue plastic game board. Imploring eyes and a sweet round face melt me instantly.

"I'd love to!" I smile, getting down on his level. I kiss his soft face, and slide together the blue plastic frame of an ice cube game.

They grow up so fast, these kids, huh?

This week, I waited in an echoey church hall after a graduation meeting for my senior. The class of 2013 voted on announcement styles, ceremony emcees, and slide show music. I texted my son for his votes, as he sat through a work meeting half an hour away.

In five months he'll walk a stage, flip silver tassels, and receive a rolled-up diploma.

Over coffee and a cheese danish this week, I discovered parenting advice from two thousand years ago that resonated with me.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously and without finding fault, and it will be given to you." 

Like my four year old, humbly holding out two plastic game pieces; to my eldest filling out college and job forms; to me, holding out humble hands to my Abba/Daddy.

Abba, please give me wisdom today, this week, this month, as I raise my kids, love my man, and strive to be a woman after your heart.

You? Anything on your heart? Need wisdom or a flash of light? 

And our Papa? He melts to hear you ask that, scooping down to cup your face, kiss your soft cheeks, and slide those pieces together.

Linking with Imperfect Prose.

Photo credit.

Talking to Your Kids About God (School-age Edition)

Walking past her doorway, we could hear booming actors talking inside about a woman desperately looking for her tenth coin, or about blind men chasing down a carpenter renowned for his miracles. Other days, a loud orator would discuss breaking seals and pouring out bowls, and Revelation soon became her favorite book of the Bible. Elementary-aged Morgan would emerge from her room and ask deep questions about end times. Reading was harder for her at times in her younger elementary years, but listening to the Bible on tape/cd was perfect. She loved hearing the dramatic renditions of the Bible and amazed us with her near-memory recall of some familiar passages.  Now, as a middle schooler, she grabs her Bible and a highlighter, disappearing onto her top bunk. “Mom, can you grab Daniel please? I want some time alone with my Bible.” 

Most of us want to talk to our kids about God, our faith, and what’s important to us. Many parents wonder where to start, though, and what to say. Other parents have expressed fear of not knowing how to answer the theological questions that may arise. With stories of prostitutes, murder, and dysfunctional families interspersed throughout the Bible next to more familiar stories, parents can wonder how to address these topics.

While I don’t have all the answers, several ways have worked for our family as we raise our sixteen-, thirteen- and almost four-year old. Our seventeen years of church and family ministry have been helpful as well. (Did you see the Talking to Your Preschooler About God post?)

Talking to Your School-Ager about God

1. The Bible honestly tells it as it is. God shows us a person’s bad choices as well as their good choices. Just because an action is done in the Bible doesn’t mean it’s condoned or a good choice, or God’s way of doing things. The Bible shows when people mess up badly. Ask your kids: what should this person have done instead? What were the consequences here of their bad choice? We can witness the fall-out of generational cycles of deception, favoritism, and pride, for instance, in Genesis. In Judges, we see families and a nation spiral out of control when they forget what God’s word says about life and only do “what seems right in their own eyes.” Wow, can that get ghastly fast. That’s one whole point of the book of Judges, in fact, and by the end, there is no clear good guy or right choice in each story. What a dark, sad chronicle. God is an honest God.
2. God is a master Restorer! He can take broken people, families and pasts and use them for his glory. He can take murderers, cheaters, liars, stuttering, fearful and broken people and work through them to talk to powerful world leaders and change history! He can use YOU.
3. God loves YOU and wants to spend time with YOU. He is seeking you out, calling you by name, and has great adventures in store for you. Spend time with him, listening, talking with him, and reading his letters.
4. It’s not Kid-sized! Students, you have a full-size Holy Spirit in you. The same Holy Spirit that was in the apostle Paul, that’s in Billy Graham and Brother Yun is in you. You don’t have to wait until you are grown up to do big things for God. He can do them in you today. Are you listening to Him, and tuned in? Practice hearing his voice, which will never contradict his spoken word.
5. Recognize, parents, that you are not choosing a faith for your child. That is between them and God. But as a parent you definitely have something of value to pass on to them. Pray for them, love them, and enjoy times of sharing something that is of extreme value with them. 

The school-age years in our kids’ lives are pivotal and life-changing years! Jump into these exciting times. Ask questions, spend a lot of time listening, and savor these years. 

What about you? What was instrumental in your journey with God during the elementary and middle school years?

Talking to Your Kids About God (Preschool Edition)

“But I want to SEE Jesus!" he insisted. "Where is he? Can he come play at my house?”

“Well, you can’t see him right now.” 

“Why? Is he hiding?” My preschooler craned his neck to peer into the bathroom closet. 

“No, you just can’t see him right now,” I explained. “He’s here; but we can’t see him. He’s invisible!”

Most of us want to talk to our kids about God, our faith, and what’s important to us. Many parents wonder where to start, though, and what to say. Other parents have expressed fear of not knowing how to answer the theological questions that may arise. 

While I certainly don’t have all the answers, several ways have worked for our family as we raise our sixteen-, thirteen- and almost four-year old. Our seventeen years of church and family ministry have been helpful as well. 

Talking to Your Preschooler about God

1. As You Go. As you walk, talk, eat, drive, breathe, play, and prepare to sleep, share joyfully and naturally about Jesus. Walks in the woods can explore God’s creation, and marvel at his artistry. “Look at these cool raccoon tracks! Did you know…?” My kids and I have made up worship songs as we walked in the woods and across prairie grasslands. “Thank you for the trees, thank you for the birds…” There is nothing sweeter than hearing a lilting preschooler lisp songs to God.    
2. Practice and Encourage Natural Prayers. While liturgical prayers can be meaningful and helpful, don’t underestimate the power of encouraging children to speak their heart as well. In simple plain terms, talk to Jesus aloud with your child. Thank him for the sunshine; pray for safety for passing siren-waling emergency vehicles; thank him for the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the orange slices for lunch. Invite your kids to take turns praying too. “Who’d like to pray?” 
3. Intentionally Share Jesus Stories. Preschoolers are drawn to stories with adventure,  superheroes, and excitement. The Bible is full of wild and exciting true accounts. With sincere excitement, cuddle up with your child and start the narration. “One day when Jesus and his friends were out walking…” Or “Did you know? There was one day when Jesus was on a boat…” “Jesus helped people! He …” The tales are endless and as the true picture of who Jesus was and is surfaces, our children will be entranced by how delightful and strong Jesus is. 
4. Keep it short and simple. A toddler’s attention span is brief. Enjoy conversations with them, and grin when they race off to their next train of thought or toy. 
5. Recognize that you are not choosing a faith for them. That is between them and God someday. But you definitely have something of value to pass on to them. Pray for them, love them, and enjoy times of sharing something that is of extreme value with them. 

Preschoolers are delightful, full of curiosity, and always learning. Enjoy talking to them about God in this time too.

What about you? How have people talked about their faith with you over the years? What has been meaningful to you? What do you want to carryover into your own life and pass on to others?