Loving My Children

We spent a good chunk of our weekend doing one of my least favorite things…cleaning. It was a group effort with all hands on deck. We weren’t tackling just the large-family home survival chores of emptying the dishwasher, picking up toys, sweeping floors, and wiping the bathrooms. We moved boxes of books, made sure ALL the clothes made it out of the laundry baskets into drawers, and vacuumed bedrooms. My husband replaced light fixtures. We wanted everything ready for Thanks giving week, from the play room for kids to our bedroom for coats. And it would’ve been a lot easier without children interrupting with runny noses or wanting snacks or getting tired on the job or needing any other kind of attention. In fact, there would’ve been fewer clothes to put away and much fewer toys to step on without any children at all. Who knows? The house might’ve been clean already. “Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean,” and where there are no children, it’s a lot easier for a h

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law" (Galatians 5:22-23). Servants of Grace published two of my articles as part of their Galatians series this week. Writing about Scripture carries a gravity that's different from personal stories and musings, but it also brings the sweet reward of seeing biblical truth in a fresh way. Two of my takeaways from studying and writing about the fruit of the Spirit were: 1) The fruit is the Spirit's work, not ours. Sound obvious? Well, how often do we functionally live as if it's up to us to be patient, kind, or loving? Read my story about a down-and-out battle between the Spirit and flesh while trying to get out the door to church on a Sunday morning with all five children. God met me and wants to meet all of us in our daily battles. Read the article:  The Fruit of the Spirit Is, Part 1 2) Did you ever noti

My children make themselves right at home at my parents’ house. Even the baby climbs the front steps, pushes open the door, calls their names, and runs with eager, outstretched arms--completely expecting to be scooped up into a big hug. Each one knows where to hide shoes and hang up coats. They find dress-up clothes, books, and toys saved from my childhood just as they left them after their previous visit. And they know where my mom keeps all the “winks and nacks” (drinks and  snacks). “Hmmm,” Lovebug says, surveying all her options as my mom snaps this photo. I wouldn’t walk into just anyone’s house and fling open the cupboard door, and I certainly wouldn’t want my children to do this. But it’s different because it’s my parents’ house. And while I’m grateful for a cupboard thoughtfully stocked with kid staples like cereal, crackers, hot chocolate, and juice boxes, it reminds me of a different kind of food in a different pantry. “Man does not live by bread alo

Note: Audio version follows text. In the beginning, God. God created the heavens and the earth. Earth was without form and void. Darkness was over the face of the deep. And God spoke… Words. Beautiful words. Life-giving and powerful words Separated light from darkness and land from sea. Earth sprouted vegetables, plants yielded seeds, and fruit trees bore fruit. God spoke two great lights into existence,                 the sun to rule the day                 and the moon to rule the night                 and stars, twinkling stars. Waters swarmed with living creatures. Birds flew above earth and across the heavens. Livestock, creeping things, and beasts came to be. Male and female, made in his image,       And it was so good. Until words, our words, Spoken out of turn Turned on him, Spun on the lie we believed: that we could be like him. We distrusted his goodness, Doubted his boundaries, And despised his love. W

Our family’s been chipping away at the book of John together over breakfast. We read a few verses one day and maybe a chapter the next in between mouthfuls of oatmeal. Inevitably we’re distracted by Lovebug in her high chair as she plays games or interrupts with, “I all done, Mommy!” “I love you, Mommy!” “Wipe my hands!” “Jesus loves me.” We all giggle. I remind her that it’s time to listen and that I’ll get her out as soon as we finish reading. I make eye contact with her older brothers, “Turn your bodies. She will learn by watching you.” Back to the story: “When Peter saw him, he said to Jesus, ‘Lord, what about this man?’ Jesus said to him, ‘If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow me!’” (John 21:21-22) It’s the last chapter, and Peter’s taking a walk with Jesus. And there it is. Right in the Word. What about him? What’s his story? What’s hers? Look what she’s doing or he’s got. And as quickly as my older children s

I wish you could see what I saw yesterday as much as I wish I could’ve seen it six years ago. Sun streamed through our kitchen windows as my teenage son got it. An algebraic equation, complete with variables and exponents, numerators and denominators, like and unlike terms: computed. In that moment of mathematical comprehension, I saw him as a second grader, sobbing at that same solid pine tab le. Confused and distracted, he couldn’t keep track of his math facts, and each lesson took longer than planned, cutting into free time and stealing his joy. Yesterday, I looked him in the eye and told him what I’m telling you. I wish I could’ve taken a picture of the smile on his face, algebra book open in front of him, and shown it to that second grader and his mom. I wish I could’ve told them it was alright to slow down, complete fewer problems, and trust the learning process. I wish I could’ve told them to relax a little bit. Most of all, I wish I could've told them to tr

How do we respond to our children’s tears? When I delivered my third son, he wailed. As the nurses determined his Apgar score and washed him, every part of me longed to clutch him to my chest and soothe his cries. If I felt any remaining self-consciousness after labor and giving birth, it fled as I began humming to him from across the room. It didn’t matter that the melody was a Christmas carol in October or that I didn’t know half the people in the room. Instinct and compassion answered my son’s tears with music until he was placed in my arms. But what about as our children grow? When we’ve fed, changed, rocked, soothed, and done everything we can think to do for our infants, how do we respond when they keep crying? Do we get frustrated and angry? Do we entertain guilt? Do we get emotional too and start crying with them? What about when our toddlers melt down? Do we pass out ultimatums and threats? Do we throw our hands up? If we’re in public, do we take it perso

Sisters. These two. At the doctor’s office, they showed me what it means to be a sister. A sister is the one who steps on the scale first when you’re too frightened. She holds your hand walking down the hallway when you want to run the other direction. She gives you her complete attention--reading stories to you, coloring pictures with you, and blowing bubbles for you--while the grown-ups have an “hour-long conversation.” She plays with you in the waiting room, making memories in empty spaces, showing you how to hop like a bunny rabbit and twirl like a ballerina. She gets the first blood draw, and even though she wants to scream, she doesn’t—because she doesn’t want you to be scared when it’s your turn. She helps you count to twenty with all the "Mississippis" in between, reminding you that your hard won’t last forever. She picks out a present to comfort you, one she knows you’ll like (crayons), when you can’t think straight because you’re