He turned the dial and the music cranked, pulsating my (smokin’ hot) minivan as we puttered down the road. Grabbing my camera, he held it out in front of us and snapped a photo, documenting the moment…and Landon’s apparent chagrin.
When we gave Sloan his iPod for Christmas, we loaded it full of music first. We wanted to make sure he had a wide variety of classics, so we downloaded Frank Sinatra, Coldplay, Lacrae, vintage Audio Adrenaline, Michael Buble, Patty Griffin and, of course, DC Talk.
Because we are good Christian parents.
Jesus Freak now blares boldly through the speakers inside our home, and our cars. We jam our way down the road, singing at the top of our lungs:
What will people think when they hear that I’m a Jesus Freak?
What will people do when they find that it’s true?
I don’t really care if they label me a Jesus Freak.
There ain’t no disguising the truth.
We sing and play wicked air guitar, and Lee and I feel good about the theology we’re passing down to our children. I mean, c’mon man: People say I’m strange. Does it make me a stranger? My best friend was born in a manger.
DON’T PRETEND YOU’RE NOT SINGING ALONG!
And so it was that we jammed our way down the road when we passed a police car and ambulance stopped on the shoulder, reaching in to help an older man who had veered off into a side rail. Sloan immediately turned the music down and watched intently as we drove past.
“Oh man,” he said quietly. “That looked bad. What do you think happened?”
I glanced at the situation and told him I had no idea, then I waited for him to turn the music back up so we could go back to our jam. He twisted the dial and the car filled with the bass and drums and electric guitar, and I moved right past the man in his car. But not Sloan. He sat still for a minute, then turned the music back down.
“Sorry mom,” he said. “But…I just…um…can I pray for that man back there?”
I quit drumming along and nodded my head. “Of course you can!” I exclaimed.
“Okay,” he replied. “Good. I’m gonna pray. You pray with me. But don’t close your eyes, okay?! I mean, I think that you should keep them open while you drive.”
He then proceeded to pray the sweetest prayer for a stranger on the side of the road. Prayer for safety and healing. Prayer for wisdom for doctors, and for the man not to feel too badly about the accident. It was tender-hearted and generous, and it stopped me in my tracks.
On any given day, I am certain that I am failing this motherhood gig. I get frustrated with them. I nag. I yell. I overreact. I read with one kid, and let the other two down. I focus on the baby too much, and the older three feel neglected.
It’s easy to get lost in the faults, and to see every flaw in myself and the children. He loses his temper, she is stubborn as the day is long, and he can’t lose graciously.
(Nothing is wrong with Annika, yet. So far she is perfect…like a tiny Mary Poppins)
I get lost in all our shortcomings, and I miss the amazing little people that they’re growing up to be, and the good job I’m doing at being their mom. He gets angry, yes – but he’s also the first to ask forgiveness, and has a heart of mercy the size of Texas.
She’s stubborn, yes – but she’s also deeply empathetic and compassionate. She begs to buy groceries for the man living in a tent behind Target because she feels the weight of his circumstance.
He can’t lose a game without falling apart, yes – but he’s also a peacemaker, quick to smooth things over when arguments break out.
It’s easy to lose sight of the good things in our children when we get lost in the day to day, hectic living. We get swallowed up by all the hard and the long days all mold one into another, and we start missing it altogether. And then they do something that takes our breath away, and remind us that this motherly work we’re doing is a worthy and good use of our time.
[Tweet “Mom, as the madness and mayhem threaten your sanity, remember this: you’re doing a good job.”]
You’re working so hard to teach them how to live generous lives, and it’s hard! The rough edges of their little personalities need so much refining, but don’t lose sight of the diamonds that are shining through beneath the surface. You’re polishing little gems.
You may not see the reward right now, but one day when you least expect it, you may just find yourself being reminded of the impact that you’re having on your children.
And they will also help you remember what it felt like to empathize deeply with the world around you. Untainted by life and adulthood, they see the world through innocent eyes. It’s in those moments you find them teaching you instead of the other way around. That’s what happened to me yesterday.
All it took was a dirty minivan, DC Talk, and the simple prayer of a tenderhearted twelve-year-old.
I was young, maybe nine or ten, when I first saw The Secret Garden. Upon finishing the film, I immediately traipsed out into the Wisconsin woods behind our home and looked for the perfect tree in which to sit and read. The trees were romantic and mysterious then. I wanted to soak up the rustle of the woods and see what kind of magic I could find.
I grew up, and we moved away from Wisconsin. No longer did I have the whimsy of the forest in which to explore my imagination, but the fanciful longing for a secret garden has never really left me. And I still find a sturdy branch the best place to read a book.
In college, I found a great tree with a low lying limb tucked back in Waco’s Cameron Park. On pretty spring days, before the oppressive Texas heat threatened to melt off my face, I’d go to that tree with school books, certain that studying in that place would result in all A’s.
There may have been something to my theory, because my last two semesters of school I landed on the Dean’s List.
And now here I am, living in Florida, surrounded by beautiful trees, but not one worthy of a good climb. I still wish for a secret garden to call my own – a place where dreams come alive in the quiet serenity of nature.
Granted, I’d probably need a gardner to tend to that magical space as I’ve proven to be much better at writing about gardens than growing them.
Dreaming is possible without a garden, though. Sometimes I still find myself lost in a moment of daydreaming, although those moments are fewer and farther between now than they were before. Life has simply grown too noisy and busy. And it makes me a little sad that my kids aren’t growing up with the whimsy of the trees.
The last couple of weeks have found me in a funny place: Often sad for no reason, and terribly overwhelmed in situations that don’t normally phase me. I’m blaming hormones, the end of summer, and a lack of quiet.
The funny thing, however, is that I don’t want to be alone. I want my husband and children with me, which seems to contradict my longing for quiet spaces. I long to escape, yes, but to a place where there are no sports, no schedules, and no electronics to distract us.
I want to kick those kids outside and see them explore.
I want them to climb a few trees.
School starts in two weeks, and while I feel a sigh of relief escape my lips as I type that sentence, I also feel a small pang of regret and sadness, because it’s over. One more under our belts, and life keeps trucking along without sign of slowing down.
I don’t have a secret garden in which to sit and reflect, and the quiet spaces I long for are likely mythological. But I’ve discovered over the years that these moments of overwhelmed a lot-ness (totally a word) are not the be all-end all.
There may not be magical stretches of quiet time, but there are slivers of time that are magical enough.
We kept all electronics off last night, and the kids went for a swim as the sun sank down below the horizon. I sat in a chair next to the pool, and I just watched them play.
I listened to the hallowed sounds of their laughter, taking in all the sounds, none of them quiet, yet the entire event feeling like a hushed song of praise. We were in the moment, all of us. Them in the pool, and me taking it in, and I knew that this was the moment I was longing for.
A moment to just be free.
A moment that says “This is enough.”
A moment in which I could breathe.
I was happy last night, despite my lack of a tree, a book, and a magical garden. Maybe someday there will be a time and a place for that sort of living again. Today, though – today was for popsicles and blue waters. Today was for giggles and flips in the pool. Today was magical with just a touch of whimsy.
Turns out the secret garden was here with me all along.
Tell me moms – how are you doing as summer winds down and school days ramp back up? How are you holding up?
EDITED TO UPDATE: On January 22, 2019, New York governor Andrew Cuomo passed a law legalizing abortion up until birth. I have re-shared this post to address this current development. Replace “Planned Parenthood” in this article with “New York City” and the discussion remains valid.
For an example of just one of the slippery slope consequences, consider reading this post about a heartbreaking event that occurred in Colorado:
I huddled under the umbrella, shivering violently against the cold. Or maybe it was the oppression that still lingered beneath the soggy soil under my feet. As the tour guide spoke, I ingested his words, trying to fully comprehend the horror of it all. But of course, I can’t comprehend it. I’m only seeing pictures.
But still, I felt the ghosts whispering a haunting refrain in that place, and I knew that the oppression lingers for a reason.
It poured rain the day I visited Dachau, which felt right. I can’t really imagine the sun ever shining over those graveled walkways, glinting off the barbed wire fencing that once coursed with electricity and served as a quick death for martyred souls. I can’t fathom the dichotomy between a lovely spring day with birds singing joyfully over the ovens that burned thousands and thousand of bodies.
Can beauty and evil really coexist like that?
But I know that they can – of course they can. It happens every day. Beauty and evil intermingle, clouding our eyes and veiling the horrors around us. But sometimes, I think we have to see the evil in the rain to truly understand the depth and depravity.
I wasn’t going to write about Planned Parenthood and those videos that have been released. So many other people have written about it, and I’ve already said my piece on abortion.
I didn’t want to talk about it again. I didn’t even want to watch the videos, because I can picture the horror in my mind, and that felt like enough.
But then I remembered Dachau, and I remembered that sometimes you have to see it up close, in the rain. Sometimes you have to get your feet dirty as you trod into the dark places. Only then can you truly get a glimpse of the horror.
Yesterday, I watched the fourth released video – the one that took us a little bit further. I walked into the lab and watched as body parts were sifted in a petri dish. It was the same way I shuffled parts aside in ninth grade when I had to dissect a frog.
Here’s the heart.
Here’s the liver.
But these weren’t frog parts. They were human. I saw intact hands, tiny fingers raised in surrender, pulled violently from the safety of the womb.
I saw a fully formed leg. Little eyes that would never see the light of a summer day. Mangled and torn, the evidence of abortion screamed at me, and I felt my stomach churn the same way I did when I stepped into the oven room at Dachau. And then I heard the exclamation of the lab technician:
“It’s a boy! It’s another boy!”
I stopped the video there because the weight of it all felt too great. It was like standing in the freezing rain and hearing the stories of the men who were tortured ruthlessly, viciously, violently, all because they bore the label “Jew.”
It wasn’t a “clump of cells.” It was a boy. A little boy who would have bounded with little-boy energy. He would have eaten dirt and played with bugs, fallen and skinned his knees, and probably been too rough when he got excited. He would have hated baths and brushing his teeth, and probably would have given the best hugs.
HE was a BOY. He was real – a human being.
The city of Dachau was remote during the World War II era. This made hiding thousands of people there easier. But still, there were residents living outside the gates. Good German citizens, without the stigma of a forbidden religion, lived and worked just on the other side of evil.
Did they wonder about the smoke that billowed from the trees day and night? Did they question the emaciated men and women who arrived by train and trudged into the shelter of the nearby woods? Did they know and pretend they didn’t? And do I blame them?
Speaking out would most certainly have had ramifications. It was better to keep your head down and pretend you didn’t see.
Friends, we can’t keep our heads down anymore. We’ve been escorted directly into the furnace. We can’t pretend it isn’t there. This has to go beyond the legality of what Planned Parenthood is doing. We must get to the very heart of the issue.
Abortion is murder.
I say this with a bit of a cringe, because I know it cuts deep. It’s a blatant statement, and it may make some of you feel judged or alienated. Maybe you’ve experienced abortion, and these statements cut to the quick. Hear my heart on this: I do not condemn you as a person. I condemn a society who told you there was no other way.
As I write this, the clouds hang heavy over my house. It’s been raining steadily for almost two weeks now, and once again I’m reminded that sometimes the horror is better seen and experienced underneath the weeping sky. We can’t pretend it isn’t happening – we can’t pretend we don’t know.
And what do we do?
This is the trickiest part of the equation, isn’t it? But it doesn’t have to be. There are Crisis Pregnancy Centers popping up all over the United States. These are safe havens where young, scared women can go when an unplanned pregnancy leaves them feeling lost.
Let’s start here.
Call your local Crisis Pregnancy Center and ask them what they need. How can you help? What can you provide? And then spread the word. Let’s give young women a chance to get top care, solid counseling, and the ability to choose life for their unborn children. Let’s stop telling them they have no other choice but to abort.
Let’s give them the choice of life.
What do you say?
For two alternatives to Planned Parenthood in the Tampa area, look at:
I picked her up off the floor, and wiped her teary eyes. The play area in the mall was crowded, and she was overwhelmed, over-stimulated, and tired. I decided to put her in the stroller and walk around for a bit so she could get her much needed morning nap.
I kissed her squishy cheek, then nestled her into the stroller, and she immediately began screaming in protest. Because that’s what babies do when they’re tired.
As I buckled her in, a woman approached me. “Why are you not comforting that baby?” she asked.
I turned with a smile, because I thought she was kidding. She didn’t smile in return.
“Oh,” I replied, a little shocked at the sincerity of her question. “Well, she’s tired so I’m putting her down so she can go to sleep.” Meanwhile Annika screamed her head off beside us.
The woman leaned down and looked closely at her, then turned to me with narrowed eyes. “I am a guardian ad litem,” she said, and the superior tone in her voice immediately sent my blood pressure sky rocketing. “You can’t just lay a baby down when she’s screaming like that. This is abuse!”
I held up my hands and stepped between her and the stroller. “Whoa,” I responded, my voice rising. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s best for my own daughter, and right now what’s best for her is to lay down and take a walk so she can fall asleep.”
“Well at least give the poor child a pacifier or something,” she barked back. And my voice rose higher still.
“Excuse me, but you have NO RIGHT to tell me what’s best for my daughter. She doesn’t take pacifiers. She never has. I know that because I AM HER MOTHER. So don’t you DARE try to tell me what’s best for my child.”
At this point people were beginning to stare, but I didn’t care, because I was concentrating so hard on not screaming a four letter word, or hitting the haughty woman in front of me.
She took a step back and shook her head. “Just comfort your child please,” she said. “I feel sorry for a child who has a mother who cares so little.”
She turned to walk away, and I screeched at her back, “You have no idea what you’re talking about. YOU ARE A STRANGER!”
And then I shook and trembled for thirty minutes before I could calm back down.
It’s been two days since this all went down, and when I think of her words I’m still filled with fury. I don’t for a second believe anything she said. I know I’m a good mom. It would take more than the judgmental words of a clearly out of line stranger to convince me otherwise.
But the fact that she had the audacity to say them in the first place, and that she could make such a devastating claim based on ten seconds of observation, are what send my blood pressure through the roof.
Here’s the thing: I sometimes feel that the mothers of my generation are a little bit hyper-sensitive, especially when it comes to the generally well-meant comments of older moms. We feel pressured when encouraged to “enjoy every minute,” and insulted when asked if we’re going to “try for a girl/boy,” and so on and so forth.
The phrase, “You’ve got your hands full,” is met with snarky replies, because somehow we’ve come to believe that every older woman offering advice is attacking us in some way or another. I’ve long felt that us younger moms need to chill out a little bit and give the older ladies a break.
On the other side of that coin, however, this nanny state in which we live means that we as younger mothers must constantly look over our shoulders. We’re told not to hover, because helicopter parenting is causing issues for the younger generation, yet if we step away for a second, or lengthen the leash we hold on our children too far, we just might get a visit from Child Protective Services.
A single mom is interviewing for a job in the mall food court, her young children sitting at a table away from her on their own. She doesn’t get the job, but she does get arrested for “neglect.”
When I was a kid, my mom could leave my brother and I in the car for a few minutes if she had to run into the store and grab two items for dinner. If I were to do that today, I could be arrested, so I haul all four children into the store to buy three items, and the baby screams, and people stare and roll their eyes.
Several months ago, I gave my eleven year old a shopping list a mile long, and I sent him through Target to get the needed items while I sat with the other three in the eye doctor’s exam room, and I worried the entire time. I wasn’t afraid anything would happen to him, but I feared someone would come haul me away and charge me with neglect.
Being a mom this day in age is scary.
This week, I was called insensitive and abusive for allowing my child to cry in her stroller. And no matter how off base her comments were, the fact is this woman was a government appointed employee. Had she wanted to exert power, she could have done so.
Older moms, it’s time for you all to step up and help us younger moms out. For the most part, I think that the vast majority of women are supportive and caring and loving. I do think that we have each other’s backs. But…
[Tweet “It’s time to step up as moms and say no more.”]
It’s time to form an alliance, the old and the young, and agree that when a young mother is out in public with a screaming baby, or toddler, or big kid for that matter, we’ll offer a look of solidarity, a pat on the back, and maybe a few words of encouragement (“It’s hard, isn’t it? You’re doing a good job.).
If we see children sitting alone in a food court, let’s ask them where their mom is. If she’s interviewing for a job, or buying their lunch, or taking an older sibling to the bathroom, we can sit close by and keep an eye on the kids. Maybe we could find their mother and offer to help out so that she can relax, and maybe even land the job.
What if we quit telling on each other, and instead we started looking out for one another – like they did in the generations before us? What if we quit immediately assuming the worst, and believed instead that these young moms actually do have their children’s best interests at heart? What if instead of believing we know what’s best for a perfect stranger’s child, we offered congratulations to the mother for working so hard?
And younger moms, what if we quit taking offense to every innocent question asked, and we thanked the older women for stopping to admire our children? What if we appreciated the wisdom they have to offer, instead of accusing them of being judgmental? (Unless, of course, they are being judgmental. *wink*)
What if we all thought of ourselves as part of the same team, and we worked together instead of individually?
After a week of steady rain, attitudes and annoyances all rubbed up tight against one another to form the perfect storm of insanity inside our home. From the moment the day began, the small people in our midst were clawing at one another’s throats.
You know how little baby tigers play with each other, tumbling around, nipping at one another’s ears and pawing at each other’s faces, and you wonder if they’re fighting or playing?
It was just like that here, but they were definitely fighting.
Even Lee and I felt the stress of a long couple of days, griping at each other in frustration over silly little things. And so the day went with all of us tired and annoyed, and feeling a little trapped.
Not to be outdone, Annika got in on the insanity of the day. Somehow she managed to fall over backward on the hard tile floor four times. By the last tumble, I was exasperated as she wailed and screeched. I was ready to sell the house, and move into a home made of rubber and foam, in a place where it never ever rains, and children never argue, and you can eat all the Nutella you want without repercussion.
If I’m going to dream up a utopia, it’s going to involve Nutella. Amen?
After dinner, the kids asked to watch a movie, and I was tempted to say yes. It would keep them quiet, and meant I could disengage almost completely. But somehow I knew that sitting in front of the TV was the wrong response. So did Lee.
“We’re going to the park,” he announced, and was immediately met with groans.
“But it’s raining. I don’t feel like it. I’m tired.”
The list of complaints went on and on. We ignored them and ushered our little tigers out the door and into the grey outdoors.
There was a break in the weather, so I plopped Annika into the stroller and walked her the half mile to the park where Lee met us. As soon as we arrived it started raining again, and my frustration level hit a high note.
WHY WITH ALL THE RAIN?!
All we wanted was a little free space to spread out – couldn’t God hold off the rain for thirty minutes so we could regroup? I expressed my frustration in a whispered prayer to the Lord.
And then I stopped. Because it was silly to feel frustrated over rain. I knew that it was. Besides, it was more of a steady mist, so why not make the most of it?
While the boys hit the tennis ball through the misty air, the girls and I headed to the swings, and it was there that I found a glimmer of hope at the end of a long day.
As Annika moved back and forth through the weepy sky, her face lit up and giggles erupted. Tia laughed in return, blonde hair slowly growing damp as the rain cleansed us all of the anger that had followed us to the park.
For twenty minutes, we played in the rain. Even the dog enjoyed herself, wandering freely off her leash in the field behind the playground. It was exactly what we needed, and isn’t it funny how water can do that? Cleanse and renew? It’s always that way, isn’t it? And so I was reminded:
[Tweet “When life offers a rainy day, you can either lament, or swing high into the rain. Choose to swing.”]
As we drove home, all damp and a little chilled, I found myself whispering a prayer of thanksgiving for our opportunity to play in the rain. It wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen, and it didn’t solve all the frustrations of the day.
But once I changed my perspective, I found that the rain was what we needed all along.
The goal now, of course, is to keep that attitude as it appears it’s not going to stop raining here in Florida for the foreseeable future.
Send a lifeboat. And Nutella. And maybe a little wine if you’re so inclined.
In five weeks, I will reenter a world I didn’t think I belonged. I was part of this world once, and I never felt like I fit in. I felt like a failed citizen amongst a world of accomplishments. This world was, for me, a bit stormy, wrought with feelings of inadequacy.
This is the world of homeschool.
“No one can teach your children better than you.” It’s a common phrase used amongst homeschoolers and, quite frankly, I think it’s a total lie. Because there are a lot of people who can teach my children better than I can – namely, actual teachers who are trained to teach.
I bought into that lie the first time I attempted to homeschool, and I skidded to a painful stop at the end of the year, certain that I was a failure as both a teacher and a mother because the year had been so difficult. So, why on earth am I doing this again?
While I disagree wholeheartedly that no one else is equipped to teach my children better than I, what I do believe is that no one else on this earth knows and understands my children’s needs better than I do. This is something I can latch onto with full confidence. And it is for this reason that we’ve chosen to bring two of the children home again this year.
I’ve also had time to reflect on the year that we homeschooled, and to see some of the fallacies in my plan. I didn’t really set myself up for success. We were new in town, and we had little to no community. This meant I was going it alone in foreign territory.
Never a good idea.
In addition, the move caused some strain in our marriage as we worked through shattered expectations, disappointments, and anxiety over our decision to settle our family in a new state. Those strains did not help in the schooling process.
Finally, I simply didn’t know what I was doing. I was so terrified of screwing the children up irreparably (which is laughable now that I look back on it, given the fact that they were only in preschool, kindergarten, and 2nd grade at the time), that I woke up daily with my stomach in knots over the whole process.
I never planned lessons in advance, but lived the entire year by the seat of my pants. And when it was all said and done I was certain I had destroyed them.
I’m a little wiser this time around. I have a better grasp on the process of schooling my children, on the expectations that I need to have of them, and yes – I absolutely know them better now than I did four years ago.
I know their struggles and their strengths. I know what makes them tick, and what doesn’t motivate them at all. I know where to put my energy, and where to let things slide.
Here’s the other thing – I know this is right.
My daughter is skilled in a sport that requires a lot of her time. It is in my power to give her every opportunity to succeed in her gifting while still excelling academically. My own insecurities can be put aside for her sake, because I believe in her ability to excel, and I believe in my ability to teach her.
It’s also important to me that we see her on a daily basis, and going to school while training competitively as a gymnast takes away too much from our family. So sacrifices are made, starting with me. I’m okay with that. It took me awhile to get there, but I really am okay with it now.
My son is extremely smart, and I believe it’s in my power to challenge him beyond what a traditional classroom can so that he reaches his full potential. I believe in my ability to do so.
I’ve set measures in place this time around to make sure I don’t burn out or get lost in insecurity. Lee will be helping with math, and for good reason. I opened Tia’s math book last week and almost threw up because I didn’t understand the first page.
So she will attend a co-op where a skilled math teacher will teach the concepts, and her dad will help with the weekly work. Because there are people more skilled at teaching her in these areas than I am!
I’m setting plans in advance for what we will accomplish when, and how long we’ll work each day. And I’m choosing to believe that I belong in this homeschooling world, even if it’s still a daunting place for me to tread. I’m entering back in confidently, because I believe that right now, this is where we’re supposed to be as a family.
[Tweet “Educational freedoms mean I can give my children the opportunity to succeed in every area of life.”]
I’m grateful that I can give my children, and myself, the option to be the very best they were meant to be, whether that be academically, athletically, or simply as a growing young person.
And as the teacher moving forward, I am choosing confidence.
