I wonder what Jakob will do the first time he makes me so mad that I cuss. I have seen it happen to good parents. You've probably experienced it. I know I have caused it. I have never caused my mom to cuss, at least not in front of me, but during my childhood, there were a few occasions that I really got under my dad's skin - seriously, just a few times. On a normal basis, I was a near perfect angel. That's how I spun it, anyway, and usually I was pretty good at pointing a convincing finger at my brother, Dan. But there was no getting out of it the first time I made my dad so angry he lost his temper and his tongue.
One of my favorite cartoons growing up was He-man. Well, it was one of my favorites until some evangelist stormed in and declared him, the smurfs, and everything fun to be satanic. But there were happy days that involved He-man, imagination, and the power of Grayskull before the evangelist came to town. On such a day, my dad came down to the basement and saw that I was playing. He must have been intrigued by what I was doing, because I had a wrapping paper tube held above my head, clenched with two hands, like I was holding the Power Sword. He made the mistake of coming closer. I made the mistake of continuing my fun. I yelled, "By the power of Grayskull, I have the power!" I swung my make shift sword forward.
Swinging a wrapping paper tube forward should have been fairly harmless. I mean, if I hit my dad with it, it wouldn't hurt. There's no guarantee I wouldn't have been whipped for hitting him, but the pain would have only been mine. No such luck for him or me on this day. You see, I needed special effects. I didn't have lightning. Battlecat wasn't around. The tube couldn't grow on its own. So I improvised. I put a dowel rod inside the tube, so when I swung it forward, the rod would come flying out. I'm not sure if I was simulating the lightning or the sword growing, but I do for sure that it got me in trouble.
I want to break for a moment to tell you that my brother Steve was in Brady, TX, at this time. He had called home to check in, and he was on the phone with my mom. Mom was upstairs in the living room, well away from where we were in the basement. All of a sudden, my brother hears over the phone as my dad yells, "DAAAAAAANG IT!" Only he didn't say "dang it." He said the granddaddy of all D words.
I really don't remember what happened next. I have no recollection. I do know, from what I'm told, that I dotted my dad's forehead with that rod, and the red dot stayed for 2-3 days. What did he do me? I cannot say, but I'm assuming I caught the worst beating of my life.
And that was just the first time I pushed him that far. There were a couple more.
Some day, Jakob's going to have a good idea. He's going to execute his good idea. I'm probably going to get hurt. He will join the many kids who have made their parents cuss. I just know it.
Still working through our prayer series (Hey, God). One more week, and we'll be finished. Tonight, we talked about fasting, which I believe really heightens one's connection to God. We looked at Matthew 6:16-18. Here are just some quick thoughts on fasting:
Jesus tells us not to make ourselves look gaunt and sickly while we're fasting. Whatever misery you feel is a private matter that God will see and bless you for.
That does not mean that you cannot tell anyone that you are fasting. It drives me nuts when people get all over someone else for sharing that they are fasting. If you want to share with me that you will be fasting, so I can pray for you, be my guest.
You shouldn't fast to make yourself look really spiritual and cool to your church friends. It's not cool. It's difficult and no fun.
I have never been closer to God than when I went on an extended fast. I also never came closer to eating cat food than at the end of my fast.
That's pretty much the sum of the lesson. Not too many angles on fasting. Happy fasting.
When I was a child, I loved reading the Goosebumps books, by R.L. Stine. I would really get into the stories. They were really intense, suspenseful, and at times frightening to me. I felt like I needed to keep reading, because I had to know the resolution. I couldn't leave myself hanging.
Imagine my delight when I found out there was going to be a Goosebumps TV show,based on the books. I thought it would take the stories to a new level of awesome. I was so excited. Then I watched the first two episodes. They based them on the book The Haunted Mask, which also happened to be the first of his books I had read. I was so let down. It was a hokey, dumbed down version of the book. It had lost its intensity. The book was so intense that I couldn't get enough of it. I had enough of the TV show before the end of the first story. I quit watching it after one try. A couple of months ago, I decided to give it another shot (perhaps for nostalgia sake), probably because I forgot how bad it was the first time. Guess what: still lame. I won't try again.
I think Jesus is like a novel (cause He's the Word...ba-doom-chhhh). He's super instense, awesome, and always leaves you wanting to see what He'll do next. Churches/Christians can tend to be like TV shows based on novels. They're supposed to be just as awesome and intense as Jesus, but they can be kind of lame, dumbed down version of Him.
When people look to us for answers, our lives answer their questions with a story. We can give them the intense novel, or we can short cut, save time, and give them the TV show. It's the same story, with the same conclusion, told two different ways.
This is Sarah's first Mother's Day as a stay at home mom. Some people would correct me for saying that, because the PC term is "homemaker." At some point, "stay at home mom" became a degrading term. Who makes these decisions? I'm sure it wasn't a stay at home mom, because they aren't usually self seeking people that need to be legitimized with some new term that's supposed to give them worth. Sarah has worth in who she is, not a made up title. She is a stay at home mom, which is the greatest title one can hold - except for all the sweet titles that Jesus holds. The title, to me, means that this mom has chosen to give up things she could have - better cars, bigger houses, newer clothes - if she worked outside of her home in exchange for her child's well being. I'll tell you what term I find insulting: working mom. To imply that a mom that stays home with her child doesn't work is ridiculous. Sarah's usually more tired when I get home from work than I am, which is probably a good indicator that she's been working nonstop sine I left. She just doesn't get paycheck for what she does. I love her. She's a great wife, and she happens to be a great mom, as well. Jakob and I are lucky to have her.
My mom was a stay at home mom, too. She left her job at the bank when my oldest brother, Steve, was born. She spent the next 30 years working hard as a mom. Sarah's mom retired from the public schools when Sarah came and took on the full time job as a mom for Sarah and her siblings. We often talk about how we were both blessed to have moms at home with us, although we probably didn't say it much when we were younger. We probably took that for granted back then, but we both do appreciate the sacrifice our parents made for us. What they did drives us to make the same sacrifice for Jakob. I know I don't regret a single thing I didn't get growing up. I don't regret wearing hand-me-downs, bobo shoes, or getting a free buzz cut from my dad when I needed a haircut. It bothered me some back then, but it doesn't matter now. Would my life be any more enriched for having had a Power Wheel as a child? I doubt it. My life is so much better for having had my mom, though.
::Before you comment, you should know that I'm not putting down moms that work outside the home. I understand that not everyone is in a position to stay at home. So if you leave a comment defending moms that work outside the home, I will reject your comment, because they do not need defending. No one insulted them::
I'm sure being a mom is a thankless job at times, but it shouldn't be. I was sent the following story by Brenda, and I immediately knew I wanted to post it here on Mother's Day, because I have an inordinate number of moms that read my blog. I don't know how that happened, but Happy Mother's Day to all of you. This is for you, Sarah, Mom, Mom, Grandma, Lisa, Katey, Jenny, (insert your name here if you're a mom. If you're not, then don't. Seriously, don't.), etc.
Invisible Mother.....
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?' Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?? Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.' I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!? One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.'
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it. And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.
At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'You're gonna love it there.'
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
__________
Now, for some of you, this post is hard to take. I was pretty serious the whole time. This part's for you, though. I want you to treat your mother right. So does Mr. T, foo'!
I do not like Michael Jordan. It's nothing personal. I grew up a Pistons fan, and he played for the Bulls. He owned the Pistons. Had he played for my team, he'd probably be my favorite player of all time. I can admit that. Even though I've never liked him, I admire him a lot...now that he's no longer beating the Pistons. What I admire him for is what a lot of people question him on, though. When he retired after the 1993 season, having just led his team to a three-peat, people were shocked. Two years later, he came out of retirement, because he still wasn't satisfied, despite all he had accomplished. That made a lot of sense to a lot of people. When he retired after the 1998 season, after having just completed another three-peat, he walked away as the hardly disputed greatest of all time. Then, three years later, he did it again, coming out of retirement to play for the Washington Wizards. He was older. He was slower. He wasn't the same guy. People couldn't understand why he was doing it, but he still wasn't satisfied. He wanted to go for more. Shortly before, during, and after he played for the Wizards, he served as a poor executive for them. You would be hard pressed to find someone that thinks he was successful there as an executive. Many said he was a great player, but a poor executive, and should give up that pursuit. He didn't. His past defeats as an executive meant nothing to him, because he was still driven. He went to work in Charlotte. He's done okay so far.
As much as I dislike him as a Pistons killer, I admire that he was never satisfied with his accomplishments and never deflated by his defeats. Was it risky to come out of retirement a second time to play in Washington? Sure it was. Did it pay off? Probably not. But he took the risk. Will it pan out with him in Charlotte? I'm not sure. It's another risk.
I think we should approach ministry - and probably our Christian lives in general - like Jordan approached basketball. We need to take risks. When we become too satisfied with our wins or too defeated by our losses, we tend to take less risks for God. We're either too content or too scared. I don't want my previous successes and failures to prevent me from taking risks for God's kingdom. When that fire burns inside me to do something, I want to do it, history not withstanding. I don't want to hold onto what has always worked if there's a greater opportunity. I don't want to shy away from challenges, because I've failed too many times. I just want to go and do what God tells me to do, regardless of the risks.
Praying in public can be really intimidating. I think part of the reason it's so intimidating is that you might feel like you don't pray really well, like some people in church. You know the guys I'm talking about, right? They pray for 5 minutes, and they pepper their prayers with lots of fancy theological words. I've known people to do this, and it gave me a false sense of what prayer should be like. I felt like I had to go through this whole routine every time I prayed, especially when I prayed out loud in front of other Christians. I didn't want to seem like a lightweight.
And then I read Matthew 6:5-8. I've heard some say that this passage means that one should never pray in public. I think that's a bit of stretch. But I certainly believe that this passage puts to shame the idea that one should get up and impress people with their lengthy prayres. I think it means that it's a joke to write out an eloquent prayer and read it in church. I also think it means that God's really not as impressed with you as you are when you try to wow people with the depth of your theological knowledge when you were simply asked to pray for the offering. Not only do I think these things are wrong and displeasing to God, I think it intimidates the crap out of young people who might otherwise pray in church. It can be like pulling teeth to get young people to pray in children's and youth ministry, and I think it's because they don't think they know how to.
Right after this passage in Matthew, Jesus demonstrates what prayer should look like: it wasn't fancy; it wasn't elaborate; it was a simple prayer asking for the basics. He had a conversation with His Dad. And He expects us to approach prayer the same way, even in public. He doesn't want us to repeat the Lord's prayer all the time, either. That would probably be the same repetition He warned against in the earlier passage. He just wants us to talk to Him. He wants us to pray in public like we would in private. To quote Dan, in his depiction of fat, fat Jehoshaphat as a young man: "Simple words is all we have to say..."
And that's all we talked about at youth group last night.
I wonder what Jakob will do the first time he makes me so mad that I cuss. I have seen it happen to good parents. You've probably experienced it. I know I have caused it. I have never caused my mom to cuss, at least not in front of me, but during my childhood, there were a few occasions that I really got under my dad's skin - seriously, just a few times. On a normal basis, I was a near perfect angel. That's how I spun it, anyway, and usually I was pretty good at pointing a convincing finger at my brother, Dan. But there was no getting out of it the first time I made my dad so angry he lost his temper and his tongue.