There are just some things that are hard to teach young children: how to hold a pencil correctly, how to tie their shoes, how to make their beds, adequate basic hygiene like teeth brushing that brushes all of the teeth and showering that cleans all of the parts. And then there’s teaching your kid how to ride a bike. It involves balance and concentration and patience from them and running alongside a bike from me, so the whole experience presents a variety of problems. I’ve been working with our youngest to get him solo-ready for a couple of years. I’ll admit I haven’t always suggested it as often as I should have. Call it busy family or lazy mom or the usual predicament of the 4th kid, it just hasn’t been a priority. It hasn’t helped that he’s been reluctant to ride. Naturally athletic by nature, he’s used to being able to conquer physical activities pretty easily the first time, but this bike thing has been a different story. So when we had that beautiful sunny Sunday last week, it occurred to me to pull out his bike and get him back in the saddle. After we filled up the low tires, he hopped on. Up and down the driveway we went—him pedaling erratically and swerving like a maniac and me jogging while grabbing a wadded-up bunch of the back of his shirt. Not long into the lesson, he said, “Is it okay if I sing a song? It will help me focus.” “Sure,” I panted. “Keep on trying. Don’t give up,” he sang in a made-up tune. “Never give up. Just don’t give up.” We continued until I felt he was correcting his balance issues—going a little to the left if he was too much to the right. Then I slowly let go of his shirt. He rode a few yards by himself until he veered off-road into some grass. “I did it!” he cheered. He hopped off the bike and ran to me in joyful triumph. “I rode my bike!” We hugged and walked back to his bike for him to mount and try again. “I just kept remembering something important that I hear a lot,” he told me, full of introspection and wisdom from his hard won victory. “What was that?” I asked him, assuming he’d repeat some sage advice I’d given him. “You never give up,” he said, proudly. “That’s right,” I answered. “And where did you hear that?” “Ricky says it to Lucy all of the time because she’s always trying to get in show business. And he’s right, she never gives up so she got her own TV show.” I realized he was referring to I Love Lucy, not the careful parenting of his mom and dad. But if it helped him remember to keep trying, even when things seem impossible, then I’m okay with that, especially if it means I can stop running alongside his bike. Ezra in action

I love my 4 kids. I really do. I think they’re charming and delightful. I thoroughly enjoy their adorable personalities and unique quirks. They are precious gifts from the Lord. Seriously. I really mean it. But sometimes when I see it’s minutes away from the appointed time for them to come home from school, I wish I could buy another hour and turn the clock back a bit. It’s not that I don’t like having them around (see “I love my 4 kids” paragraph above). It’s just that I may be on a roll, getting things done and I see that the school day is nearly over and I realize I need to “Mom” again. When my kids first arrive home after a long day at school—that witching hour when everyone is hungry and grouchy and tired and stressed out at the same time—I have to divide myself into pieces so that I can feel and suffer and care along with them and take on a little of their struggles. If one kid is having trouble learning his sight words, then it becomes my trouble, too. If another kid is having problems with friends, then it becomes my problem, too. Now, there is a line to be drawn when it comes to involvement with your kids. It is possible for me to take on my kids’ problems to the extent that I impair their ability to problem-solve and strategize. But loving someone means sometimes setting aside our own interests and agenda to focus on another’s. At my house, it means caring about which team is going to win the European soccer championship title and who’s going to prom with whom and listening to highly detailed stories about lunchroom hijinks. I’m reminded of Jesus’ instructions to his disciples in John 15. He’s trying to explain to them how much he loves them. It’s a tall task because His love for them is so enormous. Then he turns this discussion of love distribution over to his followers. He says, “I demand that you love each other as much as I love you.” Well, that sounds impossible! We know what Jesus does next in the story. He dies a gruesome death on the cross. How can we be expected to love in that way? Jesus goes on to say, “And here is how to measure it—the greatest love is shown when a person lays down his life for his friends.” (TLB) I don’t know about you, but I don’t get a lot of opportunities to die for the people I love. So how do I obey this seemingly impossible command? Jesus tells his disciples to love each other in an extraordinary, life-giving, missional, selfless way. He asks that we show love in proportion to the degree He showed love to us, to pursue others with heaps of abundant grace and often undeserved kindness. If given the opportunity, I would lay down my life for the 4 knuckle-heads who call me Mom. Assuming that situation doesn’t ever materialize, I will try to lay down the time and attention I’d rather devote to other pursuits and focus on them, so I can show them a great love.

Our basement flooded during the Great Flood of 2010. We had suffered through days of relentless rain showers and watched the newscasts with weather predictions. We saw the devastation in Nashville and wondered if we would see any of the same damage here. Then, on that Sunday night, I walked downstairs around 9:00 pm. As soon as my foot hit the floor, the carpet billowed out in a wave. The water was quickly coming in from all sides. We called friends from church for help. They came and vacuumed up water, tore out carpet and moved furniture until the wee hours of the morning. I feel tired just thinking about it. With the excessive rains recently, I was reminded of that flood from years ago and also of Noah. You know the story: God looked around at the wickedness of His people and decided to start over. He told Noah to build a boat for his family and the animals because a flood was coming. He followed God’s instructions and made the ark. The rains came down and the floods came up (wrong Sunday school song but it works here), and they were saved. Cue rainbow. End scene. It’s important to note that it took Noah somewhere around 75 years to build the ark. That’s about 27,000 mornings of Noah waking up, dragging his 500+ year old body out the bed, and starting another day of carpentry with his sons. And you know how difficult it can be to work with your children. I’m sure there were days when Shem gathered the wrong kind of wood. (I asked for gopher wood! Gopher wood! Is that so difficult?!)Ham was acting like a…well, a ham, trying to walk across the upper beams like a tightrope walker. And don’t get me started on Japheth! The baby of the family was always complaining about a splinter in his finger or his sandal was rubbing against his ankle or the male and female tigers had attacked him. Always something with that Japheth! Even though it took several decades to build the ark, the Lord held off the rain until they were finished. He told Noah when to begin and then He watched Noah & Sons Building Co. as they were faithful to his word. He watched them measure every cubit and round up every animal. They continued to work without a definite sign the world would be destroyed by flood, and God saw them. The author of the Book of Hebrews includes Noah in his “Faith Hall of Fame.” Noah is described as someone who trusted God. “When he heard God’s warning about the future, Noah believed him even though there was then no sign of a flood, and wasting no time, he built the ark and saved his family. Noah’s belief in God was in direct contrast to the sin and disbelief of the rest of the world—which refused to obey—and because of his faith he became one of those whom God has accepted.” (TLB) This is no easy task—trusting without anything concrete to back it up except a warning from the Lord. There are times when God gives us a charge. When we obey, we have our start time and a promise that He’s watching us as we wait for the finish. It may not end the way we’re expecting (Could Noah have ever imagined he’d see something as glorious as a rainbow?) but I’m trusting God knows how it’s supposed to end.

I was never a cheerleader in school. For most anyone who knows me (or who has seen me attempt to clap and sing simultaneously in church or have a conversation while jogging on a treadmill without tripping myself), this is not a big surprise. I was more of a “help-paint-banners-for-the-pep-rally” kind of girl, which doesn’t involve cartwheels or rhythm or a basic understanding of sports. In spite of this, I do find opportunities to cheer people on (no pom-poms required). My older sister texted me the other day and said, “I need a pep talk. I don’t want to go to the grocery store.” Here was my reply: “You got this!! It’s a magical place!! Your children won’t be there!! You can lean on the cart when you get tired!! You can go to the deli and ask for cheese samples!!” Miraculously she responded that it worked! She was on her way to Kroger! This should’ve been my career—Professional Pep Talker. People could sign up for my services (maybe download an app on their phones? Something I understand as well as I understand sports), and then they could text me when they need motivation. Dear Penny Pep Talk, tell me why I need to finish this research paper? Or Hey Pep Talk Lady! I’m going crazy! I just can’t match any more of my kids’ socks! Help!It would be so fun! Being able to cheer each other on is one of the best parts of being human. The Apostle Paul knew this when he told the church in Thessalonica, “So encourage each other to build each other up, just as you are already doing.” (TLB) Paul encouraged them to keep on encouraging each other. I recently spent a few weeks teaching a Bible class for women at my church on Wednesday nights. Talk about professional encouragers! These ladies are phenomenal! Women of different generations sat around tables and drank up the reassuring news from the Scriptures. Then they poured out love on each other, building up their sisters. Paul would’ve been so proud! So here’s the good news: if you always wanted to be a cheerleader but never made the squad, you’ve got another chance. Someone somewhere sometime today is going to need your encouragement. Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? Encouragers!!

Sometimes it’s hard to summarize a big concept, especially when you’re talking to young children. Explaining complex and heavy topics, such as racism or wars, takes a bit of thinking. How much historical background should I provide? Should I go deep or just stay on the surface? Recently, in one short car ride home, my 1st grade son and I went from his question: “Why did someone shoot Dr. King?” to the negative effects of European colonization of his birth country, the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I may have gotten a little lost in the weeds. I’ve been reading through the Minor Prophets—the books of the Old Testament of the Bible which cover more than three decades when God’s people are in one of three periods: about to face the extreme punishment of exile from their homes, in exile, or after they returned from exile to rebuild Jerusalem. It’s been a fascinating study, but one where it’s easy to get tangled up in the frustrating details and dense poetry. This week, I’m reading the Book of Micah. He’s a prophet during the reign of three different kings, so he spent a lot of time mostly being ignored. It was before the people in his region were carried away, human plunder for their enemies, and they didn’t want to listen to Micah’s warnings. Still, Prophet Micah was dedicated enough to walk around naked and shoeless for a time to let the people know just how bad things were. A lot of the writings of the Minor Prophets can be pretty depressing. There are 14 “Woe to…” exclamations in those 12 short books. (Example – “Woe to you who lie awake at night, plotting wickedness…”) Micah goes city by city, describing their upcoming destruction. He chastises the leaders, scolding them for not doing what’s right. He prophesies about a future day when the people will come back to their Promised Land to live in peace and prosperity. Sinfulness followed by punishment followed by mercy. Then, in chapter 6, Micah says what his original audience must’ve been thinking: “Yikes! So what can we do to fix our relationship with God?” He tells them that God doesn’t want thousands of rams or rivers of olive oil or their children sacrificed on some altar. Instead Micah summarizes what God wants from them: “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” (NIV) I’ve heard this verse hundreds of times, but I’m appreciating it more now than ever. You can use Micah 6:8 as the standard 3-part test for nearly any situation. I can ask myself: Am I being fair? Am I showing mercy? Am I humbly following the example of Jesus? If the answer is no to any of those questions, then I’d better get a new plan. If I let this verse penetrate into my thinking, then justice, mercy and humility can become my default yardstick for how to conduct myself. And then it can change my relationships with others.

I rarely watch a movie or read a book more than once. There’s a part of me that says, “I already know how this ends, so I’m not really interested in going through all of it again.” I mostly prefer the excitement of finding out what happens more than moving step-by-step through the plot. Still, there are times when I will get so engrossed in an already familiar story that either I forget what will happen or I hope it will turn out differently this time (pointless, I know). The beauty of hearing a story for the first time, with no spoilers or hints of the final outcome, is that you are evenly informed with the protagonist. You, the spectator, know as much as the main character. There are some stories I’ve known from infancy that I wish I could hear as an adult but for the first time. One of those stories is the account from the Book of Genesis about Joseph. Here’s a quick summary: Jacob, Joseph’s father, gives Joseph—his favorite son of his favorite wife—a special coat. This gift along with Joseph’s penchant for telling his dreams which feature his brothers bowing down to him gets Joseph thrown in a pit by his scheming brothers and eventually sold as a slave to a wealthy Egyptian named Potiphar. Potiphar’s wife takes a liking to our boy Joseph and when he thwarts her advances, he gets put in prison. While in prison, Joseph interprets the dream of a baker and a butler. The dreams come true: the baker is killed and the butler is released from prison. After which, the butler tells dream-vexed Pharaoh about Joseph and his ability to explain dreams. Pharaoh tells Joseph his dream and Joseph replies, “I can’t explain it, but God will give Pharaoh the answer he desires.” Joseph explains that Pharaoh’s dreams mean that the land would have 7 years of good crops followed by 7 years of famine. So Joseph becomes Pharaoh’s right hand man. Joseph puts his plan into action, saving up good grain for those bad years. Eventually, Joseph’s brothers back in Canaan become desperate for food. Ten of his brothers (all except the youngest—Benjamin) go to Egypt to collect the grain. Joseph plays some crazy mind games with them because they don’t recognize him, the brother they long ago assumed had died. Joseph calls them spies and thieves. He even puts them in prison, all a ruse to get his youngest brother Benjamin to come to Egypt. (And maybe exact a little sibling revenge?) Finally, after Joseph runs out of tricks, he reveals his identity. He weeps as he holds his brothers who tremble at thought of their persecuted brother now holding their lives in his hands. It’s a wild ride. There are soap operas with fewer twists. But, in the end, this is what Joseph tells his brothers in Genesis 45: “I am Joseph, your brother, whom you sold into slavery in Egypt. But don’t be upset, and don’t be angry with yourselves for selling me to this place. It was God who sent me here ahead of you to preserve your lives. This famine that has ravaged the land for two years will last five more years, and there will be neither plowing nor harvesting. God has sent me ahead of you to keep you and your families alive and to preserve many survivors. So it was God who sent me here, not you!” (NLT) When young Joseph was sitting at the bottom of that dark and dirty hole, listening to the whispered voices of his big brothers above who argued over how to punish him, he wouldn’t have thought in a million years that the hole was a part of a bigger plan to rescue those same jealous brothers from starvation. And when he sat in chains in the prison of a foreign land for a crime he didn’t commit, Joseph couldn’t have known he would eventually be sitting next to the throne of the most powerful man in the world, advising Pharaoh and ordering servants to obey Joseph’s every command. This is a reminder to me that when things aren’t working out the way I’d hope and I can’t figure out why it’s so difficult, it’s best to rest in God’s faithfulness. Four times in Genesis 39, we read “The Lord was with Joseph.” Joseph knew he wasn’t alone in the hole or in prison. The Lord was right there with him, crafting a surprise ending to Joseph’s tumultuous story.

I’ve come to believe that words are very powerful. With only a slight change in wording, the intended meaning can be completely altered. For example, imagine you’re shopping with a friend and unsure how you look in an outfit you’ve tried on. Standing in front of one those giant dressing room mirrors, would you rather hear: 1.) “You are not fat.” 2.) “You are not that fat.” Four little letters but the difference is night and day. Depending on the language, vocabulary can be very confusing. As my African-born son can attest, English seems unnecessarily tricky with so many synonyms that mean the same thing and homonyms which sound the same but mean something different and words with multiple meanings. You could argue that its complexity makes our language richer, but if you’re new to English it just makes you want to plug up your ears and go back to bed. One word with many varied meanings that I’ve recently noticed I may overuse is the adjective/adverb just. Beside its connection to fairness and morality, it can also mean now, only, barely, simply, recently. I use it all day long. “Mom, when’s supper?” It’s just5:00. You can’t be hungry yet. Eat this carrot. Later that night, around 7:00 pm: “Mom, I’m hungry.” What? We just ate! You made it just in time. Give me just a minute. We’re just going to one store. Just sit there and think about what you did! I’ve also noticed how often we use the word just when it comes to faith. If you’ve got a very sick relative and people ask you how they can help during such a difficult time we often say, “Just pray.” There’s a note of last resort here, as if seeing that all the spots for bringing supper to the family are filled, you might as well give them the job of merely praying. But in this context, it could also mean you are giving this goodhearted friend a very simple, specific yet important task. “Just pray,” you say. “Set aside whatever doesn’t need doing right away and beg God to intercede. Please make this your focus today.” Looking at the lyrics to the gospel song “Closer Walk with Thee,” we see just used to describe a scene which would be anything but ordinary: “Just a closer walk with Thee/Grant it, Jesus, is my plea/Daily walking close to Thee/Let it be, dear Lord, let it be” We don’t merely walk with God like it’s no big deal. We strive for a complete connection, just as in only is the goal. If you search the Scriptures for instances of the word just, you’ll have plenty of reading. You’ll find “Noah did everything just as God commanded him” in the Old Testament and “People brought all their sick to Jesus and begged him to let the sick just touch the edge of his cloak, and all who touched it were healed” in the New Testament. With a possibly ambiguous word like just, we have to pause and determine which meaning is intended. Then we see Noah’s preciseness in his obedience and Jesus’ mighty power to heal. Such a tiny word but packed with so much capability.

For the first 6 ½ years of our marriage, my husband and I lived in Memphis. The majority of that time was spent in a modest, brick house built in the 1950’s on a sidewalk-lined street shaded by dozens of towering, deep-rooted trees. As is often the case in older neighborhoods, many of the homes were inhabited by elderly people—some couples but mostly widows. It was a quiet street nestled in the heart of such a busy city and we loved it. Beside the fact that our best friends lived across the street, the main reason I look back on that home so fondly is because it was the place we brought home our newborn twin daughters. Our girls lived there until the weekend they turned 2, when we moved to Murfreesboro. Next door to us lived an older woman named Golden Crenshaw. The first time we met, I was playing with my barely crawling babies on a blanket in the front yard. Ms. Golden walked over and invited us to her house to meet her housemate. I nervously entered with a baby in each arm, eyeing all of the breakable knickknacks in the warm living room which seemed to tremble in the presence of such small and possibly destructive children. Ms. Golden introduced me to her late husband’s aunt. She was a tiny, frail woman well into her 90’s and I was instructed to call her “Aunt” (I have no idea what her name actually was). The women asked me about the girls—their names and age. They asked me where I was from and what brought us to Memphis. Ms. Golden inquired about my name. “Abby? Is it short for Abigail?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am,” I answered politely as a wrangled my restless babies. “But no one really calls me that.” “Well, we shall call you Abigail,” responded Ms. Golden. “Won’t we, Aunt?” She said a little louder. And that’s just what they did. In all the universe—other than the person who calls me back to see the doctor while I’m waiting in the waiting room, only Ms. Golden and Aunt called me Abigail. In spite of their precise attention to decorum, they exuded warmth and acceptance and a genuine interest in a fairly exhausted young mom. It’s like how some people can wear the color yellow while others just can’t. They could pull off the Formal Southern Thing without seeming stiff or snobbish. Ms. Golden did most of the talking with Aunt chiming in every once in a while to answer her niece-in-law’s question. Aunt would mostly stroke my daughter’s baby soft hair with her worn fingers and smile. They told me about Ms. Golden’s late husband and her daughters, one of which had also passed away. That first afternoon, they shared their stories and asked me mine. Over the next year or so before we moved away, we’d visit from time to time. They gave the girls matching dolls for Christmas which the girls would eventually take on many walks down those lovely, shaded sidewalks in their miniature pink doll strollers. I recently found one of those baby dolls, abandoned and unused lying face down in a dark corner of the play room closet. I picked it up and thought about that hot afternoon with Ms. Golden and Aunt. Then I thought about the other women who early in my marriage encouraged me and valued my thoughts: our church’s custodian who told me I was beautiful even though I was nearly 9 months pregnant with twins and ridiculously swollen. The scores of women who brought us meals after the girls were born. The doctor’s office receptionist who gave me diapers from her own baby’s diaper bag when I ran out during a long day of appointments for my 18-month old who had a broken arm. Women who were there for me just when I needed them and others who were there the rest of the time. When it seems that the world tries to convince us that we should tear each other down to make ourselves look better, I will think of these women. As Helen Keller—the inspirational author and speaker who had to rely on others to be her eyes and ears said, “Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.”

Tugging at the tape ever so slowly and pulling back the wrapping paper, the present beneath gradually revealed itself. In a dark living room with only the aid of the soft glow of Christmas tree lights to illuminate my mischievous task, I spotted a length of hot pink nylon fabric with lime green plastic piping. It was a duffel bag, and it spoke to me of future slumber parties and sleep-overs and fun. But the joy I felt was tinged with feelings of guilt and remorse, because it wasn’t Christmas yet and I was sneaking a look at my present a few days early and without permission. I re-taped the package and slid it back under the tree. Though this was nearly forty Christmases ago, I still remember that feeling—the wicked thrill of doing something that was obviously wrong for which I might easily get caught, my only companion a miniature version of Baby Jesus in a Manger in ornament-form dangling on a tree branch just above my head. Now, as the wrapped presents pile up under our tree, my youngest son is faced with the same temptation. I see him hungrily eyeing those presents with his name on them, wondering what joys lie just beneath the candy cane wrapping paper. He asks me almost daily, “When can I open them? Why do we have to wait?” It’s a logical question: There’s the present. He wants the present. I bought him the present. So what’s the point of waiting? This is one of those universal human dilemmas with which we all must struggle—waiting. It’s why people say things like “Good things come to those who wait.” It’s an attempt to mollify that nagging frustration we feel as we are forced to wait for something. Our consolation that the prize had better be worth the delay. If you’re looking for an example of Championship Waiting, check out the Prophetess Anna in Luke 2. Scripture tells us that she had been a widow for most of her life and spent all of her days and nights at the Temple worshiping God and fasting and praying and waiting for the Promised Messiah. I can imagine her there, standing in the courtyard, perhaps busying herself with sweeping or tidying up. She notices a commotion. A young couple has brought in their baby to be circumcised and dedicated to God. Simeon, another Temple Frequenter, has spotted the family and snatched the baby in his arms, jubilantly. Simeon tells the mother that her son is the One he’s been waiting for. Anna hears bits of their conversation, words like salvation, lightand glory. Heart pounding and legs like jelly, she rushes over. Seeing Jesus for the first time, Anna doesn’t feel her 84 years as all of those sorrow-filled nights spent asking why she was alone melted away. She is joyful to be present for such an occasion—the arrival of her rescue. My experience with waiting has been up and down the spectrum, from Peaceful Patience to Raging Lunatic. I’ve felt it all. But, in the end, nothing beats the Big Reveal, when the time is just right to open up the gift you’ve been anxiously expecting for so long. It can come in many packages—big and small—like it did so many years ago in the form of a baby boy.

On Tuesday mornings, I meet with a few other moms at a church near my youngest son’s elementary school to pray. We start out praising God and thanking Him for what He’s done for us. Then we pray specifically for our own kids and generally for the students and teachers and staff at the school. The whole thing takes less than an hour. We sit on the floor of a preschool classroom and speak softly to the Creator of the Universe, encouraging each other with our candor and empathy. It’s both commonplace and extraordinary. Our group is a chapter of a much larger organization called “Moms in Prayer.” It’s a worldwide prayer task force that’s been committed to praying for kids and schools since 1984. The mission of “Moms in Prayer” is to cover every school in the world with prayer. As we were meeting this week, I was conscious of something I’ve done a million times before but without really considering it. I noticed my posture while we prayed. It’s nothing unusual. I bowed my head and closed my eyes and sat very still. This is how I was taught to position my body during a prayer and how I’ve taught my own children. From a mother’s point of view, this was a necessary pose for children to remain quiet. Folded hands means those hands aren’t reaching for something else. Closed eyes means those eyes aren’t being distracted by objects in the room. Why this was remarkable to me on this particular occasion remains to be seen, but what I understood a bit better about prayer was the humility of the act. Closing your eyes and bowing your head goes against the animal instinct of protecting yourself. You let down your guard. You admit—even for just a moment—that you’re not in control. Crying out to a God who others might claim can’t hear me is an act of faith and devotion. And it’s a sign of humble supplication. Of course, this isn’t the only acceptable posture for praying. I can’t close my eyes while I’m driving, which is a pretty important time to pray, especially if you’re out doing in any Christmas shopping on the weekends. Sometimes we just can’t physically bow our heads. These various postures remind me of Gideon, God’s appointed judge/general who was called to fight the Midianites. When He told Gideon there were too many soldiers in his army, God first whittled down the number by sending home the frightened men. Then God instructed Gideon to take the remaining men out to the river to drink. Those who put their mouths in the water—heads down and noses dripping—were sent home. The men who crouched by the river bank and scooped up the water in handfuls, watchful of their surroundings, stayed to fight. When we pray we must somehow make ourselves both supplicant and soldier, petitioner and prayer warrior. We humble ourselves but with an intentionality and purpose fit for an important mission. Whether our heads are bowed or our eyes are surveying the heavens, we are blessed with the opportunity to speak to a God who listens.

I like my name. It’s easy to pronounce and spell. When I was growing up, I didn’t know any other girls named “Abby,” so it felt unique without being weird. (Fast forward to 2018: There are plenty of little girls with my name now!) The name Abigailcame from a real-life Bible heroine, a woman whose first marriage was to a fool and second marriage was to a king (1 Samuel 25). She was smart and brave and beautiful and knew how to pack a picnic for 600 fighting men. That’s a high standard to live up to, but names can do that to a person. When we named our four kids, I knew I wanted short names. I spent a few years helping kindergarteners learn how to write out their names, so I knew it could be a daunting task. (Just ask a few of the kids from my first class: Jacqueline, Christopher, and Alexander.) Naming our first three kids weighed heavily on me. I made lists and handed them over to my husband for veto. (Our youngest son’s name came to me in a dream, so no lists were generated and no veto power exercised.) There are loads of times (like daily) when I get the very carefully chosen names of my very cherished children wrong. I regularly call one of my twin daughters by the name of my younger sister. I call my other daughter by her twin sister’s name. I call my older son by my husband’s name and my younger son by his brother’s name. I even call my husband by my older sister’s name. It’s not unusual for me to sound like an auctioneer just trying to summon a family member. I read once that a mom mixes up the names of the people she loves the most, because her love for them is equal. I like that hypothesis. That explains why I never accidentally throw in a name of someone I don’t love unconditionally into the mix. For example, you won’t hear me running through the list this way when I’m calling one of my kids to come to the kitchen: “Come here, Ella…I mean, Lucy…No, Knox…Ugh, Jezebel…Ezra!” It just wouldn’t happen. Names are important and naming a human being is no trivial assignment, but names are actually placeholders for what you really want to call them, but don’t always take the time to say. In place of his name, I really want to call my husband: “Man-I-love-and-rely-on-and-admire-most-of-all-people-ever-and-who-I-still-think-is-cute-after-20-plus-years-of-marriage” but that would take too long, and it definitely wouldn’t fit in my phone contacts. Our names are more than what’s on our driver’s license and how we introduce ourselves to others. Our names are our reputations. They are a few steps in front of us before we enter a room. Rather than just a series of vowels and consonants, our name is what is generally known about us. Our names can be the revealing of our past and unmasking of our personality. As it says in Proverbs 22:1, “A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.”

The past couple of weeks have been pretty hectic around the Rosser house, and most of that bad luck has been aimed at me. Sickness and doctor’s appointments, broken clothes dryer and backed up sewer line. (FYI: I’ve realized that a working sewage system is one of the things I most take for granted.) It’s been weeks of mopping and wet/dry vacuuming and remembering to take my antibiotics. To add to my misery, the check engine light just came on and my van is shaking like nobody’s business, so now I’m without my handy-dandy minivan until they can fix the problem. I’m a glass half-full kind of girl, so I can spin a lot of things toward the “it could’ve been worst” zone. What if the sewer line had backed up while we were gone for Fall Break? That would’ve been a disaster! What if the check engine light came on while I was with my daughter looking at a college out of town? We would’ve been stranded in the middle of Arkansas! And of course, I can always tell myself, “Stop whining! Even with a basement covered in sewer water, you’re still a million times more fortunate than most of this planet. If you have a clean mattress to sleep on, know how to read, and eat vegetables every day, you are richly blessed!” Even with that kind of pep talk, this much bad luck this close together might still find a chink in my optimism armor. That was the day I got a tag on the trash can telling me I didn’t put it out before 6:00 am, in time for pick-up, even though I had it out the night before. The reprimand was such a little thing, but it pushed me over the edge. “Are you kidding me?!?” I wanted to yell to someone in charge. When you’re feeling like you’re in the middle of one of those frustrating movies where everything goes wrong for the main character to the point of absurdity, go to the Book of Psalms. They get you there. The world has just recently lost the very insightful Eugene Peterson, pastor and author of The Message. His paraphrase of Psalm 73 makes me think he understood a little about bad luck, just as the original author—Asaph, the leader of King David’s choir—must’ve also experienced some fairly awful days. “What’s going on here? Is God out to lunch? Nobody’s tending the store. The wicked get by with everything; they have it made, piling up riches. I’ve been stupid to play by the rules; what has it gotten me? A long run of bad luck, that’s what—a slap in the face every time I walk out the door… Still, when I tried to figure it out, all I got was a splitting headache, until I entered the sanctuary of God. Then I saw the whole picture… When I was beleaguered and bitter, totally consumed by envy, I was totally ignorant, a dumb ox in your very presence. I’m still in your presence, but you’ve taken my hand. You wisely and tenderly lead me, and then you bless me.” Psalm 73:11-24 (The Message) On those Bad Luck Days, I yearn to see the whole picture, to see how it all fits together and why it’s still important for me to hunger for righteousness. In the meantime, I’ll just hold God’s hand and allow Him to bless me, even if I can’t always discern the blessings from the bad luck.