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.

This morning my 6-year old Ezra woke up on the grumpy side of the bottom bunk. In his defense, it was a dark, rainy Monday, and none of us were really thrilled about the 6:30 am wake-up call. But as the morning progressed, there was a definite theme to his dialogue. When I grabbed a pair of socks to give to his older brother Knox (Knox has a broken ankle, otherwise he’d be getting his own socks), Ezra said, “No fair! Knox has undies and socks in the same drawer! Why can’t my socks and undies be together?” I mostly ignored this question due to its absurdity and hustled Ezra to the kitchen. I saw my husband eating what I assumed was a bowl of cereal, and I said, “I thought I used up all the milk last night,” and my husband answered, “This is yogurt.” Then Ezra said, “No fair! Me want milk!” To which I replied, “But you don’t like milk.” Ezra stomped back to his room in a huff. After he eventually returned to the kitchen, Ezra overheard me talking to Knox (you know, the favorite child whose undies and socks get to hang out together in the same drawer) asking him if he wanted to bring leftovers in his lunch and warm them up in the cafeteria microwave. “No fair!” Ezra cried, “Why Knox get to use the microwave? Why me no have microwave at my school?!” And so forth and so on went the morning. It’s comical to think of his lamenting over such trivial stuff because he’s six and most likely forgot the whole exchange by the time he stepped into his classroom. I wish I could say that 6-year olds were the only ones who flew the “Unfair” banner so carelessly. As adults, we may not whine over the same topics as children do, but the whining does happen. Claiming “No Fair” often occurs after we unnecessarily compare ourselves to others. “Why does she have that ___________ (insert house, car, weight, clothes, marriage, etc.) and I don’t?! It’s not fair!” Talk about feeling as gloomy as a rainy Monday morning–that line of questioning will ruin anyone’s day. Other than the negativity these comparisons create, the other travesty is that there really is rampant unfairness in the world. And the people who cry “No Fair” aren’t usually the ones with the most valid reason to say it. So instead of concentrating on the inconsequential issues that threaten to spoil what could turn out to be the most blessed day you’ll spend on this planet, take advice from the Book of Isaiah and look for ways to help those whose lives truly are unfair. “Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” (NLT) Isaiah 1:17

While vacationing in Florida and visiting a couple of amusement parks during Fall Break, I came to a realization: We parents need our own biker wave. You know what I’m talking about—a motorcyclist passing a fellow motorcyclist takes his left hand off the handlebar and does a peace sign with two fingers pointing to the ground. It’s a show of camaraderie. It’s a way of saying, “Hey there, fellow human with similar life experiences! I understand a little about you and I think you’re cool!” (Or something like that. I’m not a motorcyclist so I couldn’t say for sure what that small hand gesture means, but it seems positive. All I know is it doesn’t work as well with minivans.) I had this epiphany while watching a mom, dad and two young sons at Sea World. The dad had hit his limit. His older son was whining to the point that he had apparently lost his ability to walk normally. The dad was attempting to move him forward through the crowd and the boy was floppily walking like he was the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz being forcefully removed from a sit-in against Munchkin oppression. Once they made it to a short brick wall that served the dual purpose of creating a flower bed and providing seating to all of the hot and weary park attendees, the dad roughly sat the son down and told him not to get up. The boy began to cry, maybe from physical hurt but mostly from having his father lose his cool and aim it in his direction, while the dad looked at the Sea World map in his hands. I couldn’t stop watching this scene. It just felt so familiar. Your kids, those darlings you would lay down in front of a bus for, can make you straight up crazy. I noticed right away that this particular family was comprised of adopted children with mom and dad of one skin color and sons of another. So from my own experience, I knew there were so many layers to what was playing out in front of me. The crying son stood and tried to grab his dad around the middle, but the dad peeled him off and told him to sit back down. The mom who had been talking to the younger son sitting in the stroller calmly stepped in and said, “Let him hug you.” But the dad wasn’t ready to receive affection. He was mad. The mom hugged the son instead, and in a few moments they were on the move again, in search of rides or treats or shows. Before we left the park, I saw this same family and the dad was holding the older son in his arms while the boy slept, his face cradled in the dad’s neck and his little arm slung across the dad’s strong shoulder. They had made their peace. I wanted to reach out to this family and say something encouraging. I wouldn’t offer advice or try to show them how to parent their boys. I just wanted to flash that biker wave as if to say, “This is really hard, isn’t it? I’m sorry you guys had that moment of tension and separation, but I bet you get more things right than you get wrong, so keep on going. I understand a little about you and I think you’re cool.”

In a house with 4 kids who go to 3 different schools, weekday mornings can be hectic. Breakfast must be eaten. Backpacks must be packed. Lunches must be made. Pajamas must be traded for school clothes. The majority of my kids are relatively self-sufficient, but I still need to be available to monitor the morning progress if I want everyone out the door and to school on time. So the busyness of the morning makes completing the newspaper puzzles fairly difficult. Since my older sister homeschools her 4 kids, her mornings are a little less hectic (but the rest of the day is pretty busy!). Therefore, she prioritizes her morning time and her newspaper puzzles. She has told me, “I do the top left scramble, then the sudoku, the bottom scramble, the crossword and then the cryptoquote. Brain work!!” She said that the first 4 puzzles are her prep work for the tricky and often perplexing code-breaking exercise of the cryptoquote. If I do get around to completing any puzzles, I usually only do the sudoku puzzles on Mondays and Tuesdays. This is not because those are our less crazy days of the week. It’s actually because I’m aware of my limitations. The difficulty of each sudoku puzzle is noted with a number of stars. Monday is usually a 1-star and Tuesday is a 2-star. I’m just not willing to devote the amount of effort to a puzzle that’s more difficult than that. Call it lazy or call it self-awareness, but it’s true. According to sudokudragon.com, the name sudoku is “abbreviated from the Japanese suuji wa dokushin ni kagiru, which means ‘the numbers must occur only once.’” Because of its name, many might assume the sudoku puzzle is a Japanese invention, but there’s a lot more to its origin story. It started out as the invention of a Swiss mathematician named Leonhard Euler in the late 1700’s. It eventually made its way to French newspapers between 1890-1920. Then the puzzle showed up in an American magazine in 1979. By the 1980’s, Japan started printed the eventually-named Sudoku puzzles in their magazines and newspapers. The Japanese people love a good puzzle as much as anyone but found that the structure of their language and lettering made it difficult to construct a Japanese crossword puzzle. A number puzzle worked much better for them. For those who don’t really care for newspaper puzzles, the history of the sudoku might seem as mind-numbingly boring as actually completing a sudoku puzzle, but there’s an interesting evolution to its existence and popularity. This grid made up of 81 boxes and a few well-placed numbers, has changed over the last 250+ years as it was altered by various cultures. Instead of keeping it just so, when a new group discovered it, they would look to make it better or more challenging or more universally appealing. Though the name Su Doku means “number single,” its persistence in so many diverse places shows its multiplicity. It’s an excellent example of the melting pot theory. Learning from and sharing what we love with others can create some pretty amazing things.

If anyone is looking for me on most Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, they can find me in the preschool wing of my church. Our curriculum has a video series which we show the 3 year-olds to kindergarteners to reinforce their classroom lessons. The kids begin in their rooms, then about 15 minutes into Bible class time, they all come out to me on the area we call the “green triangle” (named after the color and shape of the carpeting in front of the television). We sing a few songs, and then I ask someone to switch off the lights. [Side note: Being the Chosen One who turns off the lights is a GIANT deal. I always choose a child I know can handle the task without a) needing assistance from me which would remove me from my post, or b) run out the door to escape. For the last two years I asked my youngest son to complete this task most of the time. Knowing he was about to age out of the preschool and move on to the elementary wing, I had him mentor a few reliable 4 year-olds. It was an interesting take on discipleship and a reminder that people like to be made to feel special.] Once the lights are off and the mood is set, we watch the video which shows a character who is questioning or struggling with a problem. An animated owl named Ollie overhears and offers a related Bible story to help them resolve their issues. Each month, there’s a new theme and Bible verse. Before we watch the video we practice the verse. This month it’s Proverbs 3:5—just the first part. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” I love this verse, especially when you look at the complete thought – Proverbs 3:5,6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” (NIV) Working on this with the kids helped me I realize that I learned this verse in different versions: “In all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” (NIV) “In all your ways acknowledge Him,And He shalldirect your paths.” (NKJV) “In all your ways know him, and he will make your paths straight.” (CSB) “Seek his will in all you do,and he will show you which path to take.” (NLT) I started thinking about the difference between God “showing which path to take” or “directing my paths” and “making my path straight”.  They seem different, don’t they? The most literal translation is “make your paths straight.” The idea is clearing all obstructions and obstacles out of the way. That’s not to say God doesn’t want to tell you with path to take. In Isaiah 30:21, we learn that “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (NIV) But the Scriptures teach us about the versatility of God, and His willingness to wait for us and find us and know us. So sometimes He will whisper to tell us which way to go and sometimes He will remove obstacles in our path. In the end, He just asks us to trust him. When I look back at the ways God has used me and challenged me, I see times when God removed the obstacles to pave the way for me to act. Upon reflection, I’m given the blessing of standing further down a road and looking back to see where I’ve been. Often I can understand a little better why the detours and the roadblocks came just when they did. God was providing me with a path made straight both by His foresight and His desire to bless me.

As we were walking to school today, my youngest son Ezra closed his eyes and asked me to hold his hand while we made our way down the sidewalk. “Don’t let me run into anything,” he said. “And don’t let me fall.” I promised him I’d do my best. We crossed streets and I navigated his steps over puddles. We didn’t walk side-by-side, like we usually do. Instead, I was a few steps in front, pulling him a bit as he lingered behind me. He was willing to keep going but there was some hesitancy to his strides, like his foot was testing what was in front of him before fully planting it on the hard concrete. When we were more than halfway there, Ezra suggested that we switch. “Now, you close your eyes and I’ll hold your hand,” he proposed. I looked at what was ahead—crossing a busy street where a crossing guard controlled the intersection—and I said it wasn’t a very good idea. Ezra asked why. “Because I’m the grown up and I’m supposed to lead you,” I told him. (Not to mention the fact that the crossing guard would think I was crazy!) “You don’t trust me?” he asked, a tiny bit of hurt in his voice. “It’s not that,” I assured him. “It’s my job to get you to school safely, and it’s your job to follow me.” I think that he does trust me and my husband in most situations, and we’ve worked hard to gain that trust, but allowing yourself to be led isn’t always easy. A search of the word “trust” in the Scriptures uncovers a slew of times when God instructs His people to trust Him. He tells them what will happen if they do trust Him and what will happen if they don’t trust Him. He reminds them of his history of coming through for them in the past. He proves Himself over and over to his people, in spite of their inconsistent allegiance. But, like a good parent, He is often compelled to fulfill his word and punish them. (We can trust Him for that, too.) When I think of leading Ezra down the road, eyes closed and hand firmly grasping mine, I think of Proverbs 3:5,6 – “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.” I’m a far cry from being the Perfect Parent my God is, but if I can show Ezra that he can trust an imperfect parent like me, I pray he will be able to put his trust in the One who will never fail him.

As I was listening to the radio recently, I heard some interesting facts about the planet Venus. I already knew a few things, like that it’s the second planet from the sun, which I remember using that old mnemonic device from elementary school: My Very Educated MotherJust Served Us Nine Pizzas (Now that they’ve removed Pluto from the lineup, Mother serves Nachos, by the way). It’s the hottest planet, with a really muggy atmosphere…so pretty much just like Tennessee in August. I didn’t know that it rotates backwards from the direction of most other planets. Hot and spinning backwards is never a great combination for me, think Tea Cups ride at Disney World. But Venus makes it work, lighting up the night as the brightest thing we can see in the sky apart from the moon. The most surprising fact I learned was how slowly Venus rotates. It takes 243 “Earth days” for Venus to rotate once on its axis, making one Venus day. But the planet orbits around the sun in 225 “Earth days”, making one Venus year. Hence, a year on Venus (225 Earth days) is shorter than a day on Venus (243 Earth days). Just let that sink in a minute. In the last few weeks, many of my friends have sent their children off to college, some for the first time. They packed them up and drove them miles from home so their sons and daughters can begin a new and exciting chapter. I still have two more years before this will be a chapter in my daughters’ stories (Chapter titles might include: “Twin Daughters Study Twice as Hard” or “The Library is Her Favorite”). When it comes to evaluating moments like the first day of kindergarten or the first day of college, studying for spelling tests or preparing for driving tests, it’s hard not to say things like: “Where has the time gone? Weren’t they just in diapers yesterday? They can’t be this old!” We say these things because we humans are complicated creatures. Why else would something as measurable and concrete as time have a feeling? We say a Monday feels like a Tuesday. We say that 8:00 pm feels like midnight. We joke that “time flies when you’re having fun.” There are times when we are metaphorically dropped onto the hot, clammy surface of Venus, and we think that the calendar must be wrong. We want time to spin backwards or at least stop for a bit so we can catch our breath. It’s easy to feel like we’re waking up from a coma, seeing our kids as if for the first time in years. He used to come up to my elbow, his hair just the right height for me to run my hand across it to wrestle with that cowlick. Now I have to reach up to pat down his unruly tufts of hair, and we’re eye-to-eye. Good grief! How long was I out? But there was no coma, only the day-to-day moments that make up their childhood. The hectic mornings out the door and grabbing supper on the way to ball practice. The busy schedules and the good night hugs. The sweet memories and the discouraging frustrations. That feeling that we only get one chance to do this right because, in the end, it seems so fleeting. So pretend that for today, you are a Venusian—a hot-natured inhabitant of the planet Venus. Make a “New DayResolution,” giving the next 24 hours your attention as if this day were as consequentially important to fully live as a whole year. Treasure the blessings and value what’s really important. Welcome to Venus!

One hundred years ago, Swiss-born inventor Emil Frey created Velveeta while working for the Monroe Cheese Company in Monroe, NY. He discovered he could use the broken and misshapen pieces of Swiss cheese sent to him from a different cheese-making factory in Pennsylvania, combining them with other cheese by-products. A little mixing here and a little melting there and…voila! Velveeta! Though it is much maligned now, I was raised on Velveeta. (When an uppity cheese wants to pick a fight with Velveeta they taunt the gelatinous cheese-like loaves by calling it “Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product.” I’m sure it’s very hurtful for the Velveeta.) My sisters and I would take out the Tupperware container designed specifically for storing the Velveeta, slide it out and slice off a chunk with one of those metal cheese slicers with the wire that cut through the yellow blob so effortlessly. Then we would take an epicurean voyage into the World of Kids On Summer Break Making Their Own Lunches in the 1980’s. The following is one of our most often made recipes: Remove one slice of bologna and place on melamine plate featuring Ronald McDonald accidentally showering Mayor McCheese with a garden hose. Generously slather mayonnaise over the entire bologna surface, a thickness of ¼ inch is preferable. Tear a Velveeta slice into small pieces and scatter pieces on top of mayo. Cut into triangles. As you eat the tiny wedges, comment on the unique flavor of your “Bologna Pizza.” For the longest time, Velveeta was pretty much all I knew about cheese. I hadn’t tried much of anything else. I wouldn’t know a Gorgonzola from a Gouda or a Colby from a Camembert. When Velveeta is all you know it seems delicious, until you spread Brie on a warm chunk of French bread or get that back of the mouth salivation from a sharp cheddar. Once the feeling of betrayal has faded, you realize what you had eaten for all those years was a substitute for the real thing. The Gospels are full of people asking Jesus if he was the Real Thing. The followers of his cousin John asked him. The High Priest asked him. One of the criminals hanging on the cross asked him. Everyone wanted to know if they were standing in the midst of the One and Only Messiah or just a Velveeta-like concoction, a resembling fake. You can understand their questioning. Jesus didn’t look regal, and he didn’t lead a political rebellion. Maybe he wasn’t what they were expecting. But he told John’s followers: “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen—the blind see, the lame walk, those with leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor.” (NLT) When Jesus’ followers asked him to tell them plainly who he was, he said, “I have already told you, and you don’t believe me. The proof is the work I do in my Father’s name.” (NLT) He wanted them to open up their eyes and ears to notice what was happening. In his loving patience, Jesus was willing to prove himself over and over again to his people. His understanding of his identity was solid, so he was unafraid of comparisons or degradations or even having supper with well-known sinners. Jesus once told a thirsty woman that he was the Messiah as they talked beside an ancient well in Samaria. Now it’s our job to also proclaim him as the Real Thing.

We have three remote controls for our living room television: one for the TV, one for the DVD player, and one to navigate all of the extras (Netflix, Amazon Video, YouTube, etc.) It is a necessity of the fallen nature of our world that at least one of those remotes should go missing every day. The AWOL remote can usually be found fairly quickly by taking all of the cushions off the sofa and throwing them on the floor. The slippery little devils love to slide down into the bowels of my sofa, hiding in between cloth-covered boards and consequently reminding me of how crumby those hidey-holes can get even though my children are NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT WHILE SITTING ON THE SOFA. (Apparently goldfish crackers can swim to the sofa all by themselves. Isn’t Nature amazing?) So when my youngest son was ready to watch his afternoon “chill-out” movie, the required remote could not be found. We took out all the cushions and checked the drawers of the hutch and the TV stand and the end tables. We checked in nearby rooms—the bathroom and the kitchen—but still no luck. When we looked under the sofa and the loveseat we found naught by giant dust bunnies, an orange bouncy ball, and a broken pencil. My son continued to search for the remote (his desire to seeMulan 2was this strong!), but I shifted my focus to the dust bunnies. I brought out the dust mop and the vacuum. I ridded the hardwood floors of their gray layer of filth and vacuumed the living room rug which is known to be a prolific shedder. After I had the floors in “company’s coming” appearance, I stood up and glanced at the mirror hanging above the loveseat. I found the greasy imprint of a face—forehead, nose, and puckered lips—a gift from one of my dear darlings, no doubt. I put away the mop and vacuum and turned my attention to the Windex and paper towels. One thing led to another and before long I had cleaned most all of the glass surfaces in the living room, kitchen, and sunroom. This was not my plan. I had planned to get a movie started for my youngest and work on supper, but something clicked inside my head. A voice said, “Enough of this madness! You must cleanse this place!” The dust and the grime I walk past all too often finally mounted up past my level of tolerance to the extent that I was compelled to act. At those moments—those fanatical dusting, sorting, purging moments—my spirit gets all up in the Book of Ecclesiastes. The invisible preacher in my head starts saying things like: “Whatever your hands find to do, do it with all your might, for there is no work in the grave, whither thou goest.” (Sometimes the Preacher morphs into King James Version if I get really worked up.) It’s weird, because the mess had been there for days but I was finally moved to act when I was searching for something else. It makes me wonder what other messes I am unaffected by, possibly because the job to clean them up or the frequency of the chaos is too great. I wonder if there’s an injustice I’ve ignored or a misery I don’t want to think about, but I’m actually supposed to get to work in that place. Maybe as I’m searching for some distraction, my eyes will be opened to a place that needs my care and attention.

I recently saw the documentary Won’t You Be My Neighbor?about the life and work of television icon Fred Rogers. I had heard it was great and was warned to bring tissues. Both turned out to be true. Like many of my generation, I grew up watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I had a toy trolley that played “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” when you pushed it along the carpet. My sisters and I would talk like Henrietta Pussycat to each other: “Meow-meow, can I have some meow-meowKool-Aid, meow-meow?” And we would discuss the inherent creepiness of Lady Elaine. I still vividly remember watching the clip showing how crayons (or as Mister Rogers said in his Philly accent: cray-uns) are made. As a child, I didn’t appreciate how Mister Rogers encouraged me to feel my feelings. And I wasn’t aware of what he did to fight for public television and change the way people understand children’s entertainment. I watched his show until I outgrew it. His final episode aired just before I had my daughters, so it wasn’t a part of their childhood as it was mine. After watching the documentary, I was a little sad that my kids were left out of knowing this gentle, intentional TV figure. The documentary explained how very popular Fred Rogers was—people would line up for a chance to come to a live event—and I wondered if current kids would embrace his show in the same way. I wondered if kids are now too sophisticated to sit and watch a normal-looking guy tie his shoes and zip up his cardigan. Would it be too slow paced for kids who are so used to being constantly entertained? Sitting in the dark movie theater watching the credits roll and thinking that this generation is too cool for Henrietta Pussycat, I felt inexplicably sad. I felt like something was missing from childhood—Wonder? Imagination? Stillness? Gentleness? Then a series of pictures popped into my mind (like bubbles from the episode when Mister Rogers and friends make an opera called Windstorm in BubbleLand). I thought of kids at my youngest son’s cafeteria table smiling at me with orange peels covering their teeth. I thought of children shouting “Cannonball!” as they jumped and splashed into our swimming pool. I thought about the fact that there are still kids who catch lightning bugs and make mudpies and play with action figures. I think if he were still with us, Fred Rogers would take great delight seeing kids be kids in 2018. He’s quoted as saying, “Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning. But for children play is serious learning. Play is really the work of childhood.” Even if they can’t watch his show in the way we did, they can still implement his philosophies of kindness, self-worth, and playtime. #children #creativity