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  • What's in a name?

    I have a friend who adopted her son after several years of fostering him. She said that when the official court date drew closer, she told him it was time for him to call her mom. It was difficult at first. His associations and connections with the idea of motherhood were fraught with complicated memories and preconceptions, but she knew that calling her mom was just another step toward the familial bonds becoming more real. That’s the thing about names. They stand for more than just a word to hear your mom call out the back door to say that supper is ready. They carry a weight all their own, and we see this in Scripture. From Adam giving names to all of the animals in Eden to Jesus calling out “Lazarus” in front of an open tomb to John prophesying in Revelations about our names being written in the Book of Life, names play an important role in the history of humankind. Because the names that we assign others are so important, we also see a variety of names for God. Elohim (a generic name for God first seen in Genesis 1:1 which means “Mighty One”), Adonai (“Lord”), El Roi (“the God who sees me”), El Shaddai (“God Almighty”), Jehovah Jireh (“Provider”), Jehovah Rapha (“Healer”), Jehovah Shalom (“Peace”), and Yahweh (the personal name for I AM, the Sovereign Lord), just to name a few. And then there’s Abba, Ancient of Days, and the Alpha and Omega. Why so many names? That’s just how awe-inspiring, unfathomable and yet accessible our Heavenly Father is. (Heavenly Father…That’s another one!) These names give us insight into who He is while also revealing how He relates to us. Reading the story of Samson recently, it was pointed out to me that you can predict the ups and downs of this has-really-bad-judgement Judge from the Old Testament by the names he uses for God. All through his story, super-strong Samson is careless with this unearned gift that God gave him. He could’ve led the people to follow God and be free of their enemies, but instead he starts a bunch of fights and lights foxes on fire. Such a waste! When he talks about God he calls him Elohim—not what you would use if you had an intimate relationship with Him. By the end of his life, when he was a blind prisoner trotted out before the Philistines for their amusement, he finally realized Who he had been dealing with all along—Yahweh. Once they had placed Samson’s hands on the pillars holding up the pagan temple, he prayed, “Sovereign Lord (Yahweh), remember me.” He had to be brought so low to find a place where he could get personal with God. Maybe he thought he could continue to satisfy every sinful whim and desire as long as he kept a safe distance between him and God. Silly Samson! His story is a great reminder for me to seek out God, not hide from Him. I can approach the Mighty One who sees me, provides for me, and offers healing. I can receive peace from my Yahweh. Then, if I ever get bold enough, I will do what Moses did in Exodus 33 when he asked God to show Moses His glory. That’s when God replied, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the Lord (Yahweh), in your presence.” I don’t think I could stand all that glory on this side of heaven, but oh, can you imagine the fireworks display we’ll see just from Him proclaiming His name? I can hardly wait!

  • Easter Bread

    There are a lot of things to love about Easter—chocolate bunnies, new dresses, egg hunts, spring blossoms—but the thing I love the most is reading the account of Christ’s resurrection. As a perpetual optimist, I’m a big fan of happy endings, and that’s what we get when we keep reading the Gospels after the events of the crucifixion. The difference between Luke 23 and Luke 24 is monumental! The women who had looked after Jesus and his disciples throughout his ministry saw him die a gruesome death. Luke says that others “beat their breasts and walked away” from the foot of the cross, but many of his followers, including these women, stayed to keep watch. Later, they followed Joseph, the man who had asked permission to bury Jesus, to see where he would lay the body. Once they knew where the tomb was, they went home to prepare burial spices and finish all their tasks so they could rest. It was the Sabbath, and these women knew the rules. I imagine them feeling weighed down, their arms and legs seemed heavier than ever before as they took down their spices, pausing to hold the dried flowers and leaves and resin to their noses to smell the familiar, soothing scents which perhaps reminded them of the burials of other loved ones. They were sad and confused, but I bet they were grateful for a job to do. They needed purpose and agency to keep going. Then, early in the morning on the first day of the week, the women took the spices and headed to the tomb. When they got there, they saw that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. They ran inside, but Jesus’ body was gone. They clutched those spices and wondered what had happened. Was this good? Was it bad? What should they do? Who should they tell? Then two men in lightning-bright robes appeared out of nowhere. The women fell to the ground, hiding their faces. The angels said, “Why are you looking for him here? Don’t you remember what he told you? It’s all happened just as he predicted.” Then the women remembered, and they ran to tell the others. I look forward to the day when I can meet these women—Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James. I want to ask them what it was like to be a woman in their time, and what did Jesus’ teachings mean to them in light of their social position. I wonder if they’ll discuss how caring for others, especially Jesus and his disciples, was such a big part of their ministries. Whether they were preparing meals or preparing burial spices, this was how they showed love. The older I get, the more I see this to be true. I feel a natural pull toward feeding the stomachs and souls of those I get to love on. Now that I have college-aged kids, I like to cook a meal for them and their friends. And my kids are learning to appreciate our family traditions as they see them in a new light from a little farther away. One of those traditions is something my mom started when I was little. Every year, she made Easter Bread—soft, eggy rings of yeast bread covered in crunchy sprinkles with a dyed egg nestled in the center. It was my favorite breakfast all year, and now it’s the favorite of my kids. There are several steps to make the bread, but it’s not all that difficult. In fact, I made it twice this year to accommodate the busy schedules of my girls. That’s how important it’s become to us. But for me, it’s not about eating the bread. It’s about creating memories. Yeast dough has built-in periods of rest where you wait for the dough to rise. These magical moments are gifts. The dough expands while you remain watchful, expectant. Then, when the dough is baked, the house smells amazing, filling up with a heavenly aroma. This is how we prepare and celebrate. So much has changed over the thousands of years since Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary crept home after witnessing the horrors of the cross. The most striking difference came when they entered the tomb and found it empty. They had carried spices to mask the smell of death, but left the tomb rejoicing with the angels’ news ringing in their ears! EASTER BREAD 12 hard-boiled, dyed eggs ½ cup milk ½ cup sugar ½ cup water 2 packets of yeast (or 5 ½ tsp) ½ cup flour ½ cup oil 1 teaspoon salt 2 eggs 4 cups flour 1 egg, beaten (for egg wash) Sprinkles (optional, but also essential) Cook milk, sugar, and water in microwave for 1 minute. Pour into large bowl, and add yeast and ½ cup flour. Stir until smooth. Add oil, salt, and 2 eggs, and beat with mixer. Add flour, mixing well after each cup. Turn dough on lightly floured surface. Knead for 5-8 minutes. Put dough back in well-oiled bowl, coating all sides of dough with oil. Cover with a cloth, and put the bowl in oven with the light on to rise for 1 hour. Punch dough down and let rise for more 30 minutes. Divide dough into 4 equal parts. Roll each part into a long rope. Take two ropes and twist them so that there are 6 “nests” to hold 6 dyed eggs. This makes one 1 large ring. Repeat with other dough and eggs. Let rings rise until doubled in size (or let rise over night in the refrigerator). Beat egg and brush onto dough. Add sprinkles. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Cool slightly before cutting each ring into 6 sections.

  • Apples to Oranges

    The other day, I asked my husband Brent and our younger son Ezra to list some phrases that they like and some that they don’t like. (I’m a real word-nerd, so these are the kinds of conversations they are frequently subjected to.) A few of the ones we liked were: “Can’t account for taste.” “Wouldn’t be happy even with a ham under each arm.” (That was my contribution for this category.) “Consider the source.” And Ezra’s favorite: “Let him cook.” Phrases that we didn’t much care for were: “Stay in your own lane” and “Getting out of my comfort zone.” I also added: “To know her is to like her.” (After the publication of my first book, I had an article written about me and the journalist wrote, “To know her is to like her,” instead of the actual phrase “to know her is to love her.” I’m just a girl standing here, asking you to love me!) Another phrase I added to our DON’T LIKE list was: “It’s like comparing apples to oranges.” According to the wizards of the internet, the phrase “comparing apples to oranges” comes from a collection of proverbs written by John Ray in the 1600’s. Strangely enough, he originally compared apples and oysters, which is a completely different situation. Other languages have similar idioms used for supposedly disproportionate comparisons. In French, they compare apples to pears or cabbages to carrots. In Spanish, they compare potatoes to sweet potatoes, which are barely distinguishable. In Serbian, they compare grandmothers to toads, and in Romanian they compare grandmothers to machine guns and cows to long-johns. (Now we’re talking! Those are actually different!) My favorite is the Polish phrase which translates: “What does the gingerbread have to do with the windmill?” Which, you have to admit, is a valid question! I wish I could say that making ridiculous comparisons is all in fun and only fruit-related, but we all know how problematic life and living with others can get when we spend too much time comparing ourselves to the people around us. If I only made decisions based on what others were doing, I would be in a world of trouble. It’s the lifestyle equivalent of ignoring the speed limit and instead deciding how fast to drive based solely on the speed of the strangers driving the cars around me. Absolute bedlam (and probably what I encounter most of the times that I drive on I-24)! In Galatians 1:10, the Apostle Paul asks, “Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.” In other words, who are we trying to impress here...other people who seem to be better than us in various ways? If that's the case, then we're giving those other "better" people too much influence over the way that we see ourselves, the blessings that God has given us, and the paths that He’s provided for us in our suffering. All too often, we mistakenly look to people to learn more about God—about His generosity, His justice, His mercy—but what we should really be doing is looking to God to learn where to aim our shot. Then we can be Christ to the people around us. No apples vs. oranges or carrots vs. cabbages. Just an eternal soul covered in a human shell trying to reflect Jesus to another eternal soul covered in a human shell, a fellow servant of Christ.

  • Not enough

    Every six months or so, depending on what’s going on in my life, I have a Knock-Down. If you’re not familiar with the concept, it’s kind of like a melt-down. Though it may involve a grown-up version of a temper tantrum, it mostly looks like me trying to carry too many things—burdens that are both my own and others’—and I finally get knocked down to the floor, pinned under the figurative weight. In this particular case, the “floor” was the backseat of my car which was not running but parked in the garage with all the lights off. I just needed a few minutes. The problem with me is that I forget that I can’t do everything. I take on the troubles and tribulations of my kids and friends and whatever other hot mess is brewing around me, forgetting that I’m not equipped to fix it all. When I fail to repair what’s broken, I beat myself up. I tell myself, “You are not enough,” and that’s actually true. My issue is that I don’t like that reality—the reality of being inadequate. When I had my most recent Knock-Down, I received a word there on the floor of that dark backseat. It was the same thing the Apostle Paul heard from the Lord when he asked God three times to take away his “thorn in the flesh,” some sickness or temptation or persecution which plagued him. God told Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” When those words cropped up in my mind, I was frustrated and bereft, so I questioned them. “Sufficient?” I asked God. “What kind of word is that? That sounds like it’s barely enough…just adequate. Where’s the abundance?” Then I heard the word that scared me—enough. Maybe it was God saying, “That’s enough of your whining, young lady.” Or maybe He was saying “Daughter, you can never do enough. You can never be perfect enough for your kids or be perfect enough as a Christ-follower. You are not enough, which is why I sent my Son. This is about My grace, not your competency.” It’s a popular notion to say “I’m enough,” but what about when you’re feeling 100 miles shy of the mark. When I say that I’m enough, then it’s all about me. It implies that I can almost make it there on my own. So all I have to do is just admit the slight discrepancy in reaching my goal this time and learn how to fake my aptitude the other 364 days of the year. But the problem with this plan is that I’ll forget how much I need Him. At least I’ll forget until I’m forced to remember. Until the walls of my own self-reliance come crashing down around me, broken bricks and debris hitting my arms as I shield my face and run out of the wreckage. And I’ll wonder where I’ve gone wrong. How did someone so efficient and capable allow these cracks to develop? That’s when I realize that it’s way past time to run up the white flag. I surrender. It’s time to say that I don’t just need God to plug up the holes in the dam I’ve built. I need Him to part the waters. I don’t just need God to clean the smudges on my glasses. I need Him to heal me of my blindness. I don’t just need God to cut up my meat into bite-sized pieces and butter my bread for me. I need Him to make manna rain from the sky. I’m not enough. It’s true. “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:9-10) Or as the old hymn says it: “I need Thee every hour, Most gracious Lord; No tender voice like Thine can peace afford. I need Thee, oh, I need Thee; Every hour I need Thee. Oh, bless me now, My Savior! I come to Thee.”

  • Grace Abounds at the Water Park

    Wilderness at the Smokies Facebook page My family and I visited an indoor water park for spring break this year. It turned out to be a momentous experience for us. We conquered fears—Lucy: hydrotachophobia (fear of water at an amusement park…I just made that up) and Me: leukodermatophobia (fear of wearing a bathing suit in the middle of March in front of hundreds of strangers…also made up). We rode enough water slides to give us wedgies for a year. We ate at our kids’ favorite kind of restaurant—the all-you-can-eat buffet. Brent and I hit a parenting milestone in that we felt comfortable having our kids look out for each other at a public place where there’s a risk of drowning. (I should say that there are TONS of lifeguards.) Another thing that made it an important trip was because I made a realization about myself and about God. It’s so tempting to look at the wide variety of people who come to places like amusement parks and question their choices. Whether it’s parenting techniques or bathing suit designs, you sometimes have to scratch your head and wonder. (Side note: I am never comfortable wearing a bathing suit, and I wear the belly-covering and skirted mom-suit, a.k.a. the Tankini. If you take a step back and think about it—maybe from the perspective of the family we saw that dressed their daughters in the modesty swimwear worn by TLC’s Duggar family or the Muslim women who rode the tide in the wave pool in their heavy, black hijabs—we’re really standing in lines, carrying cumbersome inner tubes, and plunging down dark, slippery tunnels in our underwear.) It’s also hard to miss the tattoos. I started feeling like I’m the only person age 18-45 without one. I saw a dad with his daughter’s baby footprint, name, weight, length and birth date tattooed across his back. There was a guy with the Chanel logo on his elbow. (ouch) We saw a twenty-something guy with the word LEPRECHAUN inked across his chest in tight, bold letters. In fact, it seems like font style is a big deal for the tattooee. One man had a really pretty script on his arm that said: “For all your advice I am forever grateful. I will never be able to repay you.” I’m not joking. That would be a little wordy on a greeting card, buddy, so how about written with a NEEDLE ON YOUR SKIN?! In some cases, I wouldn’t be surprised if people look to bumper stickers for inspiration at the tattoo parlor. I found myself searching for “Honk if you like ice cream” in a fancy Old English font. It’s just a matter of time. I have to confess when I see these people I want to judge. I want to shake my head, tsk, tsk-ing their clothes and behavior and general demeanor. I hate this compulsion I have. What a jerk! Because…light bulb…Jesus died for each and every one of them. It’s so Sunday school basic but it’s something I have to remind myself of everyday. No matter if they live in a mansion or a trailer, have straight white teeth or a mouth full of gold caps, wear a Miller Time t-shirt or shop at Talbots—they’re wanted and loved and important to Christ. If I can learn to love my fellow man—tattoos, obnoxious behavior and all—standing in a line in my (gulp) underwear at a water park, I step a little closer into the light of my Savior. Maybe I conquered another fear last week: Jerkanthropophobia. (Fear of being a jerk to people) Well, I suppose I may not have conquered it yet but admitting I have a problem is the first step.

  • For Crying Out Loud

    I am known by my family and most friends for being a “cry baby.” I tear up during baptisms, weddings, funerals, and half of the sermons I hear. I cry when someone comes forward during the invitation song even if he/she is a total stranger. (It sounds like I can’t make it through a Sunday without completely losing it.) I cry in movies—even bad ones—and commercials where soldiers come home from fighting overseas. In most any case, if I see someone tearing up, I just can’t hold back from joining in. The thing that really gets me even more than something sad is human kindness. At Kroger this week, I saw a college-age guy go out of his way to get an empty cart from an elderly lady so she wouldn’t have to roll it back to the cart corral. Sniff, sniff. Inside, I saw a middle-aged female shopper complimenting a mentally challenged teen who is bused to the store to practice real world skills like stocking shelves. The shy teen smiled up at her with so much pride. My eyes brimmed over at this small, unexpected gift. At times, it’s embarrassing to have this disorder. I think it’s genetic. My mom is the exact same way. Surely we have over-productive tear ducts or something. There have been times when I’ve watched a movie with friends and I’ve destroyed the tiny theater napkins by wiping my nose and eyes just to see my friends looking back at me through dry eyes. “Are you made of stone?!” I want to scream. They just answer back, “Yeah, it was sad but you know…” In other words: “We’re in public, so stop with the snotty tears, would ya?” I want to know their secret. How do they keep from crying when actors (in movies) or even real people (at church or over lunch) reveal their innermost sins and fears and struggles? How can you see that kind of suffering and not be utterly devastated by the inhumanities we have to deal with everyday? I’m not assuming that they don’t feel that anguish too. I would never equate the liquid volume of tears with sincerity and compassion. I just honestly want to know how they keep their emotions from pouring out of their faces. I don’t think I was designed with an “off” switch to keep it in check. I was happy to see Bubba Watson, the newest champion of the PGA, unable to keep it together. In every interview since his win last weekend, he has broken down on camera. That’s got to be worse than just crying in front of your friends. I read one interview that quoted a sports psychologist who said Bubba’s tears may actually help him. She said that holding in these strong emotions could have “a negative impact on his game.” Well, I don’t know much about golf but I’m an expert in crying. (I did beat Brent at putt-putt that one time…there maybe something to it after all!)

  • Smooth Move, Ex-Lax!

    I have never been considered graceful. Growing up, I didn't create dance routines in front of a full-length mirror to a Debbie Gibson song. (I was more of a look-thoughtfully-out-the-car-window-as-I-sing-like-Cyndi-Lauper-in-the-“Time After Time”-video kind of girl.) My hands and feet are disproportionately large for my frame and I am not the exception that proves the rule about white people and their lack of rhythm. So it should come as no surprise that I am clumsy, but yesterday was especially bad. I found myself in a constant hurry and for me that equals bruises. I did one of those quick neck twists to check on something in the backseat of the van that resulted in a sore neck for the rest of the day. (You know you’re getting old when backing out of the garage is hazardous to your health.) Later, I ran into the house to change out of a sweaty t-shirt before a parent/teacher conference. I was trying to navigate through the doorway of our bathroom with my shirt halfway off and my sight wholly obstructed. I was trapped inside my shirt like a bad Houdini escape attempt when I slammed my elbow on the doorframe. I couldn’t straighten out my arm for hours. It was swollen like Fred Flinstone hit it with a Stone Age hammer. It’s still sore today. Why are some people so graceful and others have the physical presence of Quasimodo? Can gracefulness be taught? Think of Scarlett O’Hara gliding down the red velvet steps of her grand foyer when Rhett has finally decided to leave her. It’s like she’s riding a really fast escalator. Now imagine me doing that. I’d have tripped on my dressing gown and landed in a crumpled heap at Rhett’s feet faster than he could say, “Frankly, I don’t give a…” I do have one fleeting period of gracefulness that I will cling to until I am tripping fellow old people with my walker at the nursing home: When I was in high school, a boy once wrote a song about me. It was completely based on his fictional analysis of me but it said (in sweet poetic language) that my movements were lovely and I walked as if no one was watching. (It also said I had honey-colored hair.) Maybe gracefulness is in the eye of the beholder. If it can’t be taught at least clumsiness can be overlooked.

  • Bah-humbug!

    With the following post I may lose a couple of friends or at the very least disappoint some, but blogs are supposed to be controversial, right? Right. So… I don’t believe in Santa Claus. It’s true. I don’t believe in his chimney forays or his over-indulgent cookie-eating or his magic reindeer. Now you know more about me then you’d ever want to. Like finding out that I’m a chain smoker. I am the bad guy in every Christmas special. I’m the one that needs to find “Christmas in my heart.” I’m the one who makes saving Christmas a necessity. (In my opinion, anything that needs saving that frequently is pretty lame to begin with. Is Christmas just too big too fail?) In your mind, I am now one of the following fictional characters: Professor Hinkle from Frosty the Snowman: (So selfish…He only believed in the magic that could benefit him. Kind of how I feel about couponing. It’s stupid unless I remember to do it and get a really good deal on cereal.) I’m more than happy to record these shows for my kids and even watch them myself, but I can’t get into the “Santa’s bringing presents to good little girls and boys…” I can’t think of many creepier things than having this in my house: There’s also the subterfuge required to keep the Santa ruse going. You’re constantly checking everything you say about Christmas gifting. And if they ask a question that you can’t answer (like: “But we don’t have a chimney?”) you have to practice some creative lying. How exhausting! We tell kids all the time that Christmas isn’t about presents. We tell them it’s about spending time with your loved ones and general good will toward men. But what’s the first comment out of everyone’s mouth when they’ve seen my kids since Christmas Day? “Did Santa visit you? What did you get? Were you naughty or nice this year?” Kids are smart but mixed messages abound. “Please” is not really a magic word, green vegetables won’t actually put hair on your chest, and they won’t actually receive an appropriate amount of toys compared to the preceeding year’s behavior. They’ll get an amount equivalent to their siblings’–no more, no less. I’m not proposing a Christmas Coup d’état. I think the big guy has a lot of value. I’m just saying that if I choose to skip over some of the Santa stuff like putting out cookies but you pay a fat actor in a red suit to “ho, ho, ho” your child awake on Christmas morning, we can still be friends. I mean, we don’t look down on the Dutch just because they put out wooden shoes instead of stockings, right? Look, this is the one time every year that you can walk into a store and hear a song straight from the gospel blaring over the PA system. It’s the time when people are looking for ways to give to the less fortunate. It’s the time when you hug every friend and speak kindnesses to every stranger. I want to revel in that. I don’t want to water down the birth of the greatest man to ever walk this earth with a story about a fictional character. There’s just no comparison. I love traditions. I love Christmas. I promise to try to find Christmas in my heart and keep it there even after I take down the tree. #Christmas

  • Finding My Inner Introvert

    After reading an article about shyness recently, I came to an astounding revelation: I’m an introvert! I know that some people would doubt this claim, but allow me to prove my point… 1. I frequently have to force myself to answer the phone even if the person calling is someone I like talking to. Once answered, I will have to: a) stop what I’m doing, b) pay attention, c) say something relevant, d) eventually end the conversation in a natural way, not just with “Well…bye…” I also don’t like making phone calls. I’ve needed to call my dermatologist’s office for over a week now to ask about a prescription for something other than the $700 cream he prescribed that my insurance won’t cover. Apparently, I’d rather have acne than talk to a receptionist for three minutes. 2. I get nervous talking to 98% of people I encounter daily. I start sweating profusely and talk too much. I say fifty words when two would be sufficient. When I went in for my annual GYN exam Monday I found myself asking my doctor questions just to fill the silence. (I don’t really want to know how an IUD works) And take it from me, when your doctor asks: “Is intercourse painful?” she doesn’t want anecdotal data to support your claim that everything’s working like clock-work in that area. She’s willing to take your word for it. 3. I’m exhausted by big groups. I prefer to spend most of my time alone or with a small group of people. When I came home from volunteering at school today I did a Mr. Rogers. I took off my jacket and shoes and put on a cardigan and slippers. I reveled in the solitude of my house. I was thrilled with the opportunity to iron Brent’s shirts and mend Knox’s jeans. I am officially the Most Boring Person in Murfreesboro. One of the bright spots to the article was that many people are “ambiverts”–they can switch between introvert and extrovert. I guess that’s me. I can use which ever “vert” best suits the circumstance. Which led me to wonder if I was “ambi” in other ways. I know I’m not ambidextrous. Maybe I’m ambi-dessertous: I can both create and eat desserts with equal expertise. I’m not ambi-cleanbedous: I will faithfully wash all the bed sheets in the house every Saturday but just don’t look under the bed. I guess it just goes to show you that you can’t put anyone in a box. Our intricately crafted personalities defy simplified labels and I like this about us. In an un-introverted way, I enjoy that surprise!

  • Tooting my own horn

    Saturday, I drove to a Hyatt in Brentwood to pitch my novel to a new publishing house. (I guess I should explain that I wrote a book a few years ago and I have had zero success getting anyone to publish it. I would actually settle for getting a literary professional to read it at this point.) I sat across a small table from three lovely ladies. I had my book proposal in hand and only my wits to keep me from shaking apart into tiny bite-sized pieces. Here’s the unnerving part: I had to “sell” my story. “Who would want to read it? Why? What’s the marketing plan? (I totally gave up on that one.) What experience have you had?” I’d forgotten what it’s like to sit through an interview, seeing as how I have been unemployed for ten years. I’m unaccustomed to lauding my accomplishments and talents. Sure, I fantasize that the produce manager at Kroger will approach me after he’s seen how carefully I select my cantaloupes and compliment my expertise. But praise for stay-at-home moms is few and far between. If we get a “good supper, mom” we’re ecstatic! I propose that we should begin an evaluation system similar to when I was teaching. Three or four times a year, I can sit down with Brent and the kids and they can tell me how I’m doing. Maybe they can fill out a sheet with specifics and numbers one to five. (I came across an old evaluation form from when I was teaching recently. I got fives–the highest number–on everything but grooming. What?! That must have been when I started casting off my apple-themed jumpers.) Now that I think of it, I may be better off the way it is. Do I really want to know if Ella finds the scent of my fabric softener choice too strong? Will Lucy give me a poor grade for “frequency of vacuuming”? What would Knox say about my treat-to-vegetable ratio? Never mind the evaluation. I take it back. If my family isn’t going to toot for me, I’ll have to just learn to do my own tooting. Hmm...poor word choice but you get the idea.

  • Too broken

    I broke the bracelet my husband gave me for Christmas. It survived about 35 days before the slender gold chain got hung on the corner of a filing cabinet and snapped. Once I realized what had happened, I crumpled onto the floor and cried. I told myself, “This is why we can’t have nice things, Abby.” I tried to see if I could fix it, but the links are too small for me to open, hook together, and bend back. It was just too broken. I slipped the ruined bracelet with the initials of our four kids into my purse. Even though I felt defeated, I couldn’t just toss it. So a few days later, when I spied the thin line of jewelry in the zipper pocket of my bag, I thought about a song that’s been playing on the radio a lot lately. It’s called “Never,” and it’s by Tasha Layton. The chorus goes like this: Never forgotten Never forsaken Never abandoned Not for a second I am safe in Your hands Always and forever You’re never not working My heart is the proof There’s not a broken too broken for You Will there ever come a day when You’re not holding me together? You say “never” I thought about that line—There’s not a broken too broken for You—and what that means for those of us who follow Christ. Colossians 1 says it better than I ever could: “The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” When I break something other than jewelry—whether it’s a promise to a friend or a rule I’ve ignored or a perfect moment I’ve ruined with selfishness—whenever I’ve been on the destructive end of throwing mud on God’s goodness, I’m at a loss. It’s like I’m tasked with repairing the Colosseum, armed only with a half-roll of duct tape. I fool myself into thinking I can fix whatever I’ve broken, but I’ve come to see that I can’t do it alone. Once I shed that undeserved job title of Solitary Queen of the Universe, I can relax in the arms of a Creator who can repair creation where we’ve broken it. Even when we’re unreliable, He’s constant. We can trust Him, because there’s never been a time—past, present, or future—that He hasn’t already visited. And He’s holding all things together. Or as a different song likes to say, “He’s got the whole world in His hands.”

  • My Funny Valentine

    I’m trying to decide how to properly cherish my husband for Valentine’s Day. It seems like the holiday is more geared to shower gifts on women than men. Brent could give me a number of things: jewelry, flowers, candy. What to give to him? I could cook a nice meal but how’s that much different than what I (attempt) to do most every night of the week? Picking out a Valentine’s greeting card is as much fun as going to the dentist, especially if I have my kids with me. “Why’s that man only wearing tiny undies and why’s he so greasy and why does the card come with paper one dollar bills?” are not a questions I want to answer when they check out a birthday card for a woman celebrating her fortieth. Brent and I are both painfully practical most of the time. You’re never going to see a picture of us hugging in front of a Lexus trimmed with a giant bow posted on facebook. We don’t live extravagantly so we don’t gift extravagantly either–at least not to each other. It may be a popular notion that women are focused on diamonds and roses and we’ll pout if we don’t get them but that stereotype isn’t very flattering. Brent will recognize Valentine’s Day with something special because he’s thoughtful of my feelings and his mission is to build me up, but it’s not necessarily going to be a balloon ride or a trip to Venice. The thing about Brent is he spends the other 364 days of the year bestowing small gifts on me. When we’re watching TV at night, he’ll ask if I need something to drink and get it for me. On Monday nights, he helps me sort the dirty clothes and on Tuesdays, he helps fold them. He always leaves me with the understanding that he is here to serve and care for me. That’s better than a million diamond tennis bracelets. When he listens to my tediously detailed stories about that day’s grocery shopping or my frustrations with the most recent episode of a Sister vs. Sister Cage Match, he’s giving me the most amazing gift of all–his attention. It reminds me of the 90’s movie Singles. Bridget Fonda’s character is just looking for a boyfriend who says "Gesundheit" when she sneezes. (Although she prefers “bless you.” It’s nicer.) She realizes that good looks, lots of money, and charm is nice but it’s the little consistencies and considerations that make a difference. So here’s my gift to Brent: Gesundheit, Baby and Happy Valentine’s Day!

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