Today I had the pleasure of attending MOPS (http://www.mops.org/), where the speaker compared parenting to spinning plates. Having seen a person spinning plates at the fair, the comparison worked well for me. I realized I have a few plates spinning, and if I'm to be successful with what God has given me to do, I need to be intentional.
The first step to being intentional is to figure out just which plates I want to keep spinning and which ones I should retire, even if just for a while. Of all the plates I try to spin, the one I'd most like to retire is housekeeping. Unfortunately, that is one that just can't be dropped. So, I've been trying to figure out what not to do and how to say no so I can accomplish those few things that are truly important to me. It is proving to be more difficult than I expected. Sometimes being intentional is one of the most difficult tasks in the world.
Of course, just when you think you are set to go with being intentional, something comes up which you could not anticipate and which requires you to throw all your plans for intentionality up in the air in a desperate attempt just to live life. Since I don't want any of the plates I'm frantically trying to spin to go crashing to the ground, and since I don't seem able to figure out which ones can be retired, I'm stuck looking like a clown in the circus as I run back and forth between responsibilities.
In the end, what I've decided is that I am totally incapable of keeping the plates spinning that represent my life. To that end, I've been meditating on a couple of passages from the Bible. The first is Matthew 11:28, 29 and 30. The Marchauna's Revised Version goes something like "Come to me (Jesus) all who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and lowly, and you will find rest for your weary soul. My yoke is easy and my burden is light." The other passage is in Philippians, and goes something like "My (Jesus is speaking) grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness." I am definitely weak!! I can totally relate to a need for strength beyond myself.
The amazing thing is, as I've poured out my frustration and desperation, Jesus is giving me what I need! He is helping me keep all the plates spinning; none have crashed to the ground yet. I've almost crashed a few times, and a few of the plates have wobbled dangerously but everything is still spinning. I won't know until I die (or my children are grown, which ever comes first) if I succeed at what I'm attempting. Right now, though, I have hope that God will keep His promise and finish what He started.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
experiencial knowledge
Years ago I heard a sermon about "experiential knowledge." I'll spare you my butchered attempt at the Greek word, but know that a Greek word for experiential knowledge does exist. And, the word draws emphasis to the experience part of knowing as opposed to knowing something because you read about it or took a class on it or watched a movie about it.
That differentiation of knowledge has stuck with me, though I do not remember the passage it was based on. Recently, God gave me a powerful reminder of the truth I'd been exposed to so long ago.
As a mom, I've cared for many kids who were stung by a bee. As a former child, I had compassion because I'd been stung by a bee. But, I'd forgotten just how painful a bee sting could be. Then, I gained a new level of experiential knowledge; I got stung by a bee! As the pain radiated from the sting on my hand up my arm past my elbow, and as the pain continued to increase with each passing second, I gained a whole new appreciation for the agony my children experience when they are stung.
Then, I began to think about some of the things God has been showing me this summer. Though I've always known I am a sinner and imperfect, I expect a level of perfection I know is not possible. When I fail, I am very disappointed. Recently, I lost my camera AND my cell phone. The two items were worth hundreds of dollars, and I couldn't afford to replace them. Worse still, I was trying so hard to be diligent and careful, yet I'd failed. Heading into a worship time, my heart was surrounded by a wall of my own making and the joy that I usually experienced was notably absent. As I poured my heart out to God, explaining my disappointment in myself, it struck me; God KNEW I would fail. That was why He sent Jesus. It isn't just because I am a sinner and sin seperates me from God, but because I'm a sinner and even my best efforts are woefully inadequate.
I'm still wrestling with what all this means; I'm still very much struggling with my humanity and tendancy towards failure. But, in the midst of it, I am gently reminded that Jesus died for my failures. Jesus died for my successes. Jesus knew before He died for me that I would be damaged goods and that nothing I ever do will be enough to pay the penalty for my sin. And He doesn't care. He accepts me anyway. He always will.
That differentiation of knowledge has stuck with me, though I do not remember the passage it was based on. Recently, God gave me a powerful reminder of the truth I'd been exposed to so long ago.
As a mom, I've cared for many kids who were stung by a bee. As a former child, I had compassion because I'd been stung by a bee. But, I'd forgotten just how painful a bee sting could be. Then, I gained a new level of experiential knowledge; I got stung by a bee! As the pain radiated from the sting on my hand up my arm past my elbow, and as the pain continued to increase with each passing second, I gained a whole new appreciation for the agony my children experience when they are stung.
Then, I began to think about some of the things God has been showing me this summer. Though I've always known I am a sinner and imperfect, I expect a level of perfection I know is not possible. When I fail, I am very disappointed. Recently, I lost my camera AND my cell phone. The two items were worth hundreds of dollars, and I couldn't afford to replace them. Worse still, I was trying so hard to be diligent and careful, yet I'd failed. Heading into a worship time, my heart was surrounded by a wall of my own making and the joy that I usually experienced was notably absent. As I poured my heart out to God, explaining my disappointment in myself, it struck me; God KNEW I would fail. That was why He sent Jesus. It isn't just because I am a sinner and sin seperates me from God, but because I'm a sinner and even my best efforts are woefully inadequate.
I'm still wrestling with what all this means; I'm still very much struggling with my humanity and tendancy towards failure. But, in the midst of it, I am gently reminded that Jesus died for my failures. Jesus died for my successes. Jesus knew before He died for me that I would be damaged goods and that nothing I ever do will be enough to pay the penalty for my sin. And He doesn't care. He accepts me anyway. He always will.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Regression, or why some species eat their young
There comes a time in every child's life when his or her parent suddenly realizes something; there is a reason some species eat their young. I had such an epiphany, with my young son. He knows how to use a toilet. He did so successfully for several weeks. Then, abruptly, he forgot.
Each day, as I find puddles of potty on the floor, throw yet another pair of wet pants down the laundry shoot, or start a load of smelly clothes in the washer, I contemplate those critters who eat their young and know there must be a good reason.
We are actually on our third round of "regression." Two other times, my son has successfully kept pants dry for days, even weeks at a time. Then, for no obvious reason, he suddenly is wetting his pants several times a day. I have given up trying to be creative. We have extra pull-ups and pants in each car and the diaper bag. He already has his toy for getting off the potty train, so can't do that again. Don't know what I'll do, but eating my son is definitely out of the question.
In a recent conversation with a dear friend, we agreed the difference between something being tragic or funny is about 6 hours of sleep. Maybe this can all be funny if I just get a really good night's sleep.
Each day, as I find puddles of potty on the floor, throw yet another pair of wet pants down the laundry shoot, or start a load of smelly clothes in the washer, I contemplate those critters who eat their young and know there must be a good reason.
We are actually on our third round of "regression." Two other times, my son has successfully kept pants dry for days, even weeks at a time. Then, for no obvious reason, he suddenly is wetting his pants several times a day. I have given up trying to be creative. We have extra pull-ups and pants in each car and the diaper bag. He already has his toy for getting off the potty train, so can't do that again. Don't know what I'll do, but eating my son is definitely out of the question.
In a recent conversation with a dear friend, we agreed the difference between something being tragic or funny is about 6 hours of sleep. Maybe this can all be funny if I just get a really good night's sleep.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Babysitting Blues
Having been a mom for more than 13 years, part of my life experience has been hiring babysitters. Recently, I've been able to leave my little ones with one of my older girls, making life much easier. But, while at a recent conference, I didn't have that luxury. So we found a young lady who was willing to stay with our two-year old son.
The first evening of the conference, after having most of two days to recover from his traumatic experience with the thunder storm, we planned to leave our son with the babysitter. The transition was a little rough, and as we walked away I learned my husband had failed to leave either of our cell phone numbers with the babysitter. But, we'd never had any trouble, so we were optimistic things would be fine.
Things were not fine. About halfway through the evening, our son turned into a terror! Disappointed in not getting his way about some trivial thing, my son threw a fit. If only one thing had happened, it wouldn't have been too bad; I'd have been embarrassed and irritated, but it wouldn't have been so bad. But instead of one thing, almost everything went wrong. Our little boy, who is usually pretty well behaved, hit, spit on, and bit the babysitter! And, she couldn't call us because she didn't have our numbers. Maybe our son has an evil twin and that little monster was the one who traumatized the babysitter.
The babysitter is not going to press charges, the bites didn't scare, nor is she planning to bill us for any therapy that may be required as a result of her traumatic experience!
Now, instead of leaving my son with a babysitter and attending the meetings I traveled across four states to attend, I'm in our apartment, writing this post and listening to the conference online! But, my son hasn't used his teeth, mouth, or hands to do anything other than what good little boys are supposed to do. Actually, this is working better. My baby girl is asleep in her bassinet, my son is playing and being a little boy, dinner is in the crock pot, and I had time to publish this post. Maybe some day we'll look back on this little experience and laugh. One thing for sure; I'm always going to make sure anyone brave enough to stay with our son has a phone number with which to reach us! I don't know if we'll find anyone brave enough to stay with him, but if we do, I'm going to make sure they can call if his evil twin shows up again.
The first evening of the conference, after having most of two days to recover from his traumatic experience with the thunder storm, we planned to leave our son with the babysitter. The transition was a little rough, and as we walked away I learned my husband had failed to leave either of our cell phone numbers with the babysitter. But, we'd never had any trouble, so we were optimistic things would be fine.
Things were not fine. About halfway through the evening, our son turned into a terror! Disappointed in not getting his way about some trivial thing, my son threw a fit. If only one thing had happened, it wouldn't have been too bad; I'd have been embarrassed and irritated, but it wouldn't have been so bad. But instead of one thing, almost everything went wrong. Our little boy, who is usually pretty well behaved, hit, spit on, and bit the babysitter! And, she couldn't call us because she didn't have our numbers. Maybe our son has an evil twin and that little monster was the one who traumatized the babysitter.
The babysitter is not going to press charges, the bites didn't scare, nor is she planning to bill us for any therapy that may be required as a result of her traumatic experience!
Now, instead of leaving my son with a babysitter and attending the meetings I traveled across four states to attend, I'm in our apartment, writing this post and listening to the conference online! But, my son hasn't used his teeth, mouth, or hands to do anything other than what good little boys are supposed to do. Actually, this is working better. My baby girl is asleep in her bassinet, my son is playing and being a little boy, dinner is in the crock pot, and I had time to publish this post. Maybe some day we'll look back on this little experience and laugh. One thing for sure; I'm always going to make sure anyone brave enough to stay with our son has a phone number with which to reach us! I don't know if we'll find anyone brave enough to stay with him, but if we do, I'm going to make sure they can call if his evil twin shows up again.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Travel Travails
Every couple of years, I head to Colorado for a conference. This year, to save money (and my sanity), I decided to leave five of my seven children at home. You'd think it would be easier to travel with only two children; you know, only two kids to get through security, only two kids to buckle into seats, only two kids to keep entertained and to keep track of during layovers. Well, I guess I picked the wrong two!
Having flown several times, I knew the whole security drill. At least I thought I did. You know, can't take anything that contains more than three ounces (including new tubes of toothpaste) everything has to fit into quart-sized zipper bags, and you can't take anything that might be used as a weapon; no crochet hooks, scissors, Texas toothpicks, or Bowie knives. I made sure we didn't need to worry about the zipper bags; everything like that was packed in the checked luggage. Flying with young children (a five month old and a two-year old), I had a bottle (it was empty), a sippee cup (it was also empty) and my drinking cup (also empty), two car seats, a diaper bag for the baby (but no diaper oinment - it was too big), my purse, and a backpack with some toys and snacks for my two-year old. But, it didn't take too long to get everything unpacked and ready for scanning.
Having thought ahead, both my son and I were in flip-flops (the baby was barefoot), so we could easily remove our shoes. What I didn't think about was what the all-metal Hot Wheels car would look like going through the scanner. Let's just say it didn't look good and required multiple trips through the scanner before finally being removed from the backpack and thoroughly examined. Maybe the TSA guys just needed to reconnect with their childhood. At least they gave the car back.
Air travel was only the first leg of the journey. The second leg began as, after about an hour's wait, we greatfully boarded a bus that would deliver us to our final destination. The huge bus windows provided a beautiful view of a thunder storm. It was awe-inspiring as we watched lightening illuminate the countryside. Funny thing about that thunder storm; it brought hail. The hail actually cracked the windshield of the bus. It also brought rain; lots of rain!
Funny thing about taking that bus; it didn't deliver us to the door of our apartment. It delivered us to a "transfer station." We had to leave the bus, in the middle of the downpour! Never having experienced such rain, my son was actually very frightened. I ran him to the van that would take us to our apartment and threw him in. His carseat filled with water in the few minutes it required to move it from one vehicle to the other! The baby made it without getting too wet; the sun shade on her car seat actually worked pretty well as an umbrella. And, of course, by the time we actually reached our apartment, the rain was over! We'd gotten thoroughly soaked - even clothes IN the suitcases got wet! I was completely soaked - it was like I'd just stepped out of the shower, seriously!
By God's grace, we made it to our final destination all in one piece. The wet clothes dried, my son survived his experience, and I'm enjoying my conference very much. If our two-year old remembers his traumatic rain experience when he is older, we can pay for his therapy. Best of all, I have a few more days to recover before we do the whole thing in reverse.
Having flown several times, I knew the whole security drill. At least I thought I did. You know, can't take anything that contains more than three ounces (including new tubes of toothpaste) everything has to fit into quart-sized zipper bags, and you can't take anything that might be used as a weapon; no crochet hooks, scissors, Texas toothpicks, or Bowie knives. I made sure we didn't need to worry about the zipper bags; everything like that was packed in the checked luggage. Flying with young children (a five month old and a two-year old), I had a bottle (it was empty), a sippee cup (it was also empty) and my drinking cup (also empty), two car seats, a diaper bag for the baby (but no diaper oinment - it was too big), my purse, and a backpack with some toys and snacks for my two-year old. But, it didn't take too long to get everything unpacked and ready for scanning.
Having thought ahead, both my son and I were in flip-flops (the baby was barefoot), so we could easily remove our shoes. What I didn't think about was what the all-metal Hot Wheels car would look like going through the scanner. Let's just say it didn't look good and required multiple trips through the scanner before finally being removed from the backpack and thoroughly examined. Maybe the TSA guys just needed to reconnect with their childhood. At least they gave the car back.
Air travel was only the first leg of the journey. The second leg began as, after about an hour's wait, we greatfully boarded a bus that would deliver us to our final destination. The huge bus windows provided a beautiful view of a thunder storm. It was awe-inspiring as we watched lightening illuminate the countryside. Funny thing about that thunder storm; it brought hail. The hail actually cracked the windshield of the bus. It also brought rain; lots of rain!
Funny thing about taking that bus; it didn't deliver us to the door of our apartment. It delivered us to a "transfer station." We had to leave the bus, in the middle of the downpour! Never having experienced such rain, my son was actually very frightened. I ran him to the van that would take us to our apartment and threw him in. His carseat filled with water in the few minutes it required to move it from one vehicle to the other! The baby made it without getting too wet; the sun shade on her car seat actually worked pretty well as an umbrella. And, of course, by the time we actually reached our apartment, the rain was over! We'd gotten thoroughly soaked - even clothes IN the suitcases got wet! I was completely soaked - it was like I'd just stepped out of the shower, seriously!
By God's grace, we made it to our final destination all in one piece. The wet clothes dried, my son survived his experience, and I'm enjoying my conference very much. If our two-year old remembers his traumatic rain experience when he is older, we can pay for his therapy. Best of all, I have a few more days to recover before we do the whole thing in reverse.
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