motherhood

Missing the Mom Gene

/ jdunderwood / 5 Comments
Yesterday Patrick squatted like this and asked, "Mom, can you do this?" Um, NO.

Yesterday Patrick squatted like this and asked, “Mom, can you do this?”
Um, NO.

“How did this happen?” I ask Dave when the house is particularly noisy and chaotic (which is much of the time). “How did we get so many of them?”

Fourteen years ago, when we were nearly eight years into our marriage, we’d actually begun talking about having our first child and then we discovered she was there, splitting cells like crazy in my belly. Seriously, though, God tricked us into all the rest. Three years after Em was born we’d just about made the decision we were supposed to be a one-child family when, surprise! Four months later the ultrasound technician shocked us into laughter when she said, “I assume you know you’re having twins.”

My father-in-law often jokes the Lord gave us two-in-one because if He hadn’t, we would never have had a third child, and He nearly wrote the edict for Patrick’s adoption on the wall to make that entirely clear as well.

It doesn’t really matter how they all happened. They’re here—as are Judy and Kelly, our two international students. I’m a mom—whether I planned it or not. I love them, deep down in my gut, all the way to the ends of my fingernails, and with a ferocity that surprises me at times.

But I didn’t exactly “plan” them (that word makes me laugh!), and I’m not an especially nurturing person. I’ve never read a parenting book cover to cover; I don’t put little notes in my kids’ lunches; I completely space out sometimes about their activities; I tell them, “yes, eat the cookie” because it might allow me to push back dinner or—I admit it—get by with fixing a snack instead of a full meal.

When my kids were little, my mom kept sending me outdated  Parenting magazines from the lobby at my dad’s office until I asked her to stop. All the pictures of “good” moms making cute crafts with their kids simply made me feel guilty.

Thank heaven, we’re past the “cute craft” stage, but I don’t do what I’m supposed to in this one either, it seems. Not long ago a co-worker complimented me on getting all my international students’ school paperwork in before the deadline.

“I have to,” I told her. “I have this two week window in the late summer when I drop everything else and do all my kids’ school ‘stuff.’ If it doesn’t happen in that window of time, it doesn’t happen. Don’t ask me for things in October. The window’s closed, and I won’t do it.”

Her eyes got a little goggle-eyed until I told her I was kidding.

But I really wasn’t, not completely.

I don’t enjoy volunteering at my kids’ school activities. I’ll read to kids, but that’s about all I like doing. No one has EVER asked me to be a room mom—there’s a reason for that, you know. Last year I sent in a special day snack to the wrong kid’s class and I completely forgot to show up for kindergarten lunch relief one day.

All of this can make me feel like I’m not a good mom, that other moms are better, but I’m not writing this to ask for affirmation  or for advice on how to be more nurturing. I’m writing it because I think a lot of other moms the feel the same as I do.

Last week a friend told me, “I think I’m missing the ‘mom gene.’” At her son’s football game the week before, the team mom passed out lanyards with laminated photos of the individual boys. My friend’s immediate thought was, “How did she even think of that?” but then she realized all the other moms were oohing and aahing over the pictures.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I told her. I was talking to myself, too.

And because I think we’re not alone in this, I’m talking to a whole bunch of moms (and dads) who get stuck sometimes on who they are not as a parent instead of who they are.

I am mom to Em, Jake, Maddie and Patrick. I am host mom to Judy and Kelly, acting as a support to their beloved mom, Josie. I am equipped with a specific and correct ‘mom gene’ to fit each of these kids and their needs and personalities. I can trust God didn’t forget to complete my DNA; He didn’t match me with the wrong kids; and He doesn’t require me to act like some other mom to be a good mom—the right mom—for the ones in my home.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying this is easy—far from it. Parenting Em is different from parenting Patrick or Maddie or Jake. Daily I need wisdom, grace, patience, and love—most of all love.

But even in motherhood’s perplexing and frustrating moments, even when one of my own children says to me, “Well, so-and-so’s mom does it different,” I can know that “so-and-so’s mom” would not be a better fit for  my kid.

Because the best mom for my kids is me .

Even when I send the special snack to the wrong classroom.

A blast from my past–this one is for all you moms with little ones

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This was written Pre-Patrick, so I had to include a picture of all four of them! Such crazy days! (Not that they're less crazy now--just different).

This was written Pre-Patrick, so I had to include a picture of all four of them! Such crazy days! (Not that they’re less crazy now–just different).

I am a mom with 15 month-old twins and a 4 year-old. Much of my day is spent feeding meals, straightening my house, doing laundry, and entertaining children. It sounds simple, but I have never had another job more challenging. Throwing trash away has become an intricate maneuver. The trash can first received a lid, then was moved to the top of a counter, and now is hidden in the pantry where I must perform basketball-worthy faking moves to open the pantry door, toss in the trash (another athletic skill, this one requiring hand-eye coordination—ha!), and close the door—and all this without some wriggly body intervening. The same or similar feat is required when negotiating the bathroom door, the refrigerator, the under-the-sink cabinet, etc. The stereo and computer were another issue entirely until I got smart and enclosed them in an armoire—thus creating another “door” situation. The poor dog’s food has been moved four times until finally being relegated to the basement, and his appetite is now at the mercy of my memory and time (another “ha!”). Our dining room chairs are not where they should be; i.e. they are not at the dining room table. The youngest child figures herself a centerpiece.

When the smaller two collapse into exhausted heaps—and I desire to do the same—the four-year-old beckons. “Read to me, sing with me, let’s play,” she says, and then, “Now it’s Mommy-and-me time.” And the Grand Teton of laundry becomes Mount Everest as I capitulate and remind myself of that old “The house can wait” ditty.

It’s a life so full of blessings it can feel like a nightmare keeping up with them, the nightmare of the overwhelmed, under-equipped heroine faced with three ultra-endowed foes. But when this is at its worst, I sometimes indulge in the horror’s anti-equivalent, my fantasy. In this I am equipped, with x-ray vision, super strength, lightning-fast speed, night vision, a stretch arm, you name it, and I can endure a chaotic afternoon imagining myself as Super-Mom.

With x-ray vision I could locate that missing shoe, stray lunchbox, roving child, etc. Two minutes prior to the we-must-leave-now-or-we-will-be-late moment, x-ray vision would be exceptionally handy. It could also avoid many trips to the doctor or emergency room: “Nope, that arm’s not broken, just badly bruised.” Of course, it could also prove when a trip is needed! “So that’s where my diamond ring is!”

Super strength sounded particularly good the day I forgot the stroller and had to carry both twins the long hike from the parking lot to the library, but I’ll be honest; most often this figures in the nightmares every mom really has, the “What do I do if my car plunges into water with me and my children in it?” terrors.

More helpful, though, in the day-to-day routine would be lightning-fast speed. I could clean my house in ten minutes, run my daily five miles in four, fix breakfast in two, and all this before seven in the morning. I could catch my fearless child mid-trip between treetop and ground, run the kids to Grandma in Alabama after lunch and be back in time for a date with my husband, and bring in some extra cash as a professional marathoner.

044Night vision would enable me to locate that stray pacifier at two in the morning and not kill my shin on my son’s ready-steady indoor tricycle on the trip back to my own room. Even better, a stretch arm would allow me to locate said pacifier and soothe its owner without leaving my bed at all. Supermom’s choices are endless.

Always, however, at the zenith of my imagined glory, the wax melts and reveals to me exactly what and who I really am, just a regular mom with three energetic kids. Just a mom, like all others, who is trying to develop real super mom powers: X-ray vision to see into my kids’ hearts and read their minds, super strength to carry or push or pull, lightning-fast speed to be there when I’m needed and give space when I’m not, night vision to soothe the tears and fears away, arms that can stretch long enough to hug all three every minute of every day, and—the most important supertrait of all—protecting, trusting, hoping, persevering love.

the mess that’s me

/ jdunderwood / 2 Comments
Dog and husband hanging out in our new bedroom/my office. Yes! After 9 months of moving our bed from laundry room to old playroom to new playroom--as our great contractor Ben remodeled our basement. Our new bedroom has a door! A door! Woohoo!

Dog and husband hanging out in our new bedroom/my office. Yes! After 9 months of moving our bed from laundry room to old playroom to new playroom–as our great contractor Ben remodeled our basement. Our new bedroom has a door! A door! Woohoo!

It’s summer—but the pool’s not yet open, so my kids have been home a LOT! Every time I enter a room, be it their bedroom or a family area, I discover a new mess. We’ve already had the conversation about Mom not being a personal slave, about how my job in regards to their cleanliness is not to pick up after them so they can continue to be slobs for the rest of their lives but to prepare them to be good roommates (perhaps even spouses) and employees who notice and take care of their own messes. (There was a lot more, but I’ll spare you! I probably should have spared them!)

Ah, that word “notice,” as used in “notice their own messes.” It’s key for any sort of progress. Yesterday I sent the boys off to clean their room. They returned in three minutes. “Done,” they announced.

No way. I’d seen it that morning—and hours had passed since then, enough time for unheard-of chaos to happen.

I was right—shirts dripping out of drawers, dirty underwear peeking from under the dresser, a pile of clothes that looked like PJ had worn them in a mud wrestling event, granola bar wrappers on the floor, Legos in various stages of construction on every surface…

But here’s the thing: THEY thought it was clean.

I John 1 metaphorically fleshed out.

“If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.” NLV

The Amplified expands that first phrase to “(If we) refuse to admit that we are sinners.”

Sinners: unlike God, missing His mark of perfection, incomplete in strength and knowledge and will.

Here’s my version of that first phrase: “If I refuse to admit that I am messy.”

Messy: not perfect, prone to do/say/feel the wrong things, carrying baggage (some of it unknown), unable to truly know and follow the “right way.”

This past weekend—graduation weekend—I had a conversation with one of the international students that went something like this:

International Student (IS): I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think I’m doing a good job saying goodbye with my friends, and there’s so much to do, and I know I’m not spending enough time with God, and that makes me feel worse and…” (She’s crying now.)

Me: What do you mean by “not spending enough time with God”?

IS: I’m not having devotions or praying. I can’t seem to get it all together so that I can.

Me: You don’t have to. Actually, you CAN’T. And He doesn’t want you to try. He wants you to come IN your mess, IN your humanity, and He wants you to cry out to Him. Right now you feel like God’s withdrawn because you’re so confused. He hasn’t; you’ve just built a wall between you and Him. He knows your mess and your inability. He died for it! Now let Him come into it and comfort you.

Lots of tears then, lots of hugging. So much better.

And as the old perfectionist (that’s me J) shared advice with the young perfectionist, I was preaching to myself.

I often don’t acknowledge my own messiness to God. I often try to deal with it in my way—which is the equivalent of my boys shoving clothes under beds, cramming overstuffed drawers halfway closed, and brushing litter into a pile in a corner.

In doing this, I cut myself off from the Gospel that God wants to work out in my life every day. I hold back from redemption.

If I’m going to embrace God’s redemption, I must also embrace an acknowledgement of my messiness.

He loves to cleanse.

And I need it…

‘Cause I am messy!

Let my words be few

/ jdunderwood / 2 Comments
The plan--hatched between PJ and Dad--was for him to pick red--for the Chicago Bulls, of course. But PJ saw the BRIGHT orange and was hooked. So Dave drew a Bears symbol on instead!

The plan–hatched between PJ and Dad–was for him to pick red–for the Chicago Bulls, of course. But PJ saw the BRIGHT orange and was hooked.
So Dave drew a Bears symbol on instead!

I was lecturing–again. I don’t even remember which child it was, but behind him or her, Dave was signaling “STOP”: running his forefinger cutthroat along his neck; then putting his hands up, palms facing me; finally using the choir director’s sign for “and end.”

I got the hint, finally, and said, “Okay, I’m done.” I looked at the child. “Do you understand? Really?” Dave began the cycle of motions again.

The child left, and my shoulders sagged. “Suggestions?” I asked Dave. “I feel like I say the same things over and over and over.”

“And you say them well,” he said. “Too well. You say it, and then you add an illustration, and then you think of another way to say it, and then their eyes are glazing over. Must be the writer in you. Try fewer words.”

Funny how my mouth hasn’t caught up with the lessons my fingers have had to learn.

I used to hate writing word counts. I remember the first time an editor told me a piece had to be drastically reduced in length. There’s no way, I thought. That will ruin it!

It didn’t. In fact, it made it tighter, cleaner. Now I consider word counts a challenge and, eventually–when the cutting is complete, a real blessing to the overall piece.

It’s harder with the words we say, though. With writing, I can let it all out and then cut it before anyone else reads it. We can’t, however, rewind the words we say. Any revision, editing, or cutting has to be done BEFORE they leave our mouths.

“Let your words be few,” Solomon says in Ecclesiastes 5:2. He’s referring to prayer, but I think it’s a good mantra for us whenever we find ourselves with a runaway tongue. 

So many sins are related to what we say–and it’s usually because we talk too MUCH, not too little. Sometimes we have diarrhea of the mouth–completely unfiltered and unchecked (this makes me think of the illustration in James 3 of the tongue as a raging fire). Sometimes we are like a dripping faucet, nagging incessantly. Other times we may not be guilty of unkindness with our words, but we certainly can’t be accused of thoughtfulness either. Like a shallow stream our words gush on and on without much substance.

Proverbs 18:4 says, “Wise words are like deep waters; wisdom flows from the wise like a bubbling brook.” This contrasts what Job said about his very talkative friends. “You’re like unseasonable brooks that dry up in hot weather,” he told them.

Our words should come from a well of wisdom dug by the Holy Spirit. They should come forth, not in a gush but in a gentle flow. I get the impression that deep thought has taken place in the well BEFORE there is any output. The result is that the words are refreshing and helpful. Even reproof comes out of this wisdom, and encouragement is its underlying motivation.

Thought before speech; a gentle flow rather than a flood.

In other words, I need to think about my word count in my speech just as I do in my writing.

This makes sense, doesn’t it! How on earth will my children remember a lesson expressed in a torrent of words, no matter how well it is expressed. But simple directives or statements–like the Proverbs–have a better chance of sticking.

Our household rule for words is pretty simple: “If it won’t do good, don’t say it. If it WILL, DO.” I say this rule to my kids often enough that they tend to recite it with me when I start it. Sometimes THEY start it.

It’s a good rule for me to follow too.

Except I need to add “And then STOP!” at the end of it!

 

 

A few more verses about words:

Set a guard, O LORD, over my mouth; Keep watch over the door of my lips. Psalm 141:3

In the multitude of words sin is not lacking, But he who restrains his lips is wise. Proverbs 10:19

A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver. Proverbs 25:11

Whoever has no rule over his own spirit is like a city broken down, without walls. Proverbs 25:28

When she speaks, her words are wise, and she gives instructions with kindness. Proverbs 31:26

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer. Psalm 19:41

Then Judas and Silas, both being prophets, spoke at length to the believers, encouraging and strengthening their faith. Acts 15:32

Even a fool is counted wise when he holds his peace; When he shuts his lips, he is considered perceptive.  Proverbs 17:28

 

Heads up!

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Here's our flooded backyard! But our basement is dry. Very grateful! a lot of people around here are flooded!

Here’s our flooded backyard! But our basement is dry. Very grateful! a lot of people around here are flooded!

As I read the devotional Jesus Calling early this morning, one particular sentence stood out to me: “I (God) designed you to need Me moment by moment.”

Hmm, I thought, that is the complete opposite of human parenting–or at least of my version of it. I am trying to get my children to be less dependent on me, to be more self-sufficient each year, to increase their problem-solving skills. I often tell them, “Before you call ‘Mo-om!’ immediately, ask yourself if you can do this on your own.”

But God wants me to be more aware of my dependence on Him, more aware of my lack of self-sufficiency and of my inability to control anything.

I jotted these thoughts in my journal, worked out, made sure all the kids were up and moving, fixed Patrick’s breakfast… and then learned that school was cancelled because of all the flooding in our area. My kids literally went off like fireworks. I think you could have heard them from the street.

Was I happy for them?

This bird seemed a little confused by all the water. So it perched on our back deck (and, yes, those are still Christmas lights. Honest, though, all the other Christmas stuff has been put away for ages.)

This bird seemed a little confused by all the water. So it perched on our back deck (and, yes, those are still Christmas lights. Honest, though, all the other Christmas stuff has been put away for ages.)

Ye-es.

But I must admit I had to readjust my idea of the day I thought I was going to have. Better get ready to hear “Mom!” all day long, I told myself.

And then I laughed! Because I remembered Jesus Calling and my lesson of the morning.

It was very nice of Him to give me a heads-up!

Childlike Joy

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My biggest mess maker is also my most willing helper! Here's my PJ all decked out in his army gear.

My biggest mess maker is also my most willing helper! Here’s my PJ all decked out in his army gear.

I’ve done a lot of mama-fussin’ lately. Laundry, messy floors, dirty dishes, and stuff, stuff, stuff in the wrong-wrong spots!

Do any of you fall into the same trap? Frustrated over messes that are created by some of our very best gifts from God?

It’s one of my recurring sins. And every time I think I’ve found some freedom from it, I go through another bout of it.

Each time I’m learning the same BIG lesson: that I’m incapable of loving my kids the way I want to without God—and I mean, completely incapable—but He is oh, so eager to help me. (“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Ps. 46:1)

But each time God also has different lessons to teach me.

Tonight it was straight from the book of Mark.

I was reading Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg, and she was writing about the Mark account of Jesus and the little children. Christ had just spoken about the beautiful mystery of marriage, and then mothers and fathers brought their most precious “possessions” to Him for blessing. Feinberg paraphrased what Jesus said next: “The kingdom of God belongs to those who maintain childlike receptivity. Those who refuse to receive the kingdom of God like a child will miss it entirely.”

Be a child with Me. It was like the Holy Spirit whispered the words inside my head, taking Feinberg’s words and applying them directly to my situation of the moment.

Stop feeling the weight of being the grown-up, the one who has to notice all the messes, who has to be responsible for the cleaning and the cooking and the organizing and the schedules…

It was a new lesson. There have certainly been times when I’ve been reminded to BE the grown-up: Don’t sink to the level of the child. You don’t have to argue simply because they are being illogical. You are the MOM. I’ve given you this responsibility.

There have been other times when my view of  “mundane” tasks has been challenged. (Brother Lawrence has been a huge help in this area with his dishwashing example and his mantra: It’s all worship.) No one else will notice that I cleaned the bathroom (unless I didn’t do it for a really long time), but if I’m doing it for the Lord rather than for people—then it’s worship!

And there have been lessons about looking to Jesus. “Don’t become weary. Consider Jesus and what He endured.” That certainly puts things in perspective.

But those weren’t the lessons this night. I had something new to learn.

Be a child with Me!

Into my mind flashed pictures of my children at that age of toddlerhood when being Mommy’s little helper was a privilege and a joy. A rag, a bucket, and a request: “Want to clean the kitchen floor?” was a highlight. There was no heaviness to the task; there was a thrill of getting to do “mommy’s work,” of working alongside MOMMY!

Wow! That’s a new way to see homemaking! (or any task we find wearying or repetitive).

I am working alongside God to make a home and a family!

HE carries the responsibility. HE keeps track of what should be done first and then next and last.

And I simply get the joy of being His child!

lovin’ like he loved

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All the kids--and a couple cousins--at the grandparents over Christmas break

All the kids–and a couple cousins–at the grandparents’ over Christmas break. You can tell there are several people taking this picture: the kids are looking about three different directions!

Each Sunday during my senior year of high school, I drove from the southern suburbs of Birmingham, Alabama, where I lived, into the roughest housing project in the city. I picked up ten-year-old “Peanut” from his apartment and together we canvassed his neighborhood on foot, collecting children from the streets and other apartments. As the only white person in sight, I got strange looks from the men leaning against streetlights. Each week I stood in the open doors of some of the worst of the worst apartments, those with bare, pockmarked concrete floors and walls, those that reeked with the smells of drugs, unwashed bodies, and neglect. I passed by the streets Peanut told me not to enter—they were the ”drug streets,” and not even the children who followed me would go down them. We ended up eventually at Peanut’s house, where his mother welcomed me and the little gang we’d collected into her living room. I taught a Bible lesson that those kids drank like Coca-Cola, and we bellowed songs like “Jesus Loves Me” and “Father Abraham.”

And then I left. Three hours, start to finish.

Not long ago I listened to a podcast on John 13:34-35: “… Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.”

The speaker’s point was this: Jesus didn’t say, “Love each other as I have loved the little girl I raised from the dead.” Or, “as I have loved the leprous guys I healed.” Or, “as I have loved the people I fed with those few loaves and fishes.”

He didn’t tell them to love in a “Here I’ve come to save the day,” “in-and-out,” “mission accomplished” sort of way.

His love example was the relationship He’d modeled with the twelve disciples: you know, those twelve guys He lived with day-in-and-day-out for three years; those self-centered, complaining, power-hungry, often-childish, squabbling-like-siblings disciples. They may have been on their best behavior for the first couple months, but I’m guessing it didn’t take long for that to wear thin. The Gospels give us one example after another of the disciples’ issues. Jesus lived with all of it, put up with all of it, and loved through all of it.

And that’s the kind of love He tells us to love with.

It’s not that difficult for me to tutor refugees and international students each week. It’s kind of exciting. I leave grateful.

Aha—I leave.

But I come home to the six children who present the biggest love challenge I have: to love in the daily grind, through all their imperfections—and mine!, with all those fruits of the Spirit that I don’t naturally have. (Just last night I told my husband, “I’m too selfish to be a mom. What was God thinking?”)

This is “I Corinthians 13” love fleshed out.

I must admit, I prefer the in-and-out kind of loving. Two to three hours, a day, maybe a week or two—then I can say, “Whew, that’s over.”

But that’s not the love God’s called us to.

We are not called to a “quick fix,” easy kind of love. That’s not truly love. It’s described in I Corinthians 13:1-3 as “nothing.”

True love requires SO much of us.

It is patient and kind because it HAS to be.

It is not jealous or proud or rude or irritable even when there is certainly reason to be all those things.

It doesn’t demand its own way—even when no one else seems to be considering it.

It keeps no record of wrong.

It doesn’t rejoice about injustice.

It rejoices whenever the truth wins out.)

It never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.

The disciples saw this kind of love firsthand, as Christ loved them even when they were petty and childish, even when they deserted Him.

After Christ left earth, the disciples had some difficult lives. But I am certain there was not a single time when they could honestly say, “This is way more difficult than what Christ did for us.”

That’s the kind of love I have to practice at home: the kind that takes practice, that often does not feel glorious or fun or exciting. Ultimately, it’s the kind that drops me to my knees with cries of “I can’t do this. I NEED YOU!”

This is also the kind of love that I have to learn to give to others outside my home. James echoes I Corinthians 13: 1-3 when he writes: “Suppose you see a brother or sister who has no food or clothing, and you say, ‘Goodbye and have a good day; stay warm and eat well’—but then you don’t give that person any food or clothing. What good does that do?”

My love for the “neighbors” God puts in my path and on my heart is meant to be like the love I practice with my family. It should cost something. It should be something I can’t do in my own strength.

This is not easy stuff. Christ’s command seems so simple, especially compared to all the rules we create with our religions.

But it’s a command that reduces us to the realization that we CANNOT do it.

What a good place to be.

Because the more difficult the loving, the greater the testimony to the God who is loving through us, the God who loves the least loveable—all of us—with a perfect, never-ending love.

“Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.

Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.”

Jake, PJ, and the Marble

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DSC_0887-2“PJ’s swallowed a marble!”

They–five of the six kids–greeted me with this news when I stepped in the back door Monday evening.

PJ was front and center in the group. He was just as loud as the rest. “I swallowed a marble, Mom! A marble!”

“Well,” I said, “since PJ is talking clearly and nothing is obstructing his airway, I think we’re okay.”

That’s when Jake lost it. “Noooo!” he wailed. “He swallowed a marble! I don’t want my brother to die.” He buried his face in my shirt. Behind him, big sister Emily was nodding her head and mouthing, “He’s been really upset–way more upset than PJ.”

I tried reason first. “Jake, hon, PJ is fine. Just look at him.”

He continued to shake his head. “His birthday is next week. I want to celebrate it with him. I don’t want him to di-i-i-e!”

He was completely serious.

It was, in some ways, beautiful to see. I’ve always known the two brothers loved each other (though when Jake pushed PJ off a deck over a toy, I had my doubts), but this was very real anguish.

I picked up Jake and hugged him. “Honey, a marble is smooth, with no sharp edges. Since it didn’t get stuck on the way down his throat, it will most probably just pass through him. No problem.”

He didn’t believe me. “Do you want me to look it up online?”

Yes. (What does that say when your 8-year-old trusts the Internet more than his own mother?)

I Googled “What if your child swallows a marble?” and read the headings aloud to Jake (all of them said what I had said).

Jake stopped crying and looked at me. “So he’s just going to poop it out?”

“Yep.”

He was off to find PJ. “Do you need to poop? It’s just going to come out of you.”

I had to explain to his that it wasn’t immediate, but for the next two days, Jake asked the question nonstop. “Have you pooped yet?” (I once asked Dave when the boys would outgrow ‘potty humor.’ He rolled his eyes at me and pointed at himself. “Jen, look at me! Boys NEVER outgrow potty humor.” He has a point.)

After things settled a bit, I asked PJ how he had come to swallow the marble. I assumed–being PJ–that this had been a purposeful experiment on his part, but no! He had peeled and segmented an orange and was eating the pieces as he watched Jake and Maddie play a game with marbles. Without looking, he reached down for a piece of orange and picked up a marble instead. He swallowed it and then said, “I think I just ate a marble!”

I asked him. “Didn’t you notice the orange was awfully round and hard?”

He just shrugged.

There is never a dull moment in this house.

Flu perspective

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I know several moms who LOVE the holidays, with their children all home from school. I tend to be more like the parents in “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” who “can hardly wait for school to start again.”

There are WONDERFUL moments—like staying up late with Em last night and this morning when all three younger kids crawled in bed with us (Then the dog joined in, too, prompting Dave to say, “Well, would someone go wake up the older three and tell them to join us, too.” PJ took this for a literal question and was halfway off the bed before Dave stopped him.)

But there is also no quiet—which my introvert self craves. So I was already praying about this before Christmas break began, and Dave was already telling me to get away some each day, alone, without any children. And he was already bemoaning the fact that, although he tells me to do this all the time, I DON’T— because I believe the lie that “good moms don’t need time away from their children” (along with a host of other lies that perfectionistic people believe to make them feel better about themselves).

Anyway, we were a good eight days into it and I hadn’t gone away—as I’d promised I would.

So God allowed me to get sick.

Fever, chills, flat-on-the-back sick.

For two days.

I’ve decided it was a really good thing.

I got peace and quiet. I got lots of sweet affection—hands patting my back, hot tea from Em, backrubs from Dave… On the second day, when my brain was a little less foggy, I even got a rough draft of an article written (which was what I was supposed to be doing on my “times away.”)

And then, in the couple days following my time in the bed, when I was up and about but still woozy, I had a different perspective. I cared a lot less than I usually do about keeping the house tidy and accomplishing everything on my to-do list. I was too foggy to have a to-do list.

On Friday I went to the grocery store in this fuzzy state. I used the self-checkout line and made a mistake as I was processing my order. The clerk said something pretty snotty to me, but I didn’t even notice it, just nodded at her, thanked her, and walked away. It wasn’t until I was in the car that I realized that I SHOULD have felt snubbed, should have been offended.

A time of rest, a softer, gentler outlook, a break from my driven personality—and then, bonus, a chance to see how this lack of self-focus can positively impact my interactions with others: I’m actually–post chills and fever–grateful for the flu!

Incredibly worth it

/ jdunderwood / 1 Comment

The four girls: from left, Kelly, Maddie, Judy, and Em. Judy and Kelly are sisters from China who are living with our family this year. We’re having SUCH a good time with them.

“The greatest problem in my country is that so few people know Christ, and it is hard for people to hear of Him. We are getting more and more self-centered as a culture, and our growing lack of concern for others is all related to that.”

I was reading the exit essays of our students at the Summer English Institute (a month-long academic camp for international students who are going into American high schools) that I taught at this summer. They had been asked to write about the “most important problem” their country faces, and I had read about overpopulation, pollution, unhealthy food, and lack of worldwide communication. But this essay, by a young man I’m calling “Isaiah,” made me catch my breath. It wasn’t just words. His heart was exposed on the page.

Later in the day I conducted his exit interview. Isaiah’s spoken English is not impressive. He still has to think carefully to find the right words, and his thoughtful nature makes him seem less fluent in speech than he actually is. But his answers to my questions were worth the wait. When I asked, “How would you improve SEI?” he suggested playing worship music during the students’ free time. “It would be good for our hearts,” he said.

“How are you feeling about going to your American school?”

“Excited,” he answered, but in his face there was something else.

“Do you miss home?”

He nodded, slowly. “I miss my father,” he said, in his deliberate way. “When I come home from school each day, he is waiting for me. He opens his arms,” and here Isaiah spread his own arms wide, “and he hugs me and tells me he loves me. Then we sit down and I tell him about my day.”

He looked down, at his hands that were now resting in his lap, and I was glad because tears were brimming in my eyes. Still looking down, he added, “My father is a good man.”

I got it together and finished the conversation, but, obviously, I haven’t forgotten his words.

He didn’t say what his father did for a living. He didn’t say what work accomplishments he’d made, or where he’d traveled, or how many languages he spoke.

He just said, “He is a good man,” and gave his reasons for that belief: that his father made time for him each day, that his dad said “I love you” every afternoon.

For Isaiah, THAT was enough.

And as I looked at Isaiah, I would say it was enough, too. If I ever meet his father this side of heaven, I would say, “You must be a good man, because the evidence in your son is so strong, and what he says about you is beautiful.”

I often fail to see this connection for myself, though. I get tired of the mundane of food prep and cleaning and organizing and the afternoon grind of driving here and ferrying there, and I want accolades and accomplishments instead.

Not long after I finished SEI, I took my four kids and one of our international daughters (the older one was at a school function) to volunteer at Feed My Starving Children (http://www.fmsc.org/). It’s a ministry that creates food packets (called Manna Packs) for third-world mission groups to pass out, and it uses volunteers to fill the packets. Before we began working, we watched a video that showed children growing strong with regular, nutritious food intake and mothers feeding spoons of rice mixture to their toddlers. It’s the kind of video that makes me get a bit romantic about wanting to be overseas or working more with relief efforts here, that makes me wonder what good I am actually doing right now (I know that is not the intent of the video-makers; it’s my own issue).

I wasn’t overwhelmed by these thoughts, but they simmered as all the volunteers were split into teams and trained to create the Manna Packs with chicken bullion, dried vegetables, soy nuggets, and rice. Jake (my 8-year-old) and I were put on a team with several strangers, and Jake was put in charge of soy (I nicknamed him “Soy Boy”). My job was to weigh the final product, adding or subtracting rice to get the right weight. We chanted a list to keep the kids in the group focused: “Chicken, veggies, soy, and rice; chicken, veggies, soy, and rice!” and I checked Jake’s face occasionally. About an hour into it, I could tell his blood sugar was dropping.  His attention strayed, and I had to remind him a few times: “Hey, soy boy, it’s your turn. Keep it up. You’re doing great!”

I, on the other hand, was uber-focused—remember, I was fueled by the video! At one point I even thought, “I could do this every day. It’s so worthwhile.” (Does anyone else have these ridiculously sappy, thoughts, or is it just me?). Thankfully, God gave me the grace in the same instant to actually recognize it and think, “You’re such a dork, Jen,” but then He brought an image into my mind. It was the picture of Isaiah at SEI, sitting across the table from me, holding up his arms as he talked about his father’s love for him.

And I looked over at “Soy Boy,” concentrating so hard on filling up his cup just exactly at the line with those soy nuggets, and I stole a glance at Patrick, busy, busy at the table just behind me, and I found Em and Maddie across the room, and Kelly on my right…

If they can say what Isaiah said, if they can know without a doubt that I love them because I myself am loved, if they blaze with love for Jesus themselves and carry it as a torch that shines to others—

Isn’t that incredibly worth all amounts of mundane effort?

Wouldn’t that alone be the “well done” from Jesus that I so long to hear?

Isaiah, I pray for you today, that this year spent away from your father would not weaken but would actually strengthen your relationship with him. I pray that your heart for your people would blaze, fueled by an ever-increasing understanding of Christ’s love for you.

And I thank you for reminding me how worthwhile the mundane truly is.

First day of school! Judy had already left with Dave for the Academy, but here are the five I take every day to the Grammar school. (I still can’t believe that they ALL go to school ALL day! 🙂 )