Today Em got one of those “happenin'” new feathers in her hair. I admired it–properly, I think–and then she began playing with my hair.

“Mom, you should get a feather.”

“Nah, I’m too old to have a feather standing out in my hair.”

“Come on,” she wheedled. “You could get one that matches the color of your hair.”

“Then what’s the point?”

She played with a strand right on top of my head. “Yeah, you could get a gray one, put it right here.”

Dave hooted, and I tried to swat her, but she jumped away, protesting. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant because gray is your favorite color!”

Yeah, right!

 

When Patrick lived in Uganda as a little guy, he imitated the very energetic pastors at his home church there, Light the World Church. When I traveled to Uganda to finish his adoption process, I often got to see this in action. He would stomp back and forth across the concrete living room floor of Wilfred and Vena’s apartment (they cared for Patrick during the long year while we worked on the U.S. side of the adoption, and I moved in with them for the five weeks I was in Uganda). His voice went up and down as he ranted, and his arms gestured passionately. I asked Wilfred once, “He’s not really speaking Lugandan, is he?”

He shook his head, smiling. “No, that’s just Patu, his own words.”

I never said this, but it was a pretty good imitation, despite the gibberish.

Patrick’s career interests have changed; he’s more focused on drumming and firefighting now, but Jake surprised us with an announcement the other day.

“Dad, I’m going to be a pastor when I get big.”

“That’s awesome, dude. Why do you want to be a pastor?”

“Well, you know, it says, ‘this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight” (this was the first half of the year verse at Jake’s school). He paused, crinkled his eyes in thought, and then said, “so you can be pure and blameless for the day of Christ.”

It wasn’t the complete verse but pretty close, and I said, “That’s great.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I have to tell people when I’m a pastor. That’s it. That’s why I want to be a pastor.”

Enough said.

Then yesterday he continued the conversation. “Mom, when I’m a pastor, will you come to my church?”

“If I live in the same town as you, I will definitely go to your church, buddy.”

“Oh, you will, I’ll be here in West Chicago, preaching at our church.”

“That’s an awesome plan, Jake. I’ll have to tell Pastor Craig that you want to take over for him.”

Jake shook his head. His eyes looked worried. “Oh, no, Mom, don’t tell him that.”

“Why not? He’d like to know that.”

But the head shake continued. “No, ’cause I won’t get to be the pastor until he dies. That might make him feel weird.”

I had parent-teacher conferences yesterday. I LOVE parent-teacher conferences, always have, except for those first couple of years when I was a rookie and a little terrified. It’s a few minutes of “aha”-type insight into why my students are who they are. It’s a reminder that my students are integral parts of someone’s life, that, in all except a very few heartbreaking cases, they are intensely loved, though that love can be expressed in good or bad ways. It is a wake-up call that the things I ask of my students and the way I treat them have a ripple-out effect on their families. I get to see both the bigger and the more detailed pictures.

It’s also a reminder that parenting is hard, hard, hard. I know this from personal experience, but every year I see the anguish and apprehension–“will this teacher just tell me more of the same?”–on many parents’ faces. I hear stories of their struggles with their kids, of past hurts either they or their sons/daughters have endured, of their despair that things will ever change. And always, no matter how difficult the case, I feel that haunting of hope that maybe, maybe things will change and perhaps I am the teacher/this is the school that can give them an answer.

As a young teacher, I was more hopeful for the quick fix myself, proud enough to think that I,I,I was capable of bringing about transformation. Years have taught me to commiserate, to sympathize—or empathize, if possible; four kids of my own certainly creates more shared connection—but not to offer quick fixes. It’s not that I don’t have hope; I do, but from the teaching perspective, it’s easier to accept that Paul’s blinding-light transformation is not the norm. Most of us follow a path a lot more like Peter’s, one step forward, a step back and slowly, slowly more positive movement. That’s easier to accept as a teacher than as a parent. Parents have more invested.

I see that more clearly than I used to. I am now a parent of growing kids, not yet teens, but old enough that I understand why it is so hard to parent children whom you can no longer pick up or put in time out, children who make conscious choices about the people they are becoming. One mother yesterday shared that for four years now she has watched her child waste gifts and talents and years with mere existence. “She has no passion. She is just floating through life, no deep friendships, no strong interests, just floating.” This mom’s heart is weary; her hope is almost gone. She wants to see a spark in her daughter, and she’s not sure why it’s not there. Was it ever? she wonders. Did I miss bringing it out of her? Did we move at a bad time? Did I do something wrong? And though as a teacher I feel that perhaps this mom is pushing too hard, from a fellow mother’s perspective, I understand her heart.

I met with a dad yesterday who actually teared up—and then ducked his head, embarrassed–when I described his son exactly as he sees him. He has watched as his quietly gifted (oh-so-gifted) son has grown into a very lonely, lonely young man. “He wants friends,” he told me, “but he doesn’t know how to make them. He’s different; he doesn’t feel like he fits into ‘teen world’.”

I know at least a little bit of how these things hurt. We want to make it all better, like it was when we kissed the scraped knee on the playground years before, back when we still had all the answers. But God doesn’t parent like that. He doesn’t ever leave me; He walks with me, but He doesn’t shield me from things that will help me to grow, no matter how hard they are. He KNOWS what He wants me to become, and He is willing for me to go through difficulties and pain for the greater, ultimate good.

I guess, in some very small, limited ways, He has invited us as parents to come alongside Him in this journey, though our children’s struggles become part of our own growth, and our own sight is so limited. We tend to fixate on the pain of the moment, and if that pain stretches out into extended time, we regret it and wish we could have avoided it completely. But God sees past that into growth, to our children (and us) becoming bit by bit more like His Son.

Father, sometimes it is more difficult to trust You with my children’s lives than it is my own. I want supernatural glimpses of who You created my kids to be (myself, too), but what I actually need is a clearer view of YOU! When I see how completely trustworthy YOU are, then I have hope even when the future is fully dark.

“Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.” (Ps. 31:24) “…for with the Lord is unfailing love, with Him is unfailing redemption.” (Ps. 130:7)

Saturdays are out-of-rhythm days. My schedule is off and there is no down time. I haven’t yet figured out how not to do school work on the weekends (will I ever?) and I spend my days either getting the house back together (and regretting that because, really, I have SO much homework) or vice versa. And no matter what I do, I feel guilty because good moms have balance and orchestrate things so they can spend entire weekends with their children, right?

What DOES the word “balance” mean anyway? I have no idea.

Today Joe Kulezsa, a fellow WA teacher, asked me what I was doing inside on this beautiful fall afternoon. “Working harder than my students,” I told him.

He laughed. “Steve (principal) gave all the faculty a book about that a couple years ago. How not to work harder than your students or something like that. Guess you need a copy, huh!”

I think it’s going to take more than a book.

Dave is teaching health class this fall. His latest unit is on stress and the human body.

Turns out it’s a killer. Literally. A really stressful couple of months can shorten a life span by years (though as I write that, I wonder, how on earth do they know that for sure?)

Dave added up our stress levels (moving, change in living arrangement and jobs, having someone outside your immediate family living with you, young children, little sleep, too much work) and discovered we’re off the charts. (Though not, thank You, Lord, dealing with a child’s sickness or death or marital issues.)

I asked Dave, “Do stress and lack of sleep affect short-term memory? Because mine’s shot right now.”

Friday at school I looked in my purse for my iPad (it’s really the school’s iPad) and PANICKED when it wasn’t there. “I don’t remember doing anything with it since last night,” I told Dave then. I was fearful that someone had slipped it out of my purse at my community college writing class the night before.

I rushed home after teaching and ran through the house, looking in all the usual spots. Not at my desk, not next to my side of the bed, not in the basket where I charge it, not in the bathroom (I often listen to podcasts while I’m getting ready in the morning.)

“Oh, Lord, where is this thing? I cannot tell Josh Burick (the tech guy at work) that I’ve lost it! I just can’t.” I put my head in my hands and leaned on the center island in the kitchen. My stomach felt sick.

I looked up.

Straight ahead, on the counter between the kitchen and the main room, was the iPad. My legs trembled with relief. I texted Dave:
“Found it. So, so thankful!”

Here’s the scary thing, though: Even after finding it, I didn’t remember putting it there, and I can’t blame this on one of the children. I KNOW it was my doing because before I went upstairs to wake the younger kids that very morning, I thought, “Hmm, maybe I should play some praise music like I did yesterday to wake them up.”

The next thing I remember is thinking, “Nah, I’ll just head on up.”

But my iPad was sitting in the exact spot where I would have put it if I had gotten it and then decided on my way up the stairs not to use it.

But I don’t remember getting it out of my purse, I don’t remember moving it.

It would be one thing if this were an isolated case. After all, for years I’ve been walking into rooms and forgetting why I went into them. But this feels a little different, more like the time I was in middle school, completely stressed out about my family and friends and life in general, and I had a long stretch of time when I managed to forget something nearly every day.

Two weeks ago I lost my phone—just after I’d bought a bright purple cover for it so—you guessed it—I wouldn’t lose it! It still hasn’t turned up.

I haven’t yet forgotten to pick up one of the kids yet or gone to school in my slippers, but some days it feels like it’s just a matter of time before I do. “Really, Lord?” I find myself asking, “Is this what you want for me?”

And, you know, I think it just might be. Today I listened to a podcast by John Piper and he said this (I’m paraphrasing): Do not measure God’s love for you through your own health, prosperity, or comfort. If God’s love were measured in those ways, He would have hated the apostle Paul. Measure God’s love for you by how much of Himself He is revealing to you.

That made me stop and think! And I realized that though I am tired and stressed—and well outside of my comfort zone—I am learning new things about God every day. I HAVE to; I realize daily that I cannot accomplish the tasks set before me, and when I take them to Jesus, He changes my perspective; He helps me to SEE; He provides rest for my SOUL even when my schedule is ridiculous.

And all of that reveals more of who He is. I know Him more and more, not as a God who wants me to be comfortable (though I sure wish that were His purpose sometimes) but as a God who wants me to trust Him ALL the time, as a God who is always worthy of trust.

I’m stubborn enough that when things are going well, I tend to trust myself, not Him. “I got this, God. Take a break until things get tough.”

So tough it is. Because only then do I take Him up on His offer (“Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden”) and realize that what He says (“Without Me, you can’t do anything! So ABIDE”) is truly true.

So maybe He doesn’t want “balance” (whatever that means) for me. Maybe He wants me to be “poured out” (for the right things, not my to-do list). Maybe that means I will always feel like I’m stretched a little too thin, like I’m skating past the edge of my ability. Maybe “balance” is a false dream, something I settle for or strive for when I should be aiming for abundance and fullness, even if those feel like too much sometimes.

Maybe “balance” is not really that good after all.

We’ve discovered (only through a lot of hair-pulling that led to a lot of prayer) that most of Maddie’s grouchy mood swings (when somehow the 7-year-old manages to make everyone else feel dumb) are due to her not feeling sure she is loved as much as her older sister.

“Do you not realize I love you just as much as I love Emily?”

I asked her that last spring during a particularly difficult 2-week swing.

She shook her head no.

I could figure out the reasons: Em gets to sit up front in the car with me; Em cooks with me; Em stays up later…

Which all boils down to one thing: Em spends more one-on-one time with me.

My explanations of “But, honey, you’re seven, Em’s eleven, there’s a big difference, you’ll get to do those things when…” all meant nothing until I set aside a couple hours to spend with Maddie alone.

We snuggled, we talked; I don’t remember all we did, just little things.

But they added up to a BIG thing: Maddie knew she was loved.

And since then I’ve found myself saying this to her: “Honey, when you know you’re loved, you don’t have to be mean to others.”

It just came out the first couple times I said it, but about the third time I stopped to think about it (that sounds dumb, but things just come out sometimes when you’re parenting–and most of them ARE dumb; remember the “if you cross your eyes too much, they’ll stay that way” speech? Or, in my mom’s case: “If you stick your hand out the car window, the wind will take your fingers off.”)

This one is true, though, isn’t it? If I KNOW, truly know, that I am loved, then I don’t have to prove my place with others, I don’t have to make them feel bad so I feel good. Maybe that’s why Paul kept praying that his fellow believers (including us) would KNOW the love Christ has for them. He talks about it having breadth and depth and height. He says we CAN know it, but it is also beyond our knowing, it’s THAT big!

If I KNOW I am loved myself, I can love others.

Right?

Or

at least I can NOT be mean to them!

We talk about skin color a lot in our family. Oddly enough the color we talk most about is Jake’s. “How come you’re so white?” Dave asks him. I often say, “Buddy, do you feel okay?” and check his forehead even though I know he’s perfectly fine. He’s just so very, very pale.

So pale, in fact, that at the height of this summer, when the rest of us were various shades of tan, Em began calling Jake, “Piece of Paper.”

“Hey, Piece of Paper,” she would call when she wanted something from him.

We all thought it was hilarious, though Jake pretended to be offended, and the nickname has stuck.

Last week when I picked PJ up from his new preschool, he pointed to an African American boy getting on the bus parked in front of us. “Mom, see that brown boy? He’s in my class.”

“I see him, Buddy!” I turned to smile at him. “He’s brown like you!”

PJ gave me the face that says, how can you be so old and still be so dumb? and said, “I’m not brown. I’m black!”

“No you’re not. You’re brown, too.”

He shook his head. “Compared to him, I’m black.”

“Compared to him, you’re dark chocolate, and he’s chocolate milk.”

We both laughed, and then I thought of something. “But compared to Piece of Paper, you might look black!”

That really set him off. “Piece of Paper!” he kept saying, laughing more each time. “Next to Piece of Paper, I AM black!”

Not long ago I rode my bike past Nueva Vida (New Life), the Spanish/English bilingual church about a block from our house, and I noticed the fine print on the sign: “Servicio de Adoracion 10:30.” My mind automatically translated. “Adoration Service.”

ADORATION service.

They are synonyms, “adoration” and “worship,” and each has the other word in its definition, but “worship” has come to mean little more than “a time of corporate singing.” We rarely say, “We are WORSHIPPING God.” We say, “Now it’s worship time,” or we critique it: “Worship was good/bad/a little off today.” The word has lost its punch. It has been demoted.

But “adoration”?

It shakes up my idea of church services to think of them as times of “adoration.”

Just the other day I listened to a podcast by John Piper on the supremacy of Christ, and he challenged his listeners. “Don’t just see yourself as Christ ‘followers,'” he said. (I’m paraphrasing.) “You can ‘follow’ anybody. Christ is more than a leader; He’s more than a good teacher. He’s GOD!”

And our proper response is WORSHIP.

Or, if that phrase has become too worn out or mangled for you, ADORATION.

“Jesus, I adore You. Lay my life before You. How I love You.”

I remember singing that song with several Argentine women as we washed dishes in a tiny church kitchen following a community meal. I was there on a two-week mission trip. One of the ladies, Alma, had this expression on her face that drew me out of any contemplation of myself. She really sang that song. Her hands were covered in chicken grease and soap bubbles, her body was firmly planted on feet flattened by age and a hard life, but her soul was somewhere else. She was adoring Jesus, and her face showed it.

In the writing class I take each week, we talk about what makes characters attractive, what makes readers “fall in love” with them. One of the most effective techniques, I think, is when that character is loved by someone else in the novel. If I like a certain character, and that character loves another, then chances are I am drawn to that loved person as well. This can be true even with despicable characters. Every time I’ve watched the musical Oliver, I’ve thought, “There has to be something good about Bill Sykes because wonderful Nancy loves him so much.”

We don’t have that issue with Jesus. He IS loving. He IS good. He IS kind. He IS worthy of our sincere adoration, or–to borrow from dictionary.com–“fervent and devoted love.” So shouldn’t we be able to love Him like that? And shouldn’t our love cause others to fall in love with Him, too?

Quite a few young believers or nonbelievers watch or know me in some up-close-and-personal ways: my children, Jane, Nina, my students, even a couple friends from writing class. What a thrill it would be if they could truly say, “There’s got to be something to this Jesus, because Jen sure loves him.”

Jesus, I want to adore you.

We often joke in our family that the word “oblivious” should have Jake’s name next to it in the dictionary because of the many times we have discussed plans as an entire family only to hear Jake say, “What? What are we doing?”

Well, my good friend Brenda’s youngest child, Ben, could probably fill in as the synonym for “precocious.” He’s smart, charming, and has the ability to leave his parents guessing much of the time. Here are two recent “Ben stories.”

Ben has become a big vampire fan this fall, fixating on the all plastic and blow-up versions people have put in their yards to celebrate Halloween (and for some that “season” seemed to begin in mid-September).

Well, at Brenda’s church a couple Sundays ago, they talked about God as the Creator in Ben’s Sunday School class. For an activity, each child ran, one at a time, up to the teacher, got one M&M from her, and said something God created that was the same color as the M&M.

Ben got red. His teacher, Angela, asked, “What’s something God created that’s red, Ben?”

She had already heard the standard answers; she was expecting something different from Ben.

Ben screwed up his face, raised his eyebrows and growled, “He created BLOOD! Hahaha.”

*********

Brenda and Bob, her husband, have wondered at times if Ben really does have a conscience. (Don’t all parents wonder that? We have–about more than one of our children–during different, awful stages. I remember praying fervently at a mom’s prayer group a couple years ago for Maddie to feel badly about SOMETHING–anything!–mean she did.) The other day Ben got into a little scuffle at school. The first thing he said to his mother when he stepped off the bus was, “Has my teacher called you yet?”

No, she hadn’t, but Ben told his mother all that had happened. By the end he was in tears, collapsed in a small heap on the driveway.

Brenda was amazed. Tears! Real tears! Maybe they were just for the fact that he knew he was in trouble, but, still… TEARS!

She put on a stern face. “Stay right there,” she said, pointing to the driveway. “Don’t move and keep crying. I’ll be right back.”

She ran inside and called her husband. “Bob!”

“What?”

“He’s crying. Ben’s actually crying because he did something wrong! He’s feeling remorse. He may actually have a conscience after all!”