Teach Me, Jesus

Feb 28, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word

It was after 11:30 – probably closer to midnight when it came out of my mouth, and it felt like it was never in my mind, before it came out. I was scrubbing the carpet in earnest, in the boys’ bedroom, and suddenly, there it was. Maybe I should back up and tell you how I got there first.

It was an answer to prayer, around Christmastime, when I was hoping and believing it would somehow be possible for the Hubs to go snowboarding sometime this winter. It’s one of his most favourite things to do in the world, and he hadn’t had the opportunity since before we were married. I was trying to work something out when an invitation came his way, and, even though it meant he’d be away for nearly a week, and I’d be at home with three kididdles, I was still very excited, very thankful, very encouraged that God made a way.

{The Belle, darling that she is, slept through the entire fiasco which will forthwith be described…}

He left early early on a Tuesday morning. His first night away, we had a pretty typical dinner — spaghetti bolognaise (or in the US just “spaghetti”). My Mom and I juggled the three sweet peas pretty well, and managed to get them bathed and in bed pretty close to bedtime. After my Mom headed home, my friend Mona arrived, who, bless her soul, was willing to camp out at our house for the week — a big blessing because I didn’t want to be the only adult around in the evenings.

It quickly became apparent that it was a good thing Mona was present.

A very good thing.

{Before I continue: Laura Anne and other emetophobes, stop reading now!}

About the time I was planning to retire to bed, we heard a big cry come out of the boys’ bedroom. I knew it was the Bear and rushed in to find him, his pillow, his sheets, and a reasonable amount of the carpet by his bed covered in… how shall we say it?

His dinner.

The noodles were the oddest shade of almost-hot-pink, I noticed, but without a second thought I grabbed him up and hurried him into the bathroom for round two of the new mini-series Return of the Noodles. Moments later, I had the Bear soaking in a bubbly tub, his brother chillaxing on the couch with Yo Gabba Gabba (and precious Mona, watching along) and, armed with some carpet cleaner I’d just shaken together in a spray bottle (one part white vinegar, one part water, a few drops of tea tree oil, shake well…) I was ready to take those noodles head on.

I stripped the bed and began rinsing and scraping and piling things into the washing machine, and I began to start thinking about my thoughts as I vigorously scrubbed the carpet beside the Bear’s bed.

If this is the first night with the Hubs away… well, surely it can only get better from here…

Am I really scrubbing carpet at 11:30 at night right now? And is this the first time I’ve ever had to be the vomit cleaner? I guess the Hubs normally tackles this job…

It was after a pause, and a sigh and a deep breath that the words exited my mouth without entering my thoughts:

Teach Me, Jesus.

And strangely enough, while scrubbing that noodled carpet at an hour when all’s well when all sleep well (usually) He did.

I was met with a strange kind of peace — the unexpected kind that brings a smile to your face even though you don’t know why. It slows your anxious pulse, calms the whirlwind in your mind.

Then suddenly I was thankful. Thankful I’d decided to ask Mona to come and spend the week at our house. Thankful Tiger Tank was chilling on the couch with her instead of doing a dirty noodle dance or wailing because he couldn’t join his brother in the bath. Thankful there was the perfect amount of white vinegar left for this job, and how in the world did it happen that I finally found the tea tree oil at Walmart for the first time, just last week.

Coincidence? I think not.

I remembered Katie’s story. About the time a rat crawled into the back of her oven. She fought back the need to throw-up as she bleached and scrubbed and cleaned. She threw up once and got back to work.

My thoughts continued. Thank You, Lord — at least I’m not puking at all this.

Those three simple words put me back inside that 5 x7 of thankfulness.

And I’ve since discovered that they have a multitude of uses.

Now it seems that all the moments that find me like this — struggling to scoop up too much laundry at once, the four-year-old shouting for assistance with a bum wipe in the bathroom, the toddler, diaperless and missing, which is a risk because the baby is awake and dangerously vulnerable in her play place, and of course because he could pee somewhere — I can pause for a moment (or breathe on the way to check the baby before wiping the bum and finding the toddler) and just say it again:

Teach Me, Jesus.

Because I fully believe the Creator of the Universe is not sitting on a gigantic throne in the cosmos hurling challenges, distress and laundry our way for fun.

The glory of the moments where you feel like you’re suffering is that great stuff can, and does, come out of it:

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. {Rom. 5:3 -5}

From the bounty of His infinite goodness, God patiently walks us through the things we feel like we’re just striving to endure each day. He is stretching the muscles in our soul. Building a robust strength in our spirits.

Perhaps by the time I go to meet my maker, I will have supernatural six-pack abs.

If you need an extra little something to get you through one of those moments — you know, when your boss chews you out and lets you go, or the toddler stands up in excitement over having pooped in the potty only to discover the poop hasn’t dropped yet and OOOPS there it is (that happened to me last week), or you just don’t know how you are going to keep on putting one foot in front of the other — I wholeheartedly recommend giving these three words a try.

If you are willing to ask, He will.

xCC

What They’ll Remember

Feb 20, 2013 | In the Name of Love, The Good Word

I wondered about it again on the way to preschool this morning. It seems inevitable, after the scramble to find a bookbag, zip the coats, slip on the shoes, buckle three small people into three car seats, there is a calm that follows and my mind starts flooding.

While we’re out, and in the car, and on the way, I always seem to think about how long it will be like this. Not at all in a how much longer do I have to suffer this but more of a how much longer until they’re grown and gone and I start missing this?{As if life itself isn’t enough of a reminder…this little Tank is turning two on Sunday!}

And this morning I was already wondering as I backed down the driveway: what will they remember of these days? When they’re grown and gone off to college or country or career, or children of their own — what will stand out in their minds?

I have this funny memory from my childhood of our wood-paneled minivan, and my Mom and I on the way to the beach. I am sitting on the floor in front of the front seat, turned around to use the seat as a table, eating a sausage biscuit from Hardees. {No surprise my memories often involve food.} And it’s a happy memory — I am excited that I’m going to the beach, I’m excited that I get to sit on the floor, I’m excited because I like sausage biscuits. {America’s answer to the bacon roll with brown sauce, for you Scots I love.}

But what will the Collie kids remember from their childhood? Will they remember our house often being a bit of a mess? End-of-the-month pancakes? Getting their ears tugged for not listening?

I realize I’m afraid to discipline them when they need it because I don’t want that to be what they remember. If we only have eighteen years with each of them under our roof, I want eighteen years of happy. Eighteen years of silly. Eighteen years of bike rides and tickle fights and dancing in the living room.

But there has to be time out in the crib. Sometimes the wooden spoon has to speak to a naughty backside. And I suppose it’s more important for them to be balanced and disciplined individuals eighteen years from now — than for them to just be happy and feel like the Hubs and I are their very good friends.

I heard the story once of some great theologian’s mother, pulling her apron up over her head to pray, in a kitchen full of kids with a case of the naughties. Last night, even after they slept, I still wanted to pull my apron over my head.

I am committed now, more than ever before, because I’m more hungry for help than ever before: parenting needs to start with prayer.

I want them to remember happy, and joy, and pancakes, but even more I want them to remember Who the Lord is, why we love Him, how we live for Him. And I’m trusting Him for two things now: the direction to lead these kids, and love them well, and that they’ll remember more than just the moments where a time-out or a wooden spoon or a toy put up in the closet was the focus. I’m trusting they’ll remember how accepted, how treasured, how loved they are…always and no matter what.

Isn’t it beautiful — I think He wants us to remember the same thing.

xCC