Everyday Grace: Messy Anger

This morning I woke up angry. The sun wasn’t even up and I was quietly fuming. And also feeling guilty that I was dealing with anger over something that is, essentially, a triviality. But it felt like an unjust triviality and those situations are just the worst for me. Still, I was surprised by my anger and just as quickly condemning myself for it.

The house was still asleep and I longed to bask in the quiet, to be encouraged by time in the Word and through prayer. But I had this anger thing going on so my “quiet time” felt fake and insincere.

My husband came in and I ranted to him about the “trivial injustice” and the subsequent anger I felt. I’m so mad, I told him, but I don’t want to pray for grace. I just want to be mad.

The day had just begun and already this stupid anger had put a fortress around my heart and self-righteous pride was shaking its accusing finger in my face, insinuating that a spiritually mature person wouldn’t get so bent out of shape.

In many ways I felt like I had to clean up my emotions and get my mature self together before I could come to God and have a proper moment with Him. I don’t actually believe that but functionally, I sometimes live as if I do. Don’t you just hate it when real life reveals your true theology?

My husband’s response to my rant was simple: Just give it to Him. He knows.

Instantly, I knew he was right. I didn’t need to clean it up or work it through. I just needed to hand it over. There is such healing and release in coming to Jesus just as we are, messy anger and all. After all, He already knows. He created us to feel and to feel deeply. And though sin has marred every bit of creation, emotions included, they are part of our sacred design.

What are your emotions today? I encourage you to give them to Jesus–your messy anger, your embarrassing jealousy, your stubborn fear. Emotions are strong but His power and presence are stronger. Don’t try to plot, figure out, clean up, or resolve in your own strength. Jesus invites you to cast your cares on Him because He cares for you. The stuff that’s heavy for us is light for Him.

He is the One who conquered death and sin for all mankind. Your emotions, ugly though they may be, are no match for His power, love, and beautiful sovereignty. Trust Him to work this out. He uses all things for our good and for His glory, messy anger included.

Related Scripture

Matthew 11:28-30

Romans 8:28

Psalm 139:13

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“Everyday Grace” is a weekly post I’ve recently begun. It is sort of in the style of a devotional {which is ironic…because I don’t typically love devotionals} and a departure from the sort of posts I usually do. It began as a way to record the ways in which God is making the Gospel of Grace “real” to me in everyday ways. This is a way of recording it for myself and sharing with you.

Dish

For a woman of leisure, I have sure been busy. And also a bit scattered. Apparently I’m a complete rookie at finding balance and rhythm. As is the case with most of us, I learn best by doing it wrong and reaching the end of myself. Even though I’ve been married for 16 years and a mom for 11, this is my first time to ever be at home without kids and without a {paying} job. I’m a bona fide “homemaker” and nothing in school prepared me to get this right.

Thank goodness for grace. And also a change of scenery.

We just returned from a lovely, fun-filled few days with my husband’s side of the family. We traveled from three different states and met up in a big cabin in the mountains of Tennessee.

There was hiking and shopping, golfing and ice cream, coffee and air hockey. Even though the cabin felt remote-ish {in a good way}, we were still within 10-15 minutes of Starbucks. And Krispy Kreme. And Ben & Jerry’s. I know, it’s a culinary trifecta.

My sister-in-law and brother-in-law invited my husband and me on a “little hike” Tuesday morning. I love hiking. My husband? Not so much. Which is ironic really…because he can run mile after mile at breakneck speed and barely be winded, yet hiking wears him out. That’s because walking evidently makes him more tired than running. How weird is that? {We should all be so lucky.} So all of that to say, this particular hike was a labor of love.

But back to the hike. Y’all. This hike was not for the faint of heart. It was four miles of steep, rough-ish terrain {in parts} and also absolutely beautiful. Much ado was made about the view from the top. I envisioned a meadowy summit of wildflowers, the sort of place one could enjoy a picnic. Or a nap.

Well. If we had seen this sign at the beginning of hike, we would have known otherwise. As luck would have it, we saw it at the end.

There was no meadow, only a jaggedy cliff of sheer rock. And guess who made it furthest up the summit?

You guessed it. The non-hiker.

What you don’t see on either side of him is sky. Sky that you fall through as you plunge to your death. Where are the guard rails, people?

Obviously we made it home alive and had lots of fun stories to tell. The great thing about hiking is that there’s nothing to do while you hike but talk. {And also take pictures.} It was a super fun bonding experience for the four of us and the inside-jokes will live on forever.

{More pics of our ~~treacherous climb~~ hike.}

Moving on from vacation, I have to tell you about my 4-year-old. He has resorted to something I affectionately refer to as “Owl-Speak.” Every question begins with “Who” and it is both odd and funny. And mildly disrespectful.

Who can get me some ice water? Who?

Who can press “play” for me? Who?

Who wants to fix me a snack? Who wants to?

Who can wipe my bottom? Who?

Who has food for me? Who?

It’s as if every need and desire is an open casting call and surely everyone within earshot is vying for the role of snack-fixer. Or bum-wiper.

Oh it is just the craziest thing. Which is fitting…because he is sort of a crazy character.

So that’s the scoop around here. I hope you all have a blessed weekend, one that is full in every way. And if you’re lucky, you may have a crazy toddler cowboy audition you for the role of pressing “play.”

Monday Mercies

For the soul who is weary,

For the heart that needs bravery…

If you feel lost or lonely,

Helpless or hopeless,

Shaken or broken,

Needy or needless…

There is One who sees and knows, who is brave when you are trembling,

Who is infinitely available when no one else has the time or love or care.

He knit you together before you were born and He never tires of putting you back together each time you unravel.

He loves you and has plans for you.

He is your rest, your strength and your song.

If you’re in need of new mercies this morning, run to Jesus.

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

If there’s one thing we’re promised in this world, it’s the trouble. Thankfully we’re not just promised that one thing. There’s a bigger and better promise beyond all of that: He has overcome the world.

And if He lives in us? We are overcomers too.

Even if we feel anything but victorious.

It’s true. And you don’t have to believe it for it to be true. Hand your doubts and fears and troubles to Jesus, the One who has overcome all things for you.

He cares.

Dish: Cone of Shame, Science Fair, & What I’m Reading / Watching

I haven’t dished in a while so I thought I’d chat a bit about what’s going on here, besides spring and sunshine and warmth and daffodils. God bless the south. This time of year reminds me of why we live here. It almost makes up for the fire ants and oppressive humidity come July.

Jetta

Jetta was spayed yesterday. “Spay” seems far too polite a term for a COMPLETE HYSTERECTOMY ON A 6-MONTH OLD. Poor girl. We have all been in near tears over the ordeal. I know it’s for the best but it seriously felt like I was taking my real baby in to have her ovaries and uterus removed and the whole thing still feels wrong and unnatural. {One of the many reasons I never became a vet.} My husband has been walking around singing, Girl, you’ll be a woman soooooon….

When we got the post-op report, our vet told us that Jetta is a very sensitive girl and that she started crying as soon as she came out of surgery. I nearly died. Thankfully, our vet is a big believer in pain meds and she ordered sweet Jetta-girl another serious narcotic and a sedative. Stat.

Three different people at the office told us she is just the sweetest dog but “very sensitive.” My daughter, taking advantage of my grief, almost talked me into one of those $50 Martha Stewart pet beds. After all the poor pup had endured, we felt she should be able to convalesce in comfort and style. Luckily I came to my senses and it’s a good thing. We got home and made her a cushy bed using an old pillow and comforter. Which she promptly peed upon.

After a groggy and whiny evening, she is hobbling along a bit better today but hating the “cone of shame.” She keeps bumping into the furniture and walls and oh, it is going to be a long 10 days. I remind myself that all of this is nothing compared to the ordeal of her getting knocked up by a neighborhood dog, having an emergency c-section, and costing us thousands.

I’ve been thinking about how pets are a lot like children. You think they’ll be easier than they really are. You think they’ll cost less than they really do. They’re messy and rascally and ruin your stuff. I find myself muttering cuss words under my breath one minute and holding her like a baby the next. She is essentially our fourth child, only hairier.

School

In other news, our real children are still faring well in school. They love it actually. And I couldn’t be happier about that. It would be hard on a mama if they were sad and homesick and miserable. They love being with friends, they love their teachers, they enjoy telling us what they’re learning, and they think their school is just the best. I do realize that this could all turn on a dime but for now, I am simply grateful.

Crazy Birds

For the second spring in three years, a mama bird has built a nest in the wreath on our front door. The front door! The one that slams open and shut all day long with the hustle and bustle of noisy kids. A friend of mine said, I doubt she’ll stay. Birds don’t really like crazy. But lo and behold, she laid her eggs and has settled right in. She even flew into our house last week and perched on the mantle. No lie. It’s like Wild Kingdom around here.

Yard Sale

And to make things even wilder, we’re having a big ol’ yard-sale Saturday. I am purging my house in the biggest way and putting it all in the garage but the house still looks just as full! I don’t understand. I have a theory that clutter breeds in the closets and cabinets when you’re not looking. So, the purge continues and I’m saving up my pennies for something special. I’ll let you know if it all pans out.

Reads and TV

I finished the Hunger Games trilogy recently. Loved the books and cannot wait to see the movie. Right now I’m reading The Red Tent by Anita Diamant , as well as A Praying Life and a re-read of Grace for the Good Girl. I don’t watch much TV anymore but The Man and I are riveted to Downton Abbey, the most brilliant thing I’ve watched in a long time.

So that’s the scoop around here. What about you? Any great reads or shows? Are you having a yard sale or hosting a nest of crazy birds on your front stoop? Do tell.

Practicing Big Loves in Small Ways

I’m passionate about people who are passionate.

Stories like this one make me want to sing. I watched it on the Today Show and couldn’t stop smiling.

Most of us aren’t brave enough to look ourselves in the soul and stamp our God-given imprints on the world in the risky way that this guy did. Maybe that’s why I’m captivated by those who face the fear and follow a dream. It involves everything uncomfortable: risk and craziness and vulnerability.

Some say it’s indulgent and silly and irresponsible, following your dreams and all. Sometimes it is. And sometimes that’s the winning combination: One part knowing yourself {“indulgent”} plus one part doing what most people wouldn’t dare {“silly”} plus one part risking quite a lot to gift the world in a way only you can {“irresponsible.”}

In the case of the pizza guy on the Today Show, he lost his job, took a big risk, followed desire, and next thing you know he’s being interviewed by Jane Pauley and bringing tears to the eyes of a suburban housewife as she folds laundry.

But can desire and risk bear fruit in small ways as well? I think they can. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about the small yet sacred ways we practice our “loves.”

Since I put my kids in school, people have asked me if I plan to go back to work. I do not, at least not in the way that I once did. At one time, I taught American History at a local university and it was a lovely job. I loved teaching and I was passionate about working with college students, listening and advising and mentoring.

During my last year of {paid} work, I was offered a position that I really enjoyed. I taught half-time and then spent the other half of my time revitalizing the university’s First-Year Experience program. I read books and traveled to meet with experts and studied quite a lot about the freshman transition to college–what makes kids stay, how to create community, how to lead students along a path of self-discovery as it relates to potential careers.

As I helped college students “find themselves,” I also began to find my own self. The irony of it all didn’t escape me.

Here I was, waving goodbye to career just as I had finally figured out what I was good at. It was a rather circuitous and backwards route toward self-awareness.

The journey continued as I became a homeschooling mom for four and a half years. Additional layers of “a-ha” peeled back as the experiences and desires of the past mingled with the challenges, activities, and desires of the everyday. I spent far too much energy trying to make sense of things like calling and responsibility, purpose and longing. I know now that all of that percolating wasn’t for naught.

In the last 5 years I’ve had another baby, taught my kids at home, taught other people’s kids, started a blog, discovered how much I love writing, worked part-time, endured crises and struggle, and settled into community in beautiful, much-needed ways.

Through all of these changes, my loves have followed me around and sometimes invited me to play. I used to swat them away or feel guilty for “wasting time.” But then I realized that the stuff I was swatting away was the life-giving stuff, the meaningful stuff, the stuff that maybe I was created to do.

Passion and vocation no longer take the same forms but they share the same essence.

Several nights ago I had an opportunity to facilitate a book discussion group at a downtown restaurant with some of my local peeps. It felt like a cooler, more adult version of my former classroom. I was rusty and a tad nervous but the evening was lovely.

My husband was with me and when the night was over, I talked his ear off until we went to bed. Oh I was downright chatty, which is the opposite of how I operate once the sun goes down. By 10 pm, I normally turn into a pumpkin, a big, silent, motionless pumpkin.

Another opportunity came my way in January. One morning a week I settle in with a small group of friends as we discuss real life and grace and letting go. I became the {very informal} facilitator of this special group and I can’t believe how much I relish my time with these women.

Truthfully, I was afraid to say yes to each of these invitations. But the loves won out and fear took a backseat. I’m so glad for that.

Life still consists of mostly ordinary. I pack lunches, buy groceries, do laundry, wipe muddy dog-prints off the floor, and shuttle kids to appointments. I go to church, make small talk, read books in pick-up line, wonder why my boys still have bad aim in the bathroom, over-think everything and sometimes take a nap. Ninety-something percent of what I do is anything but glamourous or newsworthy.

But…

In the tiny slice that is mine, I abandon the things I “should” be doing. I say no to what’s safe, responsible, orderly, and domestic in order to say yes to the stuff I used to swat away out of guilt.

I read.

I write.

I share.

I imagine things that are beautiful.

I ponder.

I organize thoughts.

I rearrange my furniture. And my neighbors’ furniture. {Okay, so maybe that’s domestic.}

I listen.

I make stuff.

Some of my loves involve risk and vulnerability and a bit of foolishness. Certain people may say I’m silly, that I should go back to a job that actually pays me cold hard cash, especially since I went to school for so long.

I guess I’d rather dabble in my loves cautiously and curiously for now and do it for free. It’s a season of rest and I’ve no intention of compromising that. I see my loves as worship and ministry and reward and while it’s fine to get paid for that, it’s also fine not to.

I haven’t mortgaged my house to start a pizzeria. I’m just a middle-class wife, mom, and former teacher who’s learning who I am and who I’m not. I’m becoming more confident with my “yes’s” and my “no’s.” And I’m also realizing that maybe God wants to take the stuff I’ve lived–the good, the ridiculous, and the awful–and speak through it.

Hard stuff has come my way. And good stuff too. Life looks so very different than I thought it would. I think that’s usually the case. There’s been plenty of ugly and sometimes I even talk about here. A little bit.

Only someone as creative and all-knowing as God can mix our baggage with our gifts. Only He can take the ugly stuff we’d rather forget, dust it off, and then use our loves, the ones He gave us, to sing of redemption.

Maybe you feel like there’s no place for your loves right now…

But what if there is?

……………………………

My friend Emily {who I’ve mentioned quite a lot} writes in the most inspiring way about this sort of thing. In October she wrote 31 Days to Change the World and oh, it is good stuff. She also wrote these recent posts: We Don’t Want Your Obligation and What to Do with Crazy Ideas. Artful, compelling reads. Check them out.

The Life Raft of Remembrance

In the muck and mire of the present, I can be woefully negligent in remembering the rescues, good gifts, and providences of the past.

When so much remains unfixed and in process, when heart change {especially my own} is slow, as new issues and dilemmas present themselves in the midst of an already full plate, I don’t always feel buoyed by hope.

But I’ve felt a gentle nudge over the last few days to recall and remember. I’m increasingly convinced that remembrance is one of God’s graces to his children during days of discouragement and fretfulness.

When I’m frustrated because my heart feels stuck, He shows me where I used to be.

As I grapple with the things of this world and wish I never struggled with something as petty as desiring new furniture, He shows me how far I’ve come.

When the work of relationship is intense and shows no sign of letting up and I want to crawl under the covers, He reminds me of how dark the days used to be and how there is so much light and hope spreading across the future.

Today, with all of its issues and concerns, is not five years ago…

I’m not the same.

Loved ones are not the same.

God is more real and the world is less enticing.

Security and identity come increasingly from Christ and less from people.

I’ve been broken but not crushed, knocked down but not defeated.

Provision has come in wild and unexpected ways, undeserved gifts that showed up in the nick of time to lift a downcast soul or pay the bills or provide a desperately needed date night.

As a child, I remembering listening in self-righteous disbelief to Bible stories about the Israelites and their chronic forgetfulness. God parted the Red Sea for them and dropped food from the sky every day, but they had the nerve to complain and revolt and doubt. How could they ever disregard his faithfulness?

And years later I realized that they are really me, that the human heart has spiritual amnesia and remembrance isn’t a polite thing we do around the table at Thanksgiving. No. The remembrance that saves me is the on-your-knees, white-knuckled, fighting-for-hope kind. It’s usually amid tears and frustration and desperate petition. Which is as it should be.

He reminded me of that this morning:

Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. {Philippians 4:6-7, emphasis mine}

In laying bare our needs, we simultaneously remember the ones He’s already met. Practicing remembrance saves me. It’s impossible to drown in discouragement and hopelessness when we remember how He’s parted the sea time and again.

Remembrance is an exercise in trust, an invitation to hope, and a pathway to peace.

I write to remind myself and to celebrate His goodness.

I Wish I’d Bought the Barbie Dream House

My daughter turned 11 and I’m more aware than ever of the fleetingness of childhood.

Like every mom out there, I wish for do-overs. But do you want to know one of my biggest regrets? I didn’t buy her the Barbie dream house.

Because she was my first, I was afraid of so many things: afraid of over-indulgence, afraid of promoting materialism and buying things that were really too big for our space. Sometimes fear kept me from lightening up, having fun and allowing her to have fun.

And now? Every time I see a giant Barbie house I want to cry. That’s no exaggeration.

She asked for a couple of Barbies and accessories for Christmas and you better believe I bought them. I knew it would probably be the last year that airbrushed fake food, fuschia refrigerators, and skirts with a 3-inch waist would sit under our tree.

When I’m walking through Target, I swoon over the 5T and under section with its tutus and puckered sleeves and pig-tailed, baby-teethed models on the placards.

Childhood is sweet and so very short. It should be celebrated in big and little ways. I wish I’d known this sooner.

Today we’re headed to the mall to spend some of her birthday cash on new clothes and bling. Money, by the way, is all she asked for. {Cue the crying. Again.}

We will roam through Claire’s, Gap kids, Old Navy, Justice and Target and I plan to savor every moment. I will tell her I like whatever she picks out {even if I’d have chosen something else for her.} We will ooh and aah over cheap, enamel-covered earrings with dangling ice-cream cones and doughnuts and peace signs.

I will listen sympathetically as she bemoans the tragedy of not being able to shop in the Junior’s Department yet. I will keep my nostalgia to myself and refrain from saying what I really want to say: Stay small and enjoy being right where you are at this moment.

I’m trying to slow the years. She’s trying to speed them up. But we intersect in the today, in the here and now. I can’t redo the past and I’m bracing myself for the future but really, I can’t live in either of those places. Instead, I’ll make the most of today and be ever so grateful that I’m still her favorite shopping companion.

And if she asks to look in the toy section and finds a Barbie she just can’t live without, well, bring on microscopic stilettos and tiny glitter jeans.

On Pits and Pity-Parties and A New View

I’ve been more absent in the new year than I’d planned to be in this space. There’s been sickness. And exhaustion. But mostly I’ve been absent for another reason.

You might say I took an unexpected holiday. The dirt under my fingernails testifies to the locale. I had an extended stay in the pit.

Though I’ve been out of the deep for a while now, writing has been difficult. And scary. I wrote this post last week but didn’t have any peace to post it until today. I prayed. I sent it to my husband at work. And then I clicked on this post which had been sitting in my inbox since yesterday. Between my husband’s affirmation and Ann’s post, I sensed a divine “yes.”

I’ve had plenty to say but not much that I’ve wanted to share. There have been days when getting out of bed was my noblest accomplishment, days that were sunny outside but terribly dark in my soul. I courted despair and found a twisted sort of solace in hopelessness.

Why anyone would want to stay in a place like that is, of course, irrational. The cause of my descent into the pit is irrelevant. You may be thinking:

Oh that’s chemical. Poor girl needs some meds.

Or, Oh that’s spiritual. Poor girl is under spiritual attack or has some sin she needs to deal with. She probably needs to read her Bible and pray more.

Or, She shouldn’t have sent her kids to school. Now look, she’s bored and depressed and needs to get over herself.

Whatever. I’m sure all of those things are true in varying degrees {except the bored part.} But here’s what I do know: I wanted to be in the pit. I succumbed to the descent and I willingly chose to stay put.

I had given up.

It felt as though what was required of me in this life was simply more than I could give. The cumulative effect of some really hard stuff, years of hard stuff, left me too drained to move forward.

I gazed back at the past and felt crushed by the weight of the pain inflicted by others and the dysfunction I’d brought upon myself. I nursed hurts that spanned decades. I stared into the future and felt too exhausted and ill-equipped to tackle it. Pulling the covers back over my head seemed like the best alternative. Overwhelmed by all of the work still ahead, I simply gave up, surrendering to defeat.

Why pack up all my baggage and move out if I’ll just have to load it back up and move back in? Better to just save myself the trouble and false hope and eventual failure by staying put.

That’s the sort of fatalistic air one breathes in and out while living in the depths.

I hated the pit. And I hated myself in the pit. But at the same time, I didn’t want to get out. There was something sickeningly comforting about darkness. The pit required nothing of me but self-pity and bitterness and I had perfected the art of both.

Ironically, my sad and sedentary self thought a lot about running {of all things} while sitting in the pit. I’ve been an on-again, off-again runner since I was 12 years old. Running is one of those disciplines with a plethora of built-in analogies about life and perseverance.

I learned in adolescence that often, when you think you’ve got nothing left, you’re wrong. I’ve learned to push on, to give it all I have. And I’ve applied those virtues to many real-life situations across the years. When I was nearly convinced I had nothing left, I dug deep and wrung out the few remaining drops of strength I didn’t realize I had.

And that’s why I was scared.

For the first time ever, I knew there was nothing left. Not a single drop. If my life depended on one short, final sprint, I would have surrendered to defeat even if the finish line lay only a few feet in front of me.

A defeatedness took over and drop-kicked me in that dang pit. I could no longer see the beauty or relevance of rescue and redemption. Faith seemed meaningless. I felt forsaken yet wanted to be left alone, restless but exhausted.

Thankfully, Jesus never tires of rescuing us even though we may tire of asking Him to.

Over the course of several days, I sensed a holy invitation to turn away from myself and grab hold of the outstretched arm of Christ. Through a series of rather ordinary, yet divine exchanges, I knew it was time to pack my bags and say goodbye to that ridiculous abode with the stagnant air that whispers lies disguised as truth.

God issued the invite. I simply nodded and agreed to come out.

It’s not all flowers and kittens and rainbows up here but the vantage point is entirely different. I’m learning in brand new ways what it means to rest fully and completely in Christ, to delight in being rescued, to know that God holds the future so tenderly and lovingly in His hands, to not fret over the approval of others, especially my own.

Expectation and performance and productivity? They are becoming distant companions. It depends on the day of course, but the more I practice kicking them to the curb, the easier it becomes. Issues of identity and worth that used to stare me down all day long? They are becoming shadowy outlines.

There is only one companion that truly matters these days and his name is Jesus. He was with me in the pit and He’s still with me now that I’m out. He thinks I hung the moon. {Even though we both know that He actually did that.} He is just as wild about me on my best days as He is on my worst.

In His eyes, I am lovely. Even when I’m not.

When the pit comes calling because the past is messing with my head and the future is mocking my hope, I run to Jesus.

When my performances as a wife and a mother and a friend and a Christian are just train wrecks, when I feel the familiar tug of duty and expectation, I run to Jesus.

That’s right, the girl who had nothing left is running. I’m back in the race but only because He’s the one who’s already run it for me and won.

I don’t run to Him so that He can tell me it doesn’t matter if I snap at my kids or fail to provide them with clean underwear…

I run to Him for grace.

I run to Him to be reminded of my true identity.

Anything my life produces that’s decent or praiseworthy is just an offering to Him and to others, worship that flows out of gratitude and love and His goodness instead of approval and fear and my performance.

For years I’ve been trying to get this. But it took pain and the pit and praying desperately for the Gospel to become real before it could, well, become real.

Don’t get me wrong. Every day I still struggle and process so many things: guilt, utter selfishness, fear, doubt, and gut-wrenching relationship work. I’m still making peace with what my new life looks like, letting go of my kids and trusting God with the future of my family, knowing that in each and every season, He’ll direct us in the way we should go.

Letting go, being still, surrender…they don’t sound very taxing. In fact, they sound positively lazy from the perspective of this recovering performance junkie. But I’m finding that these are some of the most draining disciplines I’ve ever practiced because they are so counter-intuitive.

Maybe you’ve been in a pit or maybe you’re in one now. It’s okay. I can so feel your pain and resistance. But you don’t have to stay there. There is abundant life in the midst of chaos, beauty in the midst of brokenness. Though the daily yuck and the big-time crises overwhelm us, they cannot overwhelm Him. In my opinion, He does His most compelling work in the stories of redemption. I write to remind myself.

Reach out your hand, friend. There is a better view.

Psalm 40:1-3

I waited patiently for the LORD;

he turned to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit,

out of the mud and mire;

he set my feet on a rock

and gave me a firm place to stand.

He put a new song in my mouth,

a hymn of praise to our God.

Many will see and fear the LORD

and put their trust in him.

………………………….

I happened upon a really helpful book while I was coming out of the pit: Get Out of That Pit by Beth Moore. I know, how appropriate. A friend loaned it to me a year ago but it didn’t seem relevant until recently. I read it in a day and a half and it just provided some really valuable perspective and inspiration. Beth is so good at providing the sacred kick in the pants I often need. And the woman has been in the pit a time or two or ten.

I’m also re-reading and discussing Grace for the Good Girl: Letting Go of the Try-Hard Life by Emily P. Freeman with a small group of close friends. I highly recommend. You can read my review of that book here.

Decisions & School Daze {Part 3}: Pay Yourself

When I first began my homeschooling journey, I spoke with more than a few moms who had traveled before me. I clung to any bit of information and guidance that would make this road-less-traveled a bit more navigable.

And while I am so thankful for the wise counsel I was given, there are a few things I’ve had to learn by doing. Or not doing, in this case.

What’s the unconventional advice I’d beg my newbie homeschool self to heed if I could go back in time 5 years? Value what you do, value your {mental, physical, and spiritual} health, value your children…

And pay yourself accordingly.

We all agree that teachers should be paid. Most of us would even argue that teachers {good ones that is} should get bigger paychecks. They are, after all, responsible for educating future generations.

We pay our public school teachers, our private school teachers, and our kids’ tutors. We shell out big bucks in the name of well-roundedness for our kids to take dance classes and art lessons, piano and horseback riding. We write checks to club sports programs and community rec leagues and we don’t bat an eye.

Educating and mentoring, these are tremendous responsibilities and we value those who devote their professional lives and extra time toward such noble ends.

But I have yet to meet one homeschool mom who gets paid {or who admits to getting paid.} We don’t expect reimbursement because we love our children and we’re their moms. And for various reasons, we have chosen to teach them at home because we believe it’s best for them.

No one goes into teaching for the money. And homeschool moms definitely don’t do it for the money.

But shouldn’t we pay for the things we value? Shouldn’t we take good and proper care of those who take care of and teach our precious children?

I know what you’re thinking. That I’m crazy. That I’m suggesting homeschool families should unearth a teacher’s salary from their meager, middle-class budgets.

This will take some explaining but let me back up before I climb upon my feed-the-homeschool-moms soapbox.

This post talks about how we abruptly put our kids in public school 8 weeks ago after homeschooling them for nearly 5 years. And this post talks about the importance of really knowing who you are {the good, the bad, the unmentionable} as it relates to homeschooling. In it I share my own journey and confess some things I wish I’d known earlier.

I try not to think too much about what we’re going to do with our kids in the fall but it’s impossible not to. My husband and I are trusting God to show us the path chosen for our family and that may mean different avenues for our different kids. For the first time, I can honestly say I’m open to anything…which is both scary and freeing.

But if we homeschool any or all of them in the future, there will be some big changes and getting paid will be chief among them.

So what kind of currency am I talking about?

Well, that all depends on you. What do you value? What energizes you, renews you, keeps you sane? If you’re not an introspective type, put on your self-awareness cap and start thinking. Talk to your husband and those who know you best. They may know your needs better than you do.

My currency was simple to figure out. I want to get paid in time alone, help with the home, and time with my husband. I made a mental list of what this would possibly look like:

A mid-week, silent retreat. I’d hire a sitter during the day once a week, someone to supervise my kids’ schoolwork, keep them on task, and maybe even do some of my laundry. I’d sit at Starbucks and write. Or walk through the Botanical Gardens with my camera. Or sit in the sun with a book. I come back refreshed and recharged. My kids get a break from me. And I provide a kid-loving college student with some much-needed cash. It’s a win-win-win.

Someone to clean my house once a month.

Takeout once a week.

Date night once a week.

Taking a week off more often even though that makes the school-year longer. More and more, I value a sustainable pace over efficiency. This is the one thing on the list that’s free.

If you’re a homeschool mom you may look at my list and think that I’m a bit of a diva. In the past I would have looked at that list and agreed with you. That was before I realized the plain and obvious truth: educating children {various grades all at once} is a full-time job. It’s a sacred calling and a tremendous responsibility. It’s exhausting and demanding and it should be done well. {“Well” should not be confused with “perfectly”}. We need rest and help if we’re going to live balanced and healthy lives and model those values to our children, something I have not done well.

If I entrusted anyone else with this responsibility {like I’m doing now with my kids in school} I’d expect excellence from them. But excellence is hard to come by when you’re run down, burned out, and staring at chaos and squalor.

I totaled up the approximate cost for that list of “luxuries” over a 9-month period. It’s less than 10% of the average public school teacher’s salary. It’s less than the cost of tuition to send one kid to an affordably-priced private school in my area.

My family would be getting me for a steal.

I realize that there are those who believe homeschooling is just an extension of motherhood, a God-ordained duty that we should do cheerfully and obediently. I have never been part of that camp so I’m not really going to speak to that. The Man and I believe that homeschooling goes way above and beyond the responsibilities of motherhood. Way. Beyond. It’s a huge add-on and we’d be wise to treat it as such.

If I teach my kids at home in the future, we’re going to put our resources behind that which we value most. It will take some creative budgeting and resourcefulness, but isn’t that what prioritizing is all about? We sacrifice and problem-solve and find a way.

Most importantly, we trust God to provide. He has always been so faithful to provide for our needs, often at the last minute and almost always in ways I never expected. And even if you can’t get your whole list paid for, wouldn’t just one or two things make a difference?

Instead of teaching homeschool moms how they can be more efficient managers of their homes all by themselves, a subject of quite a few books you’ll see at homeschooling conventions, maybe we should tell them that they don’t have to. There are those who manage it well, moms who are organized and efficient and whose homeschools are run with military precision.

And then there is me.

And the host of weary, amazing, committed, exhausted moms who are my friends, the moms who want to keep going but man, it is so hard. They’ve read the books and tried being someone they’re just not. Maybe there’s another way? Think about it. Talk about it. Pray about it.

Maybe it’s time to get paid.

…………………………………..

My lovely friend, Bonita, recently started a blog that I WISH had been around a couple of years ago. It’s called Reality Homechooling: Where Ideal Meets Real. It’s a great place to rest and be inspired. Check it out.

Dish: Chewing Gum Adhesive, Brussel Sprouts, & Make-up Worth the Splurge

What’s going on around here…

Crafty Cupcake

The baby of the family has turned into a craft-loving superstar. He finds all sorts of bits and scraps, throws them together, and gives it as a gift. It’s really sweet. And exhausting. Because he would make stuff all the time if I let him and it is messy and sometimes takes a turn for the worse. Remember this?

Last week, however, he outdid himself. I was taking a nap and his big sister graciously let him hang out in her room. He woke me up and bestowed the loveliest gift: the back side of a post-it note embellished with jewels and a Dove chocolate heart. Impressive, I thought. How did he get these to stick on here so well? Still a bit groggy, I assumed he used glue and went back to my blissful groggy state.

Minutes later the big sister burst into my room, indignant, and said, Mommy, you will not believe what he is using for his crafts…

GUM!!!

That’s right, gum. The previously-chewed variety. I pulled out the “gift” he’d just given me and we cracked up. She is a serious child and easily upset but if you tip the scale just right and catch her eye just so, she will die of laughter. We’re sort of alike in that way. Let me tell you, we had ourselves a moment over that one.

Anyway, we attempted an adhesives intervention with the boy but he is still bent on chewed-up gum as the superior adhesive. I can’t argue with him there.

The New French Fry

I’m getting back to my vegetarian ways and in a quest for more veggie variety, I made Ina Garten’s roasted brussel sprouts. They were divine. My kids did not feel the love but I gave them snaps for trying. The sprouts get super crispy and salty and were as addictive as french fries. I never thought I’d say that but it’s true.

Fancy Make-Up

The bottom of the concealer tube and my purply eyes prompted a trip to the Clinique counter a couple of weeks ago. Who am I kidding, it was more than that. I was having a rough week for lots of reasons and did not bat an aging eye at the thought of spending some of the clothing budget on make-up.

Long live the Bonus Week. I’d been planning to score some serious concealer and the lady in the white coat talked me into some serious foundation as well. When a girl is trying to age gracefully, good makeup is worth the splurge. {That’s what I’m telling myself now that I have to say no to these cute leopardy flats from Target.}

No one will be looking at my feet anyway. They’ll be too captivated by the shimmery, age-resistant complexion I’m faking.

The Dumb Dog

Do not be deceived. She is a menace. Jetta is like a fourth child–a furry, disobedient toddler who slinks under the furniture with lightening speed when she has chewed up crayons {again} or lincoln logs {again} or Crocs {again}.

Seriously, there’s no love lost between Jetta and me right now. And don’t get me started on the fact that a bag of her food is the same price of my probably-now-sold-out Target flats. She is a rascal and a nuisance and expensive and oh, the things we will subject ourselves to for the happiness of our children.

The most tragic Jetta casualty of the week was my daughter’s lip balm egg. This girl had been pining after the plastic egg filled with fruity lip balm. It had been calling to her from the Wal-Mart check-out aisle for months and I finally bought it for her last Saturday. She was as excited over her lip balm as I was over my new concealer.

You know where this is going. The very next day Jetta was able to retrieve the egg from the edge of the desk and gobbled up all of that strawberry-flavored waxy goodness. My child was devastated. Thankfully she loves the dog more unconditionally than I do.

Please tell me that the toddler dog days will end and that she will not always be such a menace. I cannot afford to keep drowning my anxiety and frustration in fancy make-up.

{Can’t you just see me at the Clinique counter asking for “the usual” and the gal in the white coat reluctantly slinging another tube of lip gloss my way and telling me I’ve probably had enough?}

So that’s the scoop around here. Between the chewing-gum fiasco, my dumb dog, and the gobbled-up lip balm egg, you can see why a girl can use some fancy new makeup and leopard-print anything.