"But what if you can't hear God's answer?"

Last night, I was putting my 8-year-old to bed when she stopped me in my tracks with her questions. She was nearly naked, wearing only her underwear, her typical bedtime attire, that and an oversized square of stretchy cotton fabric that she sometimes wraps around herself. I was on night one of three of single parenting, my husband deep in the bowels of Canada, attending a men’s retreat with our church.

We’d swapped the dinner hour that evening for T-ball practice (a concept I have yet to wrap my mind around now that I am parenting olders) which is why we found ourselves “eating out” at the Costco Food Court at 7:45 PM. We had come just to buy fruit but somehow, I’d succumbed to $170 of other “essentials” that my assistants had deposited in our cart, as is prone to happen every time we visit the place. These essentials included swimwear (for the girls), dresses for a wedding we are attending TOMORROW (also for the girls - nothing like 11^th hour shopping) and wine (for mama). Of course, we couldn’t try on any of the clothing there, so I was 97% positive the items would be deemed unacceptable for my eldest, who struggles with sensory challenges, upon our arrival home. Even when able to try things on before buying, 80% of them end up returned or unworn so I’ve gotten used to this routine. I was confident the dress she’d selected would be rejected as soon as it touched her body, but I bought it anyway and prayed this would be the time I would be proven wrong.

Not so.

She’d slipped into the dress a mere seconds after we walked through our door; I knew it was a no-go when I heard the sobs coming down the stairs before I’d even finished putting away our purchases. It looked adorable on her, a soft cotton number with narrow black and white stripes, cut shorter in the front with a small train in the back. She had wanted so badly for it to work but the little triangle of lace detail in the bodice was more than she could handle.

I went upstairs and assessed the situation, offered comfort and helped her transition to bed. It was getting late and we’d agreed that she had some other dress options she could wear to the wedding. I was about to leave her room after tucking her into bed when she let her frustration show. “Mom, why do I have to have sensory issues? I just want to be normal! Why does it have to be so hard to wear clothes?”

Her discouragement was palpable, and I didn’t have a great answer for her. I began rambling on about how there is really no such thing as “normal,” how we all have our quirks and idiosyncrasies that make us unique. But she wasn’t buying it. So, I stopped for a minute to gather my thoughts before I went on.

“Well,” I told her. “Those seem like good questions to ask God. He wants to know how we are feeling and it’s okay to ask him why.”

I was feeling proud of my diplomatic and spiritual answer when she fired back at me, her frustrated tone now rising, “But what if you can’t hear God’s answer?”

Gulp.

Her words hung in the air, poignant and personal, the very question with which I had been wrestling. Dang.

She stared out her bedroom window while my mind raced, searching for an answer that would satisfy her and I alike. I started talking, hoping something good would come out if I just began moving my lips. I shared with her that I often wonder the same thing – how do we really hear God? I told her that, though I’d often wished I could, I had never heard his voice audibly. Then I told her about the role of the Holy Spirit in our lives as believers, how he moves within us and can bring thoughts and words to our mind. I told her that it’s sometimes through these thoughts and words that we “hear” from God, provided we can be quiet and still long enough to listen. Then I reminded her how we have the Bible, God’s written words to us, His promises.

Her lips cracked into a tiny smile. I could tell she’d never really thought of the Bible as God’s way of speaking to us in the present before. I saw her frustration dissipate as I told her that she is “fearfully and wonderfully made” and that God “knit her together” in my womb. We talked about how much work knitting is and how it takes great intentionality. I reminded her that God doesn’t make mistakes and I think what I saw was a flicker of hope flashing across her face.

“What would happen if everything about us was perfect?” I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled, so I went on.

“If we didn’t face struggles and challenges, do you think we would remember to turn to God and ask for help?”

I could tell she was starting to follow my line of thought.

“As painful as it can be,” I told her, “sometimes it’s these very struggles that remind us of how much we need God.”

She had settled into her pillow and I could see her body visibly relaxing as she pondered what I had said. I prayed over her and kissed her goodnight and left her room. 

With each tidbit I had shared, I felt a small internal sting. I was saying all the "right" things but each one I uttered left me twinging with a tiny string of doubt. I gave her my head knowledge, but what is it that I actually believed in my heart? 

As I reflect on all the words that came out of my mouth last night, I realize how easy it was to tell my daughter that we don’t often receive the direct answers we long for. It was simple and straight forward to tell her to read the Bible and pray and listen. That her struggles were intended to work as a means of drawing her back to God. The words rolled off my tongue, but now I am pressed with the challenge: can I let them be true for me as well? Can I sit in my own current season where my list of questions for God feels endless, and claim His goodness? Can I be okay with persisting alongside my struggles as a means of keeping me mindful of my need for Him? I may have sounded confident and convincing last night, but the reality is that I was preaching to the choir. I, too, wonder what happens if I can't hear God's answer. What do I do when I ask and all I hear is silence?

We may not always get to “hear” an answer from God in the way we hope. In the seasons where God feels distant and silent, I pray we continue to ask and seek. I believe we are to continually bring everything before Him and wrestle in His presence. Because it’s in this simple act of coming before Him that we are reminded of our greatest need - our need for a Savior.

I still struggle immensely in the "silence." How can a God who loves me not answer immediately in a way that is audible and clear? But what He is teaching me is that if we never ask, how can we expect an answer? I have seen Him more clearly in my wrestling of late than in all the times where I presented myself as buttoned up and A-okay from the outside. 

So, don't be afraid to ask. He can handle the doubt. And don't let the fear of silence stop you. He will meet you where you are, in the most unexpected and gracious of ways. 

Our God is good this is the truth I'm choosing to cling to today.

Motherhood: Is This It?

The alarm rings and I am the first one up. This was my goal for it is solitude I’m seeking. I drag myself from bed and head directly to the coffee pot where I wait anxiously for it to do its thing. Then I settle in for the short few moments before I am joined by the rest of the household. Some mornings I opt to exercise. Other mornings are set aside to study my Bible. Sometimes I just sit there holding coffee, pretending to read and basking in the relative quiet.

I’m just a busy mom, rising early and trying to care for my temple.

The instant I left my bed, I heard movement down the hall and a toilet flushing. But she has stayed in her room because she knows it’s early. You could move your big toe an inch and the noise of it would wake her. I hear the hushed sounds of the audiobook she has turned on. I wonder what she is working on. I know she has begun to create; always, always creating, this one. I will soon find out that today it’s magazines. She has formed little books by stapling together folded pieces of paper. Later she tells me she wants us to be the editors. She will gather submissions from all her friends. Who do we know that has a dog and could write about pet ownership? Do we have time to work on the magazine this weekend? Can she sell them when they are finished?

I’m just her mom, just her editor and cheerleader and the one who tries her darndest to keep her big entrepreneurial dreams alive. Only that.

Eventually she emerges from her room, but only to retrieve strong tape and a magnet, she tells me. She has breaked momentarily from the magazine project and she wants to hang her newly-laminated morning routine chart up in her room so that she can check off her responsibilities as she goes along. It’s just that she needs to figure out a way to affix a magnetic dry erase marker to her wall, she says. My coffee and Bible and I are cuddled together on the couch. I tell her that I don’t think it will work because she doesn’t have anything magnetic in her room for the pen to cling to. She says, so matter-of-factly, that she knows but that if she tapes a magnet backwards to the wall, then the pen can stick to it. By golly, she is right! I’m a little dumbfounded. And then the pride wells in me as I wonder at her innovative nature. I cup her face in my hands and get down at eye level. “You are amazing,” I tell her. And she smiles and she scurries away to set up her contraption.

I’m just her mom, just her words of affirmation source and her bucket filler.

The time keeper on the wall reads 6:57 AM and I hear another one shuffling on the stairs. Her clock battery must be running slow because she has made an appearance before seven o’clock for three days running now. I’m back in my spot on the couch, clutching my coffee and trying to read a couple more words of scripture before the day takes me by the reigns. They, my three, usually wake in order of age which makes me grin a little. This next one rounds the corner and spots me, beams, and breaks into a full sprint to my side. She jumps on the couch and burrows beneath my arm before telling me I’m hogging all the blanket. I can tell that she so looks forward to this moment each day, this breath of calm, just the two of us.

I’m just her mom, just her snuggler.

The next burst of activity happens around 7:30 AM. Now it’s the littlest scurrying around, the sound of wheels rolling around on the hardwoods. Eventually he makes his way downstairs, arms always heavy laden with toys. He sees me in the kitchen; by this time, I’ve left my perch on the couch and have started in on breakfast. “I got dressed all by myself!” he exclaims as he barrels into my legs for some affection. Three plus years of hard work and training and my son can finally take care of a few items of business all on his own.

I’m just his mom, just his teacher. Just that.

The silverware clangs together and I’m grabbing dishes out of the dishwasher by the fistful. The blender whirls, the toaster pops and the three-year-old runs to the drawer to grab the plates without my even asking. He wants to know if we are having pancakes this morning, as he does every day. Not today, I tell him. Today it’s English muffins and smoothies. I ask him to grab me a butter knife. “Aye Aye Captain!” he bellows and he is quick to obey. This phrase of his is my absolute favorite. I’m unsure of its origin but I’m 97% sure I have a kid’s show to thank. I promise I don’t make him call me Captain, but I’m not going to lie, it’s sort of fitting. I pour the drinks and lay out the spread and holler for the girls to join us for breakfast.

I’m just their mom, the one who prepares and provides their meals, their nourisher and their Captain.

We finish the meal and they ask to be excused. They are halfway down the hall before I can get out the words: “Have you done your routines?” They run up the stairs to double check. Are their rooms picked up? Dirty clothes in the hamper? Beds made? On a really good day, they make it all the way through the check list. On a regular day, they miss a step or two and leave for school with bedding strewn about and pajamas on the floor.

I’m just their mom, just the organizer, the one equipping them and teaching them responsibility for the future. Only that.

The alarm on my phone is going off again. This time it is to alert us that it’s time to leave for school. Lunches are grabbed, shoes and coats are put on. It is library day for one of them. Shoot! Where did you put your library book? Wait, you had homework? Why didn’t we check your backpack last night?! Too late. Rain is in the forecast so pack a rain coat too! It’s never pretty despite all our best efforts but eventually we are out the door. We look both ways, we cross the street and walk down the hill.

I’m just their mom, their safe keeper and their transportation. I’m doing the best that I can.

The boy and I arrive back home. I look at him and realize I can no longer see his eyes; his hair has grown so long in all my business. I sit him in front of a show to distract him and I gather my supplies. The show features trains and he is happy. I move the clippers quickly, wetting a towel and taking it to his lips and nose periodically to rescue him from the tickling nature of the stray hairs.

I am just his mom and his barber.

The show ends and at first, he protests and asks for another. I tell him no and suggest we play a game instead. His eyes light up as he exclaims “Connect Four!” I tell him to set it up for us and that I will be right there. Another “Aye Aye Captain!” and he’s on his way. He makes me take the first turn, like always. I drop one circular coin in the slot and he immediately follows mine with one of his. It's like tic tac toe except the winner must get four in a row instead of three. I slide in another coin and he jumps to “block” me again. What he doesn’t realize is that I can get four in a row horizontally or diagonally, and not just vertically. I manage four in a row three times over, but to him, we win when all the slots are filled. Eventually we aren’t even taking turns anymore, we’re just racing to stuff our coins in the columns as fast as our fingers will allow. We laugh when we run out of coins and he exclaims “I won!”

I’m just his mom, just his playmate. That is all.

Now it’s time for errands. He wants to wear his “tie shoes” and so I bend to loop his laces into bows. He can buckle himself into his car seat on most days now - hallelujah! Except for those days when he can’t. On those days, I help him. But my assistance comes at a cost and I make him give me a kiss or two as payment. Once we are on our way, I reach back my while driving and touch his soft skin. His hand automatically grips mine and I can see him smiling in the rearview mirror. We cruise this way, hand in hand, until my neck and arm can no longer stand to be torqued.

I’m just his mom, just his hand-holder and source of physical touch. Just that.

There is lunchtime and story time and quiet time and chores and a walk or a bike ride and then we are off to pick up his sisters. On most days, it takes nothing short of moving mountains to get the three tired troops up the hill and back home for a snack to reenergize them. Someone always cries. It is obvious we are done. D-O-N-E.

We arrive home and one of them won’t come inside. Instead, she sits on a rock in the front yard wailing, backpack thrown down next to her. Somedays she calms relatively quickly and rejoins us. On other days, I text the neighbor to let her know I am in fact aware of the child scream-crying on my lawn. No, she has not actually been locked out and abandoned by her mean mom. It’s just that I wouldn’t let her go to a friend’s house that we weren’t even invited to after school. Eventually I encourage her inside and I take her in my arms. There is an obvious shift in the tears that is sudden and wild. She is no longer angry, she’s hurt. As I hold her tightly, she tells me her friend is no longer playing with her at recess and threatens to “never play with her again.” These things she’s been holding inside and I am the first recipient. I look her in the eyes and feel the hurt right along with her. “Baby girl, that would make me cry too” I tell her.

I’m just her mom, just her comforter.

The other one is really struggling. Most days have been hard ones for the past two and a half years running. There are so very many tears. She feels chaos and discomfort that no child of her age should never have to experience. She knows intimately the meaning of the words “stress” and “anxiety.” During the period of her life that should be the most fun and carefree, she appears heavy and sad. She feels Every. Single. Thing. And the weight of all these feelings is wearing her down. It wears me down too. Oh, how it wears me down!

I am just her mom, just her emotion coach, her advocate, the one trying to wade through all the chaos and come up for air with some answers. Only that.

There are days when nothing works. We try everything and eventually we just sit and we hold each other. Despite all the tricks and tools we’ve gathered, we don’t have it all figured out and life gets the best of us and coping is hard. So, we cuddle, we talk, we soothe. I tell her it’s ok and we cry some more.

I’m just her mom, just the one who knows her best and who she feels safe releasing all the emotion to.

The other kids start to melt down. They see my attention is monopolized and they want some too. We’re supposed to be doing homework and the girls need to read for 20 minutes each and heaven forbid we try and incorporate physical activity or doctor’s appointments or swimming lessons somewhere in there and, oh, someone should probably make dinner. Did I mention yet that it’s witching hour? We are all beginning to break. Someone hits and gets sent to his room to “take five” and cool off. I must stand there and hold his door closed, and, by the sound of things, the door jamb will likely no longer be standing at the end of this. I’m getting sass and bickering from the other two and I count each one to three and send them to their rooms too, all the while holding my station at the boy’s door. Soon he calms down enough that I can release the doorknob and I too run to my room to send the SOS text to Daddy:

“WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME!?”

We all “take fives” in our rooms and thankfully I have a lock on my bedroom door. It was intended for other purposes and yet it has never come in as handy as it does during witching hour. I no longer have any idea what the troops are doing out there beyond my door. And honestly, I don’t really care. I can’t.

I’m just their mom, just their disciplinarian, trying my dardnest to raise them up in the way they should go. I’m trying my best but sometimes my best just doesn’t seem to cut it.

On most days, my life feels so very, very small. Tiring and small. It’s this smallness that makes me feel insignificant and question what on earth I am possibly doing in this work of mine. My orbit is tiny and each day I climb aboard for another loop around what feels like the same crazy path. We don’t seem to be moving forward. We are circling. The monotony of it all, the daily grind at times makes me want to poke my eyes out.

Maybe you feel similarly? Maybe you too struggle with the significance of your work in mothering? Maybe you are balancing all these things in addition to a career or a desire for a career or even just a longing for a space to pursue your passion.

If so, can I take a moment to speak a work of encouragement? It’s for you and me both.

You do so much. On most days, it doesn’t feel like it. You look back and scratch your head as you survey the mess and wonder “What on earth did I do today? Did I get anything done?” Well, allow me to remind you. Yes, dear mother, yes you did. You got so very much done. You spent your day comforting, coaching, nourishing, wiping, training, teaching, cleaning, loving, answering, transporting, disciplining, encouraging, playing, hand-holding, advocating for, editing, safe-keeping, cooking, cheerleading, dream-stoking, snuggling, organizing, equipping and leading. And that's not even the half of it. You were not “just” momming. You were shaping humans. You were pouring yourself into the next generation of contributors to this society.

You may feel small and insignificant but, this work you do, it matters! So, press on and keep raising those humans to love and respect others, to work hard, to experience joy and pleasure in life, to serve God, and to bask in the love and grace of our Heavenly Father.

Be encouraged, my friends. Small work? I think not.


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When an Introvert Raises an Extrovert

Just popping in real quick to say that I am so thrilled to be over at allmomdoes.com (Spirit 105.3's mothering blog) today sharing about some of my experiences of being introvert raising an extrovert. I would love it if you checked out the article on their website by clicking on the link here.

Can any of my fellow parents relate? I would love to hear about your own experience. Feel free to leave a comment here on the blog.

Apple dolls and being poor in spirit

I was awoken yesterday morning and it was immediately evident to me that God had seemingly neglected to provide me enough patience to outlast the day. My seven-year-old had barged into my room with a book in hand, breaking the peaceful silence. She was quick to inform me that it was far too dark in my room for her to be able to read any of the words on the book's pages. 

"So I'm just going to turn on your light for a second," she told me.

Before I could even formulate in my mind what was happening, a bright, blinding beam shone straight into my squinting eyes.

"I want to make an apple doll, Mom," she announced, as if that was was the most obvious thing a person would desire at 7 AM on a Sunday. "Mom, it's time for you to get up. Look! See here's how you do it."

She had shoved the book in front of my face and was pointing to the "simple" seventeen step process.

You have got to be kidding, I thought. This is NOT happening to me right now. I had my doubts as to whether I could successfully create an apple doll with a week's heads-up to plan. For SURE I would be unable to whip one up right now with the measly 30 minutes I had to ready both myself and the three kids for church.

This isn't atypical in our household. In fact, it is more or less our frequent morning routine. I have a child who is bursting with creative energy at all hours of the day and night. She awakens ready to go and expects the rest of the family to do the same. She adores crafting and constructing and is saddened by a full recycling bin. "Think of all the things we could have made with all that cardboard," she often tells me. "And here someone is just throwing it away."

At times I am convinced she was born to the wrong mother. I do enjoy creating but only on MY time, when I've planned ahead and carefully thought it all through and gathered the supplies. My daughter doesn't care about such details; she's always game to improvise.

So back to yesterday. The morning proceeded. I'll spare you all the nitty gritty details but I'll suffice it to say we were all operating under a healthy case of sleep deprivation so there was a lot of whining and neediness involved. I put the kabosh on the apple doll, at least for the time being. We were out of lemon juice after all. There was much disappointment from all parties over all sorts of things. Graham was already at church and I was flying solo, trying to get the rest of us there. The morning was harried. I was harried.

When we finally arrived at church, even the walk from car to building became an ordeal. I marched swiftly in the rain, carrying one kid who simply can't walk when there is moisture in the air. We were trailed by two whining girls whose shoes malfunctioned the entire way. I practiced my Lamaze breathing, exhaling under my breath "God, you didn't give me enough patience for this day."

This was my posture as I wearily made my way into the sanctuary and took my seat in the pew. The morning had reminded me of all the ways I didn't feel cut out for the gig of mothering and I entered church knowing that, left to my own devices, I simply wouldn't cut it.

The pastor was starting a new series, preaching from Matthew chapter 5. His sermon was beautiful and wonderful and fitting. He read to us verse 3 which says:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"

I'd never really thought about this phrase before - the idea of being "poor in spirit." What did it mean? Poverty isn't something our culture aspires toward. How could this idea of being "poor" be a desirable, blessed thing? Our pastor went on to define poverty for us.

"Poverty is the gap between what is needed and what I have." 

I'd never really thought about it this way before. In other words, what Jesus was saying was, blessed are those who recognize that their calling is impossible on their own. Blessed are the poor in spirit.

Stop for a minute and allow those words sink in. Blessed is the one who recognizes her calling is impossible on her own.

Gosh, was he watching me parent this morning? I thought. In this sense of the word, I had definitely experienced some poverty in the hours that preceded. Though my initial words to him came out more accusation than request ("You didn't give me enough patience!"), they morphed over the course of the morning into a prayer ("God, I need you to step in right now and provide patience where I have none.") This act of crying out to God was a way of highlighting the gap - pointing out the discrepancy between what I had and what I needed. It was a tangible example of this new version of poverty - a recognition that my calling was impossible alone.

I came to church yesterday morning knowing I was empty. My pastor says it's the one whose hands are empty that get filled. On that day it was a lack of patience. The day before that it was a dissatisfaction with my body and my self esteem. Today it will be something new and then tomorrow it will be fear, and the day after that it will be something different entirely. Each day will present ample opportunity to see our inadequacies. And each day we have the choice to continue striving, fighting to do it all on our own. Or we can come humbly before the throne of God, releasing the veil of self-sufficiency, empty, fully aware of the gap between where we are and where we want to be: poor in spirit.

Thank you Jesus for these children and the endless ways they point us to you.