Let Her Celebrate!

Let the mother of many celebrate her numbers
and glory in the ornaments which decorate her life.
Let her not be swayed by the scoffers,
nor riled by the ignorant.
Let compassion be her way
and humility guide her thinking.
Let her pin her badge of many blessings
to her breast and be known
for what the Lord God has called her to do.

Let the mother of some celebrate her bond
and relish the closeness that more time permits.
Let her not feel scorned by Leah or Hagar,
nor be jealous of their cup.
Let diligence be her walk
and contentment lift her prayers.
Let her perceive what is hers
and freely pursue wonderful things for the dear ones
that the Lord has entrusted to her care.

Let the mother of one celebrate her treasure
and delight to invest her whole self in this one.
Let her be convinced of the harvest to come
from this Isaac, this John.
Let fear be her beginning
and wisdom be her trail.
Let her seek the Lord
and proceed with awe in raising up for Him
this blessing so special as to demand her all.

Let the mother of none worship the Lord
and praise Him for drawing her close to His heart!
Let her rise up and look beyond her gate
and make her good works available to others.
Let trust in His plan be her sustenance
and service to His will be her drink.
Let her revere the gift He has given
that she should have liberty to love Him
with a love freer from distraction.

Composed by Grafted Branch of Restoring the Years

A horrible, wonderful, miserable, glorious, no good, very great day.

Have you ever had one of those days?

A day which, itself, was the last in a string of difficult days. Or weeks.

Nagging and difficulty, compounded daily. A day in which you have a hard time believing that your children wouldn't be better off without you. A day in which you can't stand the sound of your own flawed parent's inflection bubbling out of your own flawed spirit, and being belched out of your own vile mouth.

A day in which your sin is met and mirrored by your exasperated child. A day in which everyone in the room sits stunned and silent as this horrid dynamic plays out and wonders what will happen.

But you have somewhere to be. And now you are going to be late. And you know you can't turn back the clock and that there will be loss.

And you don't think you want to go. You really want to send everyone to their rooms for the day and be. all. alone.

But you load up the kids and get in the car anyway. And you begin your drive questioning the good of having much...much to take care, much of which to be a steward, much opportunity to appreciate, much of which to make expectation, much to fail in and much about which to feel guilty.

And then...

as you drive away and leave the loudness, abandon the monotonous, and forsake the oppression of habit and expectation, the landscape changes. The work of man's hands gives way to the word of His power. Instead of raunchy billboards and decrepit building facades, you see tree tops swaying in the breeze and open fields hosting carefree creatures. Your lungs exhale and you feel your blood flow more freely; your body calms and your spirit sings.

The change in you is perceptible to the astute teen in the front seat, and your calm serves to settle her in turn. You reach over and hold her hand, squeezing it three times: code for "I. love. you." And though she doesn't reciprocate the gesture, she holds your hand too while quiet tears well.

God is doing His restorative work. And you thank Him very much.

And you thank Him, too, for the ministry of the new friend who is opening her home and acreage to 30 suburbanite children and their grateful mothers. What fun they will have! There are new friends to make, dry creek beds to explore, and bumps and bruises to ignore for the sake of the newly discovered ball game.

God, of course, is not in everything, but all of His creation certainly does testify to His greatness and is, somehow, a salve to your weary soul on such a horrible, wonderful, miserable, glorious, no good, very great day as was this day.

I Fold...

Sometimes you've got to let the dead bury their dead.

I'm feeling liberated lately. Fifi and I were debriefing the other day--commiserating about our shared experience with a certain group which, whenever our lives intersect theirs, leave us all feeling a little left out, lonely, rejected--like...like...

"Misfits?" Fifi interjects.

"Yes! That's it! Misfits...I'm so glad you're reading Dickens, Fifi."

"Well, actually, I got that from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer..."

"Oh."

I tell you all this for...I don't know why.

Living two starkly contrasting lives--before and since calling Christ LORD--has given me the chance to meet all kinds of people. Over the course of my lifetime, I've been befriended and influenced by free thinkers, politically correct do-gooders, criminals, hypocrites, the overly-ambitious, the greedy, the powerful; selfish, kind, narcissistic, sacrificial, heroic, noble, superficial. There are all kinds of people--everywhere.

And there are all kinds of Christians out there, too. Though in this case, I use the term loosely. After all, all Christians are people, but not all people are Christians.

There are true Christians, poser Christians, confused Christians, and what I call poker-playing Christians. They are the ones who are on their guard against walking in the wide path that leads to destruction. They feel just fine about things for as long as they are the only ones--or at least one of very few--that they can see walking with God in the way that they do. When the narrow road becomes crowded with like-minded people, they look around, and fearing that they've mistakenly strayed onto the wide road, decide that it's time to up the ante.

They only feel holy if there is a constant thinning of the herd, or remnant as the case may be. It doesn't matter whether it's right or wrong, needed or not in the LORD's sight--that's almost beside the point. Sadly, these are Christians who are having a relationship, not with the Son of God, but only with His perfect and holy Word at the expense of a personal relationship with the Son of God. In the Gospels, Jesus called them Pharisees. Sadducees. Sometimes he called them worse.

The controversial Michael Pearl, to my great surprise, has a fabulously insightful admonishment to offer in the latest issue of No Greater Joy. His article starts with a story of perspective:

...the mother casually asked us to pray that their daughter find a husband before they left for Mozambique in the Fall. I asked in a shocked manner, “Why on earth would you want her to marry now? She is such a blessing to you and knows the language. Surely you need her to help you with the other children.” The mother lifted her arched brows as she pondered how she would answer me. Her look conveyed her surprise at my lack of understanding. “We will be in a foreign country for the next 4 years. All that time she will be at the prime of her marriageable age. We feel it is best for her to marry an American. God called my husband to Mozambique as a missionary…not our adult children. We have obeyed God and raised them up to serve HIM…not US. We don’t add; we multiply. It is time for her to live her life.”

I highly recommend Mr. Pearl's article, and if you walk away having no idea who he's talking about?...consider yourself blessed.

The Choices We Choose Without Choosing to, Count Too

Four times each year I make the dreaded trek. I risk the ugly effect. I load up the girls and I take them to...the mall.

I don't like the mall. I always regret what I've purchased there, when I've purchased there, and it's always too far to drive for a return. The mall is a creepy place. It's crowded with scary tatooed people with frighteningly profane mouths. And the Spencer's store is still around casting darkness like an ooze out it's front door--I can't believe it's still around after 30 years.

Spencers is not paying me to say that.

Anyway...

The Penny's portrait studio is in the mall, so every year around birthday time, the birthday girl gets her portrait made and I buy the $8 package and it works well for us. See, we're homeschoolers and we don't have a "picture day." Remember picture days? And retake day? Ugh. A bad picture could ruin a whole school year. No? Maybe it was just me then.

And that's another post for another day.

Anyway...

Roughly a month later, we go back to retrieve the package and get the next girl's picture made. And so on.

Today, we picked up Cuddlebug's portraits. And so we're done for the year.

Right here, we would usually make a dash for the exit between housewares and the salon, but I got a hankerin' to buy myself some perfume. I haven't had a bottle of my favorite for years and years, and so at the risk of setting a bad example and seeming a bit frivolous in front of my girls, we headed to the Dillard's cosmetic counter.

And that's where the weirdness happened.

After I made my purchase, the very nice lady behind the counter--who I guess is someone's grandma but refuses to let herself get old--looked at my 8 year old Dumpling with her 6 year old sister and asked, "Haven't you got any perfume for yourself yet?"

I looked at her, smiled, and encouraged her to hand them each a sample if she had some to spare. She smiled even bigger, covertly reached underneath the counter and came up with two little, dark booklets with the prized glass tube of smelly stuff inside. In that moment, I was so excited for the girls. It took me right back--I mean, what little girl doesn't get a thrill from owning their very own "grown up" accessory, whether it be an old and unused check register, a tube of chapstick, or a little glass bottle of perfume?

My moment was dashed to pieces though when the nice lady behind the counter handed the girls the booklets and asked them if they, "knew who that was on the cover?" Then she pointed him out. But the cover was dark and mysterious looking, and hard to make out (which was good because later I would look more closely and discover a man and woman hugging sensually). She asked again and gave a clue, "He's a singer."

I looked over and saw his name. It was Usher.

Usher?!

Now, I can't say I know any of his music, but I know of the genre. Let's just call it adult themed.

And I laughed a big laugh because she was serious, and because Cuddlebug was in polka-dots and Dumpling was in her best mismatched homeschool outfit! And because they're 8 and 6.

8 and 6!

To ask, much less expect, these little girls to know Usher was weird and ridiculous, and I could only think to answer by restating their ages--did I mention they are 8 and 6?--and explaining they were still into Mickey Mouse and the Kratt Brothers' zoology show and had no idea who Usher was!

But she was so nice. She wasn't trying to be provocative or challenging. She was just relating from inside her own life where apparently the little children, if there are any, know about Usher and who knows what else?

And as I pondered the possibility, I realized that...well...it makes sense. My girls know our artists. They know Bud and Travis and Nat King Cole; Alison Kraus, Bach and Andrea Bocelli. Truly, the choices we make for our own lifestyle inevitably become the choices for our children as well.

So let's be wise. Let's encourage one another to...choose. Thoughtfully.

A Charge To Choose

He is a funny looking, offensively effeminate man. And I can say that because I'm pretty sure he means to be--it's part of his celebrity schtick. Everywhere he goes, he wears itty-bitty exercise shorts from the 80s and sleeveless tanks to match. And they usually sparkle.

We don't see him around much anymore--which is a sign of the times and illustrates his point--but we got an earful from him last week as he yelled at a congressional committee! And he was wearing a suit and tie because the situation is too serious to be played out in character.

"What have we done?! What have we done to the children of the United States of America?!" was his plea. It was impassioned and timely, brave and prophetic. And he said more than he realizes, I think.

Exercise enthusiast, Richard Simmons was, of course, talking about the obesity problem among our children these days. But my question is this: If we know the problems, why aren't we doing anything about them? We say we know the consequences, but do we really believe in them?

Really, it's just a sneeze to the bigger disease. About food. And about so much more.

When did it happen that this generation of parents--Generation X--became the weakest group of parents ever in the history of American society?

How is it that so many are just plain not making choices--even bad ones--for our children while they are in our charge? Are we lazy? Are we deceived? Are we too busy for the time that it takes to think it through?

Are we afraid of our children? Are we afraid of one another?

And maybe just as importantly, how many--when the epiphany comes too late for us--are willing to be transparent and repentant; how many are willing to turn around and tell those coming up behind us how to avoid the pitfalls and perils?

How many are willing to say, "What have we done?!"

I'm not trying to speak to the state of the culture, and I'm certainly past the idea that everyone ought to make my choices their choices. I'm speaking instead about the fear that grips parents and leads them into a place of parental resignation and political correctness and hip relatability with their kids.

Who is passing the mantle to whom here?

And so, in this seemingly hopeless situation, I have a good word to speak to all the young parents who are afraid to raise children in this day and age because of the licentiousness that abounds and the disintegration of our society's moral fiber:

You are the parent. This is America. And you. get. to. choose!

For some well-intentioned people, the choices are made for them through death, divorce or illness. Some must abdicate control of their children, but even in that, there is a measure of choice. And if you are one of whom I speak, take comfort that your hardship, if not judgment for unrepented sin, is truly the hand of a sovereign God in your life and you can trust Him with it. His strength is made perfect in our weakness.

But for the rest, to whom much opportunity is given, you are expected to be active, not passive as you choose and develop the atmosphere in which your children will live, learn, and thrive in these, their most formative years. You get to choose the language they hear and use, the clothing that is provided for their wear, the music they are accustomed to hearing, the hobbies that take their time, the program themes they view, the friends with which they spend any time and the activities that that time is built around, the food they consume, the manners they employ and the amount of privacy that is good and healthy for them.

You get to do all that for 18 years, so says our government by the sovereignty of God. And while your diligence in guarding their hearts will, in no way, ensure a lifetime followed in your footsteps--or more importantly, Christ's footsteps--the choices you sow now will absolutely be reaped in a harvest.

And the harvest starts ripening almost immediately upon their ability to move, speak and reason.

Choose.

Make a goal. Draw a sketch. Write a vingette. Have a plan.

Draw a line in the sand now, as you start, so that as life happens you can remember where your compromise lives. Don't be like the frog in the water that boils to death so slowly it doesn't think to jump out in time to save its life. Don't let the tide of everyone else's negligence and ignorance--or even their purposeful choices for their family--toss you with the current.

Choose.

If you choose well and with purpose; if you fill their young minds and lives with goodness, ownership, closeness and a measure of beauty; if you train them in the way they should go, when they are old, I think they shall not depart from it.

But ultimately that will be...their choice.

Yours is to take your stewardship seriously...and choose.

The Windows

Raising children is a journey riddled with windows. Windows of opportunity. Windows that slowly close and leave a parent forever fighting for a chance at second best.

There is a window to instill a love of reading in a child;
and to teach her the 26 letters with relative ease.

There is a window for teaching a child to ride a bike without fear;
and to trust that her daddy will catch her and not let her die!

There is a window to train a child in the habit of mannerly behavior;
and to relish a simple afternoon of hospitality and fellowship.

There is a window to nurture a child's inherent desire to work;
and know the sublime satisfaction of a job well done.

There is a window for leading her thinking along the path of righteousness;
and to win her heart, that you may daily preach the Gospel to her.

And there is a window to help a young woman-in-the-making understand herself--who she is in the Kingdom; how great and terrible her power as a member of the fairer sex; who is her Brother in Christ; and what is her responsibility to him and others.

I found this scribble hanging in Fifi's closet earlier in the season when I was switching out summer clothes for winter things. Which, in South Texas, is a complete waste of time--but that's beside the point.

It is a quote made by a peer during a speech on a mission trip. Fifi read it on the girl's blog.

What does it mean? At her age and older, I certainly would not have known. It is a statement of love. And it is a statement of self-sacrifice. Sacrifice of ease. Sacrifice of comfort. And certainly a sacrifice of attention.

Wouldn't it be a lovely world if everyone dressed and adorned themselves each day with a question of Godly motivation in mind? Let it start with the Body of Christ.

Lock-Step

The alarm goes off while it is still very cold and still very dark outside.

I pull on my robe and shuffle across the hall to awaken Fifi. Thankfully, she is already up and in the shower, but I can see by the stack of textbooks on her desk that it was a long night. I wonder to myself how she's going to get through this day with little sleep, tedious classes to listen through, a violin lesson this afternoon and a babysitting job after dinner.

Next I wander over to the little girls' room and nudge Dumpling awake because she's a little slow to stir from her slumber. She's a grumpy waker-upper. Cuddlebug, on the other hand, awakens with a big grin. I spend too many minutes asking them to get up and get going before I finally give up. Now I'm making their beds for them and barking at them to get dressed and get downstairs for breakfast.

I realize that all the best moms in black-and-white with pearls and heels feed their families hot breakfasts of eggs, toast or waffles with o.j., but I don't ever remember seeing their kids race out the door in the dark to catch the school bus. Mine have to be at the curb at the unreasonable hour of 7:40 a.m.

I walk the little ones down the street and holler at Fifi to please remember to take her keys today because I won't be here when she gets home. I'm doing volunteer work today, and will be helping to train a new crew late this afternoon. They'll be eating take-out for dinner, 'cause I won't be home until late.

Once all the girls are gone, I get around to the daily chores. Cleaning, laundry, phone calls--and I do it with no interruptions. I could get used to this. No squabbles. No accidents. No questions. No needs. At least, none with which I have to deal.

I'm productive. I'm fulfilled. I'm enjoying adult conversation.

Right around lunch time, Fifi calls me from her cell phone to check in and say, "hi." Her flattering tone betrays an ulterior motive. I ask her how her day is, and she simply says, "Oh, fine." She wants to know if she can go over to her friend's house after school. I ask her if the girl's parents will be home. She tells me that she thinks the mom will be home, but she's not sure.

She says I should trust her more.

It's easiest to just keep the peace and determine to believe her. But to do that, I must stuff down what I know of being her age; I must reject the vivid memory of my many deceptions.

At 2:30, I drive over to the elementary school to pick up Dumpling from 2nd grade and Cuddlebug from Kinder. Cuddlebug isn't wearing the big grin that she was when I last saw her, and I ask her, how was her day at school? She bites back tears to tell me that two little girls in her class were whispering loudly to the children at an adjacent table--mean words about her teeth. And later, nobody played with her at recess.

I ask Dumpling what she's got in her backpack--it looks heavy. She says she has homework to do: math, reading, social studies. Later, I'll notice that her whole body is contorting to bear the burden of the books up the path to the front door.

A few minutes into the car ride to the babysitter's house, I hear Cuddlebug ask Dumpling to play with her. She has two little people puppets that she made in class today, and she offers one to Dumpling, but Dumpling says, "No. That's dumb," and instead pulls out the Gameboy that her Uncle sent to her for Christmas. Cuddlebug looks on, hoping for a turn that is never offered.

It's easiest to just keep the greater peace and pretend I don't see it.

As we pull up at the baby sitter's house, I pray a little prayer that the Lord would hedge His protection around my girls. I don't really feel comfortable with this arrangement, but it's as good as I could find. I mean...I'm doing a good thing in my volunteer work, right? Surely, I'm serving the Lord, so I can trust Him to guard their hearts with all diligence against the worldly influences that they'll be exposed to when the sitter's middle school children come home next hour...right?

It's just a few hours, after all. What could happen? I know that the other children will probably watch some television, but surely my little ones won't be interested, and will otherwise occupy themselves. And if the older children think it will be great fun to start a MySpace page for my girls, surely Dumpling and Cuddlebug will remember that Mommy has said, "No."

And even if, it'll be o.k. Surely. People do it all the time. It's just the way things are today.

I drop the girls and go get lost in my good feelings volunteering at the local women's shelter. Before I know it, it's 7 p.m. and time to head home. If I hurry, I'll get to kiss Fifi goodbye before she gets picked up for her babysitting job. She says she'll be home before 11:00. I meant to talk to her about something she said in passing the other day, but I guess that will have to wait for the weekend. I hope I won't forget.

I make myself a sandwich, take a shower and unwind with a tired husband in front of the newest pop culture addiction. I feel a little funny spending my time with such a ridiculous and frivolous past time, but I justify it in my own mind by telling myself that it keeps me connected with my kids. They love the show. It's all they can talk about as the finale draws closer.

As I climb into bed, I open my Bible and read--just a little. Mostly, I replay the day. My heart is heavy because I know my 12 year old is drifting from me, even if she knows well how to tow the line within the walls of our home. I try hard to convince myself that it is what it is. She's a tween. It's to be expected. It's part of growing up into an independent, productive adult.

But really, I wonder if the Lord agrees. Does it have to be this way? Is it to be expected?

My heart is heavy as I see my young ones are hardly friends since they started going to school and spending more hours with strangers than anyone else. The somewhat small age disparity between them has grown into a large chasm. They hardly giggle anymore. At least not with one another.

And with the exception of the occasional complaint, or grudging act of service, Fifi doesn't interact with her sisters at all.

And I want to cry. I just want to crawl into my prayer closet and...

*gasp*

I am mercifully awakened from my nightmare.

These are the Good Years

I've been busy archiving old pictures in the evenings.

New camera. New angles. New clarity.

New discovery!

I made a couple of on-line albums from our recent vacation pictures and was so very pleased with the Shutterfly service when the real thing arrived at my door, that I'm determined to see some of the pictures that have been hiding away on discs or computer bytes for these many years, onto pages and into my hands. Love it, love it, love it!

But, oh. *sigh* How it hurts.

My oldest is only 12. My youngest is still 5. But somehow, when I see images like this, I'm tempted to *sniffle* sob like...well...like a baby!

This is the contended smile of a 5-year-old Fifi whose 2 years of prayer and supplication for a baby sister had just recently been answered with a giant, healthy, "yes." It makes me wonder if Cuddlebug will ever get to have her moment?

Fifi dubbed Dumpling early on as, "A little self." And she delighted in everything Dumpling did, because Dumpling was so very amusing. And a little sneaky. Right from the start.

Making friends with the butterflies. We thought that maybe she walked off the cover of a Little Golden Book this day.

This one gets me. Every time. *choke*

And this one too. It's as fat as my little waif ever got.

Dumpling's best friend. Even if she still thinks Cuddlebug is just a big, living baby doll with which to have her own way.

*Sigh* Ah, yes. Notice the angelic light casting an ethereal glow. And the young girl in a Raggedy Ann apron. She wore that thing everywhere until it was in tatters.

Yes, in fact--Fifi really is that kind and gentle with her baby sisters.

And then they grow up and can talk back with a dissenting opinion. And that's when everyone gets around to lookin' like regular little sinners! Even Fifi. *giggle snort*

But, let me just remember for a moment...

Three in the bed, and the middle one said, "Get out! You're squishin' me."

Fifi was quite the costumer in her younger years. Sadly, it happens only infrequently now because there just isn't the time. It takes more than a few minutes to assemble these ensembles, after all. And it takes even longer to find the girls again under all those layers when they've tired of holding up their hems.

Dumpling, on the other hand, always had a slightly more maniacal edge to her play.

Nobody was seriously hurt in the taking of this photograph.

They're. so. little! *boo hoo*

All this growing up while Mom continues to long for another baby and remembers the two trials in which the sign of promise was revoked, can really steal a person's joy!

It has mine, at times. And really--it's just one thing. I'm living everywhere but in the moment I've been given.

I have wasted so many todays envying the friend who is enjoying a new bundle...wondering if I'll ever enjoy the thrill again...or whether I--at my advanced age--would remain healthy through another pregnancy, or even live long enough to raise the baby.

But then this afternoon, a strange thing happened. It was strange in that it was fleeting yet profound. It involved a stranger, but at the same really only involved the impression of the Holy Spirit inside me.

As I rolled my over sized cart filled with warehouse items through the parking lot to our van, little girls were holding tight the hands of a bigger buddy before breaking free to run to be the first to grab the handle of the old-fashioned sliding door. And as I loaded my goods into the back, I espied a woman walking past, having just accomplished the same chore.

But she was older. Maybe a dozen years older than me. And she was dressed as someone who had just finished a day's work. Maybe she was a receptionist or secretary, starting on the bottom rung again after being out of the workforce for 2 decades to raise her children right. Maybe hers are not just growing up fast anymore--maybe hers are grown and gone.

She looked a little glum, and I wondered for a moment if she took notice of us: me, my lovely daughter and my two loud whirly birds. It was in that moment of conjecture that, for the first time in a long time, I realized that...these are the good years...the ones I will savor a dozen years down the line.

I don't need another baby. I don't need an answer about another baby.

I have so much right where I am. How can I look away?

If I blink, I'll miss them.

These are the years that I watch my Fifi ably knit scarves for a friend's mission trip to Mexico. And when she drops a stitch, I smile as she knits her brow to retrieve it.

And these are years that I get to be proud of little Cuddlebug, who takes ownership of her problem habit, applies the offensive polish and prays to Jesus for victory over her thumb-sucking.

And these are the years that I get to be there when Dumpling's countenance is low, and she can't find the words to tell me why. She snuggles up close, and I perceive the crushing weight of her heavy heart. I ask. She stammers. But finally she squeaks out just enough information for me to fill in the blanks. She has done her best, but is ashamed and disappointed nonetheless. So, I speak words of kindness to her. I try to reassure. And then I hold her hand and walk her through another try; a small measure of success to alleviate the hurt.

These are my favorite years.

Those were my favorite years.

And because abundant life is a gift of the Lord, my favorite years are surely still to come.

Hiding His Word In Our Hearts

I've cleaned up my sidebar a bit.

Moved are the video clips of the girls reciting their Bible memory passages. They are all relocated to a new blog space dedicated to the purpose. It's link will be in my sidebar, along with our current project and the system we try to be faithful to employ in our efforts.

Can I say something here? For some, this is going to be preaching to the choir, but for others who read here, perhaps it's a new thought. So here it goes:

You know, I don't post those clips to show you what my kids can do; I post those clips to show you what your kids can do! How very sad it is that Sunday School teachers, VBS leaders, and parents today have such low expectations of how much Scripture a small child can take in and retain.

If they have any expectations at all.

And even more tragic is the flippant way folks today treat the very idea of Bible memorization. Somehow in this age of compromise in which a child's mind, soul and spirit are allowed to absorb and become subtly infused with bitter, angst-ridden music lyrics and magic-spell mantras, Christian parents in America have neglected to recognize and redeem their children's remarkable ability to be influenced and to remember.

I don't think it's always been this way--not with the way the hymn writers Fanny Crosby and Francis Ridley Havergal used to memorize whole books of the Bible. At least.

Is there anything--anything at all--more worthy of our moments, our efforts or our brain space than the life-giving Word of God?

Of course there isn't.

Parenting Against Rebellion?

Apparently, some big name tweeny-bopper was in town today, and hundreds of little girls in the proximity of 12 years old were all dolled up with hair, make-up and their favorite form-fitting clothes, trying to make the most of their pubescent figures, and on hand to ask for an autograph and swoon at the sight of...of...whoever he was.

I heard it on the news. Now, which millstone was that?

I turned to Husband and just praised the Lord out loud that Fifi has no idea who any of these people are, and even if she did--she is the type of girl who would be oh-so-slightly disgusted by the spectacle anyway.

O.k....so we're working on the "slightly disgusted" part. But for now, it's keeping her from temptation.

And then I made mention that I often catch myself questioning whether these are the very moments that she will grow up to resent later. Will she--like my Bob Jones University parents before her--live an evangelical lifestyle, separated unto that which is lovely and of good report in her youth, only to chuck it all in a fit of Christian antagonism that complains for decades afterward about missing the prom, and the football games, and the sleepovers, and the...whatever?

Will she?

But the Lord is quick.

Through His Holy Spirit, He reminds me of these truths...

It is not ours to parent against our child's possible rebellion. Or hurt feelings. Or suffering. Or loss. Or any of the other things that we tend to view as more detrimental to our babies than a lukewarm faith in Christ Jesus our Lord.

They are each His, as are we. And we are charged to raise them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. We are to take what we know He has told us and be true to it. In the end, I believe our accountability will stand apart from their choices.

And the mystery is this--I believe all that is true, but that it is also true that if we raise up a child in the way that she should go, when she is old she will not depart from it.

Hidden Dangers In the Safest Places

So, we've been talking about youth groups, youth studies, and other places where innocent children might lose some of their innocents as well-meaning adults "serving the Lord" unwittingly introduce and seemingly validate a depraved culture in their effort to teach a holy life lived for and through a righteous Savior.

And as I did a little blog jogging through my Bloglines this morning, I came upon a post that reminded me of this sad day in our family. Before you whet your child's appetite for what the Christian book store has to offer in the way of Bibles, please hop over and read this post from Brenda!

Careful parenting, everyone!

Bible Culture Study

"How does this happen? Why is this so difficult?"

That's what Husband asked himself last Monday night as he heard the latest about what has really been going on after he drops Fifi and Dumpling at their respective, age-appropriate classes with a very strict, organized, long-standing, highly-trained, trusted, doctrinally-sound organization to aid in the Bible teaching of his children.

I typed up these quotes--only some of what has been said that I find bothersome--but then decided not to publish the post...to let love cover it...to allow grace to reign in my heart and mind, and on my blog.

But then something changed last night.

"...God wants us to live righteously; He doesn't want us being involved in things like alcohol and sex..." male teacher to Fifi's co-ed class of 7th and 8th graders. (She was very embarrassed to be facing the latter reference in front of others--especially men and boys.)

"...when you receive salvation in Jesus Christ, you become part of the Trinity..." male substitute teacher addressing Fifi's class during the study of Matthew.

"...can you imagine how Joseph felt? Engaged to Mary and then he finds her pregnant?!" male teacher to Fifi's co-ed class of 7th and 8th graders.

What changed was that I had a chance to talk to one of the organization's directors, and to my shock and dismay, she stood by these kinds of quotes! Actually, I only got around to asking about the first one--after that, I didn't bother to pose the rest. What could be the purpose in a debate? After all, she wasn't apologizing--she and the organization are of the opinion that since these are the things that kids are talking about, these are the things that need to be talked about with kids.

Not my kids. Not with you. Not without me. Thank you.

I thanked her very much for letting me ask the question, and politely withdrew the girls from consideration in the women's class since it was clear that this kind of conduct wasn't just a problem with the men's classes.

She countered that she didn't see it as a problem at all.

Well--I meant anomaly, and was tempted to let it slide for the sake of unity, but just. could. not. Instead, I hemmed and hawed for a 1/2 a second and then said, "Well, yes, actually....it is a problem to us. We were under the impression all these years that ____ was all about Bible study--not Culture study."

She interjected that kids will eventually run into these terms and that you can't shelter them forever and that someday they're going to talk to their peers about it and that they can't be so protected...oh!...and that Jesus dealt with these subjects with his apostles and disciples.

Now, let me pause right there for a moment.

I am not a wise old woman. I have not walked with the Lord for even half my life. I have not gotten around to reading every singe verse in the Bible, and do not even have a very good grasp of the order of the Old Testament kings and prophets. But one thing I think I have learned, and it is this: when I have a conviction, or make a decision, or choose for or against a thing--if it is really of the Lord, then I am comfortable. Comfortable enough to not need to take a vote on it. Comfortable enough to not need another's validation. And especially comfortable enough to not need to defend it.

The director seemed to really need me to agree with her.

Could it be that she has a 7th grader of her own? And if so, maybe on some level she knows that her 12 year old is growing up too fast? Maybe deep down she's a little unsure as to whether it really has to be that way. Is she questioning the wisdom in just "going with the flow?"

Perhaps--just perhaps--for a quick second a little part of her is rethinking the idea of subjecting her child to the institutionalized madness of preteen peer pressure, cut-throat politics, and experimentation in which young people without fully developed frontal lobes laugh at the risks and learn to just. be. o.k. with incredibly vulgar expressions of debauchery...and to expect lasciviousness as the norm...and to come to feed it with varying degrees of fornication.

Among other offenses that may kill them now or later.

But back to the very sad realization that now...even a community Bible study is too worldly for Fifi. Not because she won't know of these things, but because--Lord willing--everything she needs to know about the World system and the World's priorities will come to her through the filter of God's Word and by His appointed authorities in her life--her Daddy and me. In the shelter of our home. In the privacy of our relationship. Unless the Lord overrules with circumstances beyond our control.

If she would have it any other way, I would be so very concerned.

What Color is Your Millstone?

I admit it.

We protect our children--a lot. Not toward ignorance, mind you, but rather--we prayerfully seek to protect them from their own immaturity of speech, deed and thought. And as their primary caregiver, I'm acutely aware of dangers where I watch others just scoff.

And yes, the momentum of the crowd has sometimes in the past, caused me to prayerfully consider whether we're too protective. Too careful. Too concerned.

I even have friends who have openly laughed at me for my protectiveness. And you know what? I don't care. Because they will not be there with me when I stand before Jesus Christ and answer for my motives, my choices, my priorities, and my actions in this life.

The Holy Spirit reminds me that Jesus, my Saviour, cautions me that I should be careful. I must be careful about causing one of His little ones to stumble.

Search me oh Lord, and see if there be any wicked way in me...

He's serious about it, too. He says that it would be better for me to strap a millstone around my neck and toss myself into the ocean depths.

And yet sometimes, I look around me and wonder if others who claim Christ as Saviour give this warning any thought at all? Or, are we, as a society, just presuming on God's grace and hoping for the best in a culture that has become too strong. Too accepted. Too enticing. Too fun.

I think there are many colors, styles and ways to wear a millstone.

How about a bright, bold-colored millstone? Hard to miss, and very popular. Just take hormonal young people and send them out on dates. Alone. In cars. And then expect them to stay chaste.

Or, tragically, don't expect them to stay chaste.

Or there is the popular and very pretty color-of-money millstone. To wear this one, we need only to unwittingly train up our children in the fine American way of gluttony and covetousness by buying them the biggest, best, brand new, brand-named everything! Set the bar high, high, high!

Listen to them whine, whine, whine!

Or, the most popular model of millstone--the earth-toned millstone. It blends better with the background. Understated. Sophisticated. These millstones range in price from free to fairly expensive depending upon how dull is the customer's conscience...which is to say that we're too often so desensitized that we don't even know that we've roamed from the straight and narrow, much less how far.

These millstones are made up of a myriad of very casual compromises that our society makes and passes down to the next generation--daily, or weekly as the television line-up dictates. A little bit of juicy adultery in the plot line. A smidgen of acceptable fornication in the narrative. Some funny, ha-ha teen rebellion in the story. A sparkly, splashy presentation to frame the unabashed lust of the activity. The sense of community that covers the fact that the people are melting down their gold burning up the phonelines to sculpt a calf for themselves to worship pick the next celebrity tragedy for their children to mimic and adore.

There are also custom millstones. They are designed-to-order, easy to strap on, and are the next best thing to the family crest! Choose from an assortment of family curse millstones: there is the alcohol millstone, the illegal drug millstone, the anger millstone, and the ever popular lying, cheating, stealing millstone. Go ahead! Mix and match. These millstones do their work twice as well when you combine them.

*pulling tongue from cheek now*

So...what millstone will you choose...to cut loose?

The Blame Game: His, Hers, Theirs and Mine

O.J. Simpson.

Guilty? Tragically misunderstood? Sociopath?

God, alone, knows for sure what lies in his heart and in his history.

But by his own admission this time, he was just trying to get back his stuff--stuff that they took from him in the first place.

Which sounds a little like...

Adam was just doing what Eve said to do--and she was only there because God made her!

And Eve had been commanded clearly what not to do--but she was tricked by the serpent!

See how it is always someone else's fault?

Yeah.

Neither do I. Nor should anyone older than about...say...eight years of age.

Like O.J., Adam, and a host of other biblical accounts, there are a lot of self-destructive attitudes and behaviors that we moms sinners can adopt, but blame-shifting is a tragic foundational danger--it's been around forever. Well...pretty close to forever, at least.

Talk about building your house upon the sand. How can we truly know our need for Jesus if we're busy about reserving for ourselves, a small measure of innocence or self-righteousness by way of blaming someone or something else for our thinking or attitudes or conduct?

As a sometimes-frazzled wife and mother, I think about all the ways I'm tempted to blame-shift throughout my day. At any given moment, I can rattle off a half-dozen reasons that an episode of sin or shame in my way is actually preceded with an equally sinful action by--and therefore must be the fault of--the other person.

But Jesus isn't buying it. And neither should we.

But oh! How I do try! Oh, yes I do...

The children aren't behaving well; I've been remiss in disciplining them biblically, consistently and lovingly--and instead, I raise my voice yell.

Later, I am uneasy about it. I am convicted that yelling is not what God intends between a child and her parent. But before confession, repentance and cleansing, I spend a few minutes trying to explain that if they would have just...

or worse--I give mental energy to trying to find permission in that Jesus sometimes shouted. Jesus was even sarcastic at times!

Right?

But deep in my soul, I know that it's comical for me to presume that mine is a righteous anger. Because, though He lives in me through His Spirit, I am not Him.

And when the moment is appointed, and the gift of repentance finally recognized, I don't get to pepper my moment with God with a little bit of explanation blame. I don't even get to qualify my confession with a little bit of him or her or they or however.

This mother will answer for her own words. This mother will answer fully for her own reactions to the original bad actions of others--and without mention of the bad actions of others.

I'm practicing now. Here. Trying to keep my accounts short. I may stumble, but He does not let me fall. The Lord is good.

Pat, Pat, Pat...Tap...tap, tap.........PAT!

Time for a practical post. A bloggy friend has emailed asking my thoughts on teaching a young child the finer points of how to not drive Mom crazy mad interruption etiquette with a base of biblical perspective.

The timing is funny because not too many weeks ago, a new little friend of 5 year old Cuddlebug came to me while I was speaking with my pastor's wife.

Pat, pat, pat.

"Just a minute, sweetie."

Pat, pat, pat...Pat...pat, pat.........PAT! I looked down to see which limb was being torn off by a wild boar or a pit bull right there in the church sanctuary, because surely that kind of insistence while I'm in the middle of a conversation with another adult would be for no less reason!

But it was just the sweet smile of a child who isn't mine, "Cuddlebug wants to ask you something."

"O.k., but she must wait." I didn't look long for her reaction, but was told later that I was given an innocently incredulous stare. Fifi made the report, and was equally incredulous as she told me.

Pat, pat, pat...Pat.

Again, the child not my own, "Your daughter has to ask you something."

"Yes darlin', I heard you. But she knows she must wait."

This poor child-not-my-own did not know what to do with this information. She is an "only," and has presumably not had as much practice in waiting for what she wants as has my 3rd born. It's not a condemnation; just a likely fact.

Meanwhile, my youngest daughter--the object of the girl's intercession--was standing right there wondering why in the world this new friend was BREAKING THE RULES so boldly?! Because she knows the law, and the law is that unless it is a deadly emergency, a child does not flippantly interrupt an adult.

Ever.

And when she does, she will be quickly corrected or gently ignored. And if--the Lord help her!--she does not submit to that exercise of discretion, she will be hauled away for Biblical discipline.

Every time.

A child may place her hand on an adult to signal the parent that she is in need of their attention, and the parent will, in turn, place and hold their hand over the child's as if to say, "Yes child, I know you have a question. I hear you. Wait just a minute and you'll get your turn."

But that was not my friend's question. Her question was this:

"...what verses off the top of your head would come to mind to teach a 4 year old about not interupting mommy and daddy when they are on the phone/talking in person with an adult/talking to each other..."

As I prayed about how to answer the question with more than just the over-arching answers afforded by the 5th commandment (Honor thy father and mother) and the Ephesians verse that exhorts the children to "Obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right..." I found my thoughts directed to a couple of verses and principles that have come up in our study with the Pictures from Proverbs teaching helps.

The first is that the pat, pat, patting and the tap, tap, tapping of an insistent child is very irritating. Annoying. Enough to make a frustrated distracted parent wish the offender away--at least for the moment. I don't think one has to be a wife--or even a woman--for the verse to apply that says,

"A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike." Proverbs 27:15

And we know what the Bible then says about a contentious woman! One is better living on the rooftop or the wilderness than to have to deal with them. I don't want my girls to grow up with an unGodly habit that makes their husbands or others wish them to the far end of the room...or the world.

Another thing that is going on when children interrupt is that they are afraid of not getting their needs met.

I'm being generous. Some are not actually afraid at all. They're just the victim of really poor parenting over a very long time.

But for the rest, let's assume that things that we, as adults, know are little things, are still very big things to them. We must be careful not to build a pattern of ignoring their speech, concerns and ideas or we will exasperate them to wrath, as we are warned against in Ephesians 5.

And one more thought that was first reminded me by Fifi as I was thinking this through aloud, is that in the end, a child's insistence at interruption is as a sneeze to the flu. It's merely a symptom of the potentially deadly fact that they are out of control.

Children need to know the importance, and practice--through games, drills and experience--the art of self control; it will serve them well all the days of their lives:

"He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls." Proverbs 25:28

If they do not learn it before they are old enough to make the big decisions that bring great benefit or come with detrimental consequence, then they will be left more vulnerable to sin's dread sway. And sin will have its way with our precious posterity. I'm not willing to let that happen. Not while I'm still drawing breath.

Having said that, know that it is a lesson that must be learned over and over and over, but hopefully to a lesser degree every year...for as long as they're we're here.

And by we're, I mean us. You and me and all the descendants of Adam. And by here I mean this side of Heaven. Because we're all rowing in the same boat that way.

And we must show mercy as we train them up in the way--resisting the desire to require a holiness of them that we are unwilling, ourselves, to aspire to and achieve.

And of course, the old adage is true. And hard. But true. Consistency is key. So, with the new school year, let us redouble our efforts to do what is best for our children, and trust the Lord will honor our efforts to raise these young ones for His glory!

The Day the Pedestal Shattered

Before I start my story, I must set the stage. In our church of less than 200 people, there are about two children under the age of 13--3 of whom are my own. Which is to say, there aren't a lot of children.

There is a couple from another country with one 4-year-old daughter--a year younger than my Cuddlebug. They are here seeking legal residency, learning the language, and blessing us with their sweet friendship. With his strong sense of family values, Christian discretion and business management, and her affable personality and incredibly articulate way (she knows more about the structure of my language than I do do I), our United States will most certainly be better with them than without.

But anyway...

For many months my new friend has been very generous with her praise about my girls.

Now, let me pause here and interject something that the Lord has been teaching me. For a few years I have been watching the fruit of too many a friend's labor with their children fall from the proverbial tree and be left to rot on the ground to a putrid, unspeakable, unrecognizable stench--so to speak.

I see God working in ironies. Women who once stood unbiblically firm on their convictions about dress codes, now find their children running around town only half-dressed. Mothers who taught others--in no uncertain terms--that children were to be held in submission until they arrived at the "Biblical age of accountability--twenty" spent the two years between that and the societal standard of eighteen being grieved, if not embarrassed, by their child's drunken revelries and pictures to prove it shamelessly posted all over the blogosphere.

Parents quietly despise the philosophy of home education and send their children to a "good" school because they are deceived pleased with the outside of the cup; it sure is pretty! But they don't see--or perhaps just don't perceive--the poorly-veiled undercurrent of corrupt culture that I can sense when I bump into their children's little blogs.

All of this, and more, makes me very wary to admit to myself or others that my children are, indeed, a pretty incredible threesome. They are kind. They are considerate. They are compassionate and merciful. They aren't quick to run to trouble. They aren't distracted from the loveliness of Jesus by the debauchery of anything on the Disney Channel after 3 p.m.

They cover themselves. More importantly, they know why they cover themselves. They fight the good fight against the curiousity of the flesh, and avert their eyes from the gruesome pictures that attempt to assault their innocence in the grocery store check-out...or the public library. When they hear what passes for music in this society, one daughter expresses her dislike by calling it, "out of tune."

They don't tease. They don't mock. They don't cuss. They are lovely, lovely girls.

*deep breath*

And here's where I share how I can say that without being the "proud" whom the Lord will resist. (James 4:6) It is all--all by His grace. It is all to His glory! But He didn't just bless me with good girls. And let's be sure to understand that He didn't just give my girls naturally-perfect parents. Because--believe you me--if they weren't so loyal to the 5th commandment, they would tell you stories!

What He did--what He is doing--is accomplishing what He promised in His beautiful, life-breathing Word.

To pretend otherwise would be--has been--to embrace a false sense of humility as if the work being accomplished here was to my credit.

And to hide this light under a bushel would be to hinder a lost world from knowing what is possible with God.

And to protect myself from future ridicule--you know, in case it all goes the way I've witnessed in other families--is to be parenting in disbelief. I haven't believed that He wills to do what He has said.

But glory to God, here is what He has done so far...

He has taken and radically transformed (Ezekiel 11:19-20, 2Cor 5:17) two former FM radio disc-jockeys whose most every thought for the first years of their marriage was on money and fame and power. Trash talk. Innuendo. Coarse joking. Mocking. Greed.

And the music. Oh, don't even get this classical-music-snob-who-sings-with-an-Early-Music-ensemble started on the irony of the music that we perpetrated on the public! The manipulation that Husband accomplished on his audience as a programmer! The driving, mind-numbing, lust-enticing garbage that I played for people as they prepared for the first hours of their day, when they would have done well to have been feasting on God's Word.

See how God works in ironies? Isn't He glooooooorious?

Well, back to my story.

So this new woman is impressed with my children. I've asked that she not be, but she doesn't listen to me. And then, this morning after service, my young ones and another were playing a game in which the main objective in the moment came to be...to play at the specific exclusion of the new girl from another country. I'll call her Jane.

And my little ones, especially 5-year-old Cuddlebug, who has been pinned by Jane with the sweetest title of, "Mi Amigita," saw what was happening and politely walked away from this selfish kind of play. They remembered that Jane had no siblings of her own in which to seek solace. They knew that Jane considered Cuddlebug her best friend. They remembered Mommy's favorite verse,

Look not every man on his own things,
but every man also on the things of others.
Philippians 2:4

And they knew what they should do. They went to Jane and played with her. And she was blessed.

No, actually. They didn't.

They behaved just as young children will in their natural state. Because evil is the default setting of the human condition, you know. Even believing children lack the wisdom of experience and study to objectively see a situation in which their unGodly joy is being made full by a popular girl's attention. And even if...they forget quickly and easily enough; I liken it to an 8 megabyte memory in a 1 gigabyte world.

And then, there was the added complication of Mommy being too busy in conversation to recognize the need for an on-the-spot correction.

And so Mommy...uh...I...later called our new friend and apologized profusely, inviting myself over to allow Cuddlebug and Dumpling to apologize too. But she very sweetly didn't see the need--because she's so very gracious that way.

So, to avoid opening the closed wounds of a 4-year old who doesn't seem to remember the moment, I deferred to my friend's wishes. But we left it with my assurance that the lesson had been discerned and discussed with the girls, and with the help of God, would not happen that way ever again.

And I encouraged her to use the episode to teach Jane that our trust must be only in Jesus. Even nice little Cuddlebug, a.k.a. "my little friend" will let her down. But Jesus never will. Matthew 28:20, Hebrews 13:5

And so, my little ones walk through another day of being trained up in the way they should go with the expectation assurance that when they are old, they will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6

Because truly, the yoke of that guilt they felt when it was explained what they had done to Jane was so much heavier Matthew 11:30 than that of the confession to God that brought forgiveness and cleansing. 1John 1:9

And now they are free. John 8:36 Truly free.

A Truly Lovely Love Triangle

Today, we went to a wedding.

Not a "making it legal," or a "gettin' hitched," but a covenant marriage celebration. God bless 'em...the late 20's bride and slightly older groom came to the altar with their whole hearts, emotions and bodies free from division or defilement and promised their love and faithfulness to one another. It was beautiful to see, and I'm so thankful that my daughters were able to witness such an unusual spectacle in this world. Purity. Patience. Promise.

There's an almost palpable spirit of sacredness at the wedding of a couple who have said no to dating and instead, committed themselves to the principles of courtship. Their walk down the aisle seems more profound, the vows sound more thoughtful, the music rings clearer, the prayers and blessings--more personal. But best of all, the couple is more in love.

I say they are more in love because their minds and emotions are not remembering old flames. They're not divided. They've been saved for one another. They're not carrying the baggage of other loves into this God-ordained commitment. Their marriage is a triangle between bride, groom and Savior--not a polygon of numerous loves and losses.

Anyway, today we sat on the bride's side; she's the daughter of one of our former pastors. And over the course of an hour, the 1000-person hall filled up with a host of large, homeschooling families who mostly attend one of the three churches left after Boerne Christian Assembly here splintered a few years ago. Well, except us.

We may not worship with them anymore, but we sure do love them! It's always a joy to see, greet and catch up with old friends at a gathering like this. Fifi, especially, has been faithfully praying for the couple and remarking multiple times each day, "What do you think A is thinking right now?" and "I bet A is sooooo excited today."

She's so thoughtful.

So, we arrived early enough to be ushered to a seat with time to spare to silently do some people watching...

Oh! there's so-and-so. *smile and wave*

Look Dumpling, there's your long-lost best friend! *smile, wave and rearrange so Dumpling can sit by said BFF*

Is that so-and-so? Those children are getting so big! *smile and nod*

Oh, good. There's the such-and-such family. Let's make a point to catch up with them at the tea-time reception. *wave*

Hey! Look! She's pregnant again! She's older than me...why can't I seem to get pregnant?

And, hey...so-and-so's pushing an infant stroller. Is that her baby? When did she have a 5th child?

Why can't I have one?

And then, thankfully, my private narcissistic moment is interrupted by the ceremony's commencement. And it is lovely. The wedding party is grand. Flower girls are well-behaved and adorable. And the junior bridesmaid looks so sweet that I praise the Lord in my heart for showing her such a kindness on the 1st anniversary of her daddy's death at an amusement park last year. The widows and the orphans--this community of believers sure does practice a religion that is acceptable and pleasing to the Father.

So, we're watching and listening along to the congregational worship portion of the ceremony and I'm feeling like someone who is happy enough to be at a wedding because weddings are just nice, aren't they? The bride looks so lovely. The worship is so heartfelt. And then I notice the bride's older sister wiping tears in the bridesmaid line. And I watch her for a minute as she watches her sister and it suddenly hits me--these folks aren't merely marrying off their daughter, building her a house on the family acreage and excitedly awaiting the first baby that, Lord willing, will result from this union. These folks are giving their daughter a very grand farewell and giving her to a man who will take her to join him in his ministry...in China.

Did I mention that the groom is an ESL instructor in China?

As this truth settled into my being and the lump in my throat began to hurt, I prayed. I prayed for the bride and groom. I prayed for their marriage. I prayed for their ministry. I prayed for their parents--I prayed they would be strengthened and comforted as they send their girl far, far away.

And I prayed for myself. Because though I believe myself yielded and willing to go wherever He might choose to send me, it hadn't occurred to me before that moment to confront the real possibility that someday He might call me to be yielded and willing to...let Him...send...them. My darlings. To the other side of the world, if that be His will for them.

I long to be that trusting and loving and submitted to my Savior.

And in the midst of all this doubt and confession that is against Him, I am reminded by Him, that to everything there is a season. And that His grace is sufficient for me. And that His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

photo credit: The Wedding - Charles Schweninger

The Hardest Job of All

Parenting. It's hard. Some say it's the hardest job of all--and they're right.

But probably not for the reasons they mean.

The hard part of parenting is not the sleepless nights, or early mornings. It isn't fitful sleep, bad dreams or night terrors. It's not about managing the illnesses or trying, in vain, to comfort a child who won't be consoled.

The hard part of parenting isn't the combined thousands of trips to the changing table and training seats. And it's not the cumbersome load of diapers, wipes, food, bibs, bottles, clothing, blankets and a stroller that must be carried if Mommy plans be away from the house for more than 2 hours.

The hard part of parenting is not the carrying of a 20-pound ball of flesh on the hip all day. It isn't brushing small teeth in an uncooperative mouth, or repositioning shoes on a child who won't keep them on, given half a chance to take them off.

The hard part of parenting is not buying the week's groceries with small children in tow, or keeping a baby from squishing the bread in the cart. It is neither about spending so much of the day in preparing 3 squares a day, cutting food into small bites, or mopping up the damage.

The hard part of parenting has never been about dressing the babies--three times before lunch! And it isn't about doing 10 loads of laundry every week.

The hard part of parenting isn't the cost of music lessons or sports equipment, as the case may be. It isn't about managing time to get it all in and making sure everyone is where they are supposed to be. It isn't even about the driving here, there and everywhere.

The hard part of parenting isn't the loss of privacy because there is always a pair of ears listening or a set of eyes watching. It isn't because of the loss of "me" time. It isn't about how difficult it is to set the next manicure appointment or find a sitter so that Mommy can see a doctor when she's sick.

Those are all hard things. The kinds of things that make a caregiver cry out for mercy. I remember. They are exhausting things. But they are not the hard part of parenting.

The hard part of parenting, frankly, is the part that is easiest to cast aside. After all, everyone's doing it, it seems.

The hardest part of parenting is the part where God calls me to recognize the foolishness that is bound up in the hearts of my children, and from it--liberate them...His way.

I am tempted to let it slide when they huff or puff or roll their eyes at my instruction. But to react so, is to selfishly act against God's laws. And it is sin, and it must be dealt with.

I am too busy to watch, listen, discern and remove the evil that lies so subtly behind the politeness of their passive rebellion. But it is sin, and it must be dealt with.

I am too comfortable to get up and deal biblical discipline to my children for their blatant disregard of my last instruction at bedtime, "Time for sleep. Lay still and be quiet."

Because...really...I don't want to interrupt their giggling. They're playing so nicely together.

But they are disobeying me, and they know it. And they know that I know it too. And a part of them is waiting to see what I will do about it. I know this because one of my young ones told me so, "But Mommy, yesterday I did it, and you didn't do anything about it. *sniffle whimper*"

Yes, she really did.

I am reluctant to do the hard work necessary to train a little one early to stay the course and keep to her calling until the work is complete. Because she doesn't mean any harm.

I am prone to nag instead.

I am afraid to ask more of them then they are ready to give, even when their pace is so slow, that they're at risk of actually moving backwards in a task! Because they're still just. so. little.

But it's not about what they can't do; it's about what they're unwilling to do.

I am weary of the conversations that help to teach my child to grow in the control of her own spirit so that she will not be weak against her temptations and someday be destroyed by their consequences. Because, after all, I'm still here to protect them.

I worry that maybe it's not really my job to pick their friends for them. But I know that many a young person's demise is the company they keep.

I act as though I'm unsure of the need to raise little ones to be accountable to the same God and standards as am I, but Jesus said not to hinder them--He loves them.

I am too often amused or entertained by their sin. I'm even tempted to see it as blog fodder. But truth be told, that little sin grows with them, and sooner than later Mommy will be living with a monster of her own creation. I think then it won't be so funny.

And with my own very different girls, I find that the hardest part of parenting is finding and walking that fine line between training up a child in the way she should go, and exasperating her to wrath. It's striving to guide each child in knowing right from wrong, encouraging her to exercise the power in meekness, feeding her His Holy Word to train her to think like Christ and love others has He does.

And praying for her salvation fervently, knowing that by the alternative has many a mother's heart been broken.

This business of raising children into adults is a very hard job, indeed. But the fruit...oh, that glorious day when their fruit will bloom! It is all worth it when I anticipate the joy set before me.