Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Home

Saturday smiles: Holiday edition

Who knew that putting up the Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving could be a mood changer? There’s something about the lights and the change in decor. And the candles. It all just says “home” to me. And “special.” It’s a special time of year, and even though we lost a good chunk of ornaments when our basement flooded in September, we still have the important ones. The ones that tell a story.

Decorating for Christmas — that makes me smile. Especially when the kids are excited and want to help.

They got their own decorations this year. Well, actually, they got them last year but this is the first time we’ve had them out.

It’s three Little People nativity sets — the classic manger scene, the inn of Bethlehem and the three wise men. The kids are having a blast playing with all the characters. Isabelle was even telling Bible-themed, theologically sound stories with them today. (She can’t help it, really. Her dad is in seminary and sometimes reads from his texts to her to see if she’ll take a nap.)

Even rearranging the living room and other parts of the house to make room for Christmas makes me smile. Sometimes, change is good.

Taking the time to enjoy a special meal. That’s another reason to smile.

And setting the table with the “nice” dinnerware, placemats, a tablecloth and cloth napkins. Even though it didn’t feel like much of a holiday to us, the little things made it more meaningful. Also, the kids added this touch to the table.

A Little People Thanksgiving set they received in the mail earlier in the week. Yes, our house is overrun by Little People, in more ways than one.

Then, there was the parade, an annual Myerstown event that lines up in front of our house. The entries we see out our window are always about a third or halfway through the lineup, so we walk to church to watch it all the way through.

This year, the kids really got into it. Okay, I know that doesn’t look like Corban’s into it, but he was locked in, taking it all in.

When a miniature car beeped its horn, he jumped like 6 inches in the air. He was startled but he hung in there. He needed my lap later, but watching the parade with my kids was a big smile-maker for me. Especially since Phil had to work and I was on my own. I survived another on-my-own parenting adventure. Woohoo!

Later, everyone loosened up a bit.

This just makes me smile. She’s such a ham. And she loves it. Being the Statue of Liberty is her dream job, I think. That or fairy princess. Or pirate. Or artist.

I’ll let you guess what he’s pointing at. It’s not horses. Or tractors. Or animals. It’s a football on a banner for the town’s league. I motioned to one of the nice young men handing out candy that Corban was a future football player, and he gave Corban two lollipops. (I say he’s a future football player because he seems to have a knack for hitting things with his head.)

Yeah, there’s a lot of kid smiles this week.

Like this moment when they were sharing and playing nicely together.

If we colored one of these pictures this week, we colored half a dozen. They love to color. And that makes me smile.

I cooked a Thanksgiving dinner, mostly by myself, and my kitchen is not the worse for it. In fact, it looks better than it does in a normal week of cooking.

My husband came to our rescue, unexpectedly, while the kids and I were at the tree lighting ceremony in town. Corban had almost fallen out of the wagon on his head (I was literally holding him by the zipper on his sweatshirt) and I was ready to pack it in before the tree lit up when my handsome husband came striding up the street. It was almost like a movie.

A man at church said the molasses cookies I made for the potluck were “just like my mom used to make.” A HUGE compliment of my baking. I’ve found another go-to recipe for gifts.

My best friend said, “I can tell you these things because you won’t think I’m crazy.” And that makes me smile, too. Because that’s a great measure of friendship. Crazy, off-the-wall, hair-brained ideas, and friends say, “Go for it!” (She’s that kind of friend to me, too.)

I had plenty of lows this week, but man, when I look back on the highs, I’m so glad they come to mind more easily and stick in my head more definitively than the lows.

Here’s hoping you have plenty of smiles in the weeks to come!

The trouble with secret family recipes

Maybe “secret” is the wrong word. Closely guarded. Unpublished. Passed down.

Whatever you call it, it poses a problem. Especially for someone who married into the family and lives 700 miles away from the motherland.

We were on our own for Thanksgiving this year, and by “on our own” I mean totally on our own. The past three years, since we’ve lived in Pennsylvania, we’ve done the shopping and the planning, but we’ve had family in to help with the actual cooking part.

This year, it was mostly me, a 3-year-old and a 2-year-old. So, mostly me. (Actually, my husband is a HUGE help, even though he has to work on Thanksgiving. Without him, there would be no turkey carving, and I would be in the fetal position in the kitchen.)

What frightened me the most was not the turkey — we have a good cooking method for that — but the rolls.

The infamous must-have at every Kant (my husband’s mother’s side) family gathering.

When we’ve made them in years past, my mother-in-law (whose sister holds the coveted recipe in her mind) has been around to help navigate the waters of yeast bread cooking. I have little experience with this particular type of cooking, so when I read that I’m to add “7 cups of flour, maybe 8, until the dough is sticky but not too sticky,” I’m left dumbfounded in the kitchen in a heaping mess of flour.

When you just KNOW how to make the recipe because you’ve been making it for years, having to write it down for someone is tricky. Here are more ACTUAL instructions from the roll recipe.

“Fill the green cup three times.” There’s a specific cup. Not a regular measuring cup, mind you, but a specific cup. One year my  mother-in-law brought it with her. I didn’t bother tracking down THE cup. I used a measuring cup.

“Use the ice cream scoop to stir.” THE ice cream scoop is a wooden-handled spoon from Alaska. We have our own now. We don’t have to borrow. I’m not sure what the secret of the spoon is, but I’m not about to mess with tradition.

On the plus side, if there’s no one around to tell me if I’m doing it right, there’s no one around to tell me if I’m doing it wrong.

Thank God for technology, though. When the dough was turning sticky, I had to phone a friend, or in this case my mother-in-law.

“See, MeeMaw? The dough is sticky.” (And yes my daughter is covered in flour and not wearing pants. Your point?)

So, the rolls. Here they are before the second time rising. Terribly un-roll shaped.

And out of the oven.

They are supposed to look like cloverleafs, not muffin tops. 

Sigh. At least they tasted good.

And we had fun, especially when we used the rest of the dough to make these German doughnut-type treats for breakfast. They’re called kuchelas. (Kewk-uh-luh. Nobody knows how to spell it, but my husband’s family has been making them on Thanksgiving morning for years.)

MMM … doughnuts. We sort of go all Homer Simpson on these things. Here’s the boy licking sugar off of his hands.

And the girl with a mouthful of doughnut. She’s chewing, I promise, though I love that she looks like she’s savoring every bite.

We may not have “won” this round with the rolls, but when it comes to trying to replicate family Thanksgiving traditions,  we consider ourselves winners.

Next up: Christmas cookies. But I’ve got that one in the bag. When it comes to my grandma’s sugar cookie recipe, I got the genes for making them just right.

Do you have any family recipes that are MUST-HAVES at your get-togethers? Who makes them? How have they been passed from generation to generation?

Happy holidays! And happy cooking!

 

It only takes a spark: how a Happy Meal can lead to bullying

Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to be human.

It was a Saturday night, and I had the opportunity to take the kids to McDonald’s for supper. I know. We live an exciting life when a trip to McDonald’s for dinner is a high point.

Anyway, it’s not something we do often, and something I rarely consider doing by myself. But we had been just busy enough that day and I was too tired to cook that it worked out.

So, there we sat in McDonald’s — me, a 2-year-old and a 3 1/2-year-old, –eating hamburgers, a chicken sandwich and french fries when a couple of tweens or early teens walked in to order. I watched them casually because they kept running from the restaurant to the car to ask a question about the order. Eventually, a mom and a young boy came in to pick up the order and raise a stink about something.

I couldn’t hear what the problem was, but the mom was definitely upset about something. I know because I’ve been there. I’m not a directly confrontational person, but if something doesn’t go the way I think, I’ll make a snide comment or mutter under my breath. That’s what this mom was doing. Then, she gathered their food — four Happy Meals — and the kids and hightailed it out of the restaurant, knocking over a display in the vestibule as they went.

I should mention that this mom was short and, shall we say, stout. I don’t make a habit of pointing out people’s body imperfections because I’d hate to have someone point out mine. (They’re painfully obvious to me, so I don’t need a second-party reminder.) But her appearance is important to the story.

At the booth next to us sat an older couple and their granddaughters, who were probably teen-aged and elementary-aged. As soon as the miffed mom left the restaurant, the quartet next to us started making fun of her.

“Looks like she’s had a few too many Happy Meals.”

I would have expected it from the teenager, maybe, but this comment came from the grandfather. And it didn’t stop there.

“I guess she hasn’t been counting calories.” He said this because before the Happy Meal episode, the four of them had been looking at the calorie counts of their  food.

All four of them laughed at his jokes.

I wanted to cry.

I don’t know what officially constitutes “bullying” or how you define it, but this group’s behavior made me uncomfortable. I wondered what the grandchildren were learning from this? That it’s okay to poke fun at someone’s weight if they’re behaving impolitely? That some people are better than others? That some people have more worth than others?

Maybe I’m making too much of it, but regardless of how you define it, isn’t this where bullying starts?

I write those words with a heavy heart because I know that I have failed in the same ways. I have been bullied and I have bullied, though at the time, no one thought to call it that. It wasn’t violent, physical bullying but emotional, verbal bullying, the latter of which can be the worst kind of all.

I remember being afraid to sit in the aisle seat on the bus because the boy who sat in the seat behind me would snap my bra strap. (I was already self-conscious about needing to wear a bra. His acknowledgement of my, ahem, development, only pushed me into further self-consciousness.) I remember the sting of jeers about my weight. (I wasn’t skinny, but I was chubby in my awkward adolescent years.)

And I remember putting other people down to make myself feel better. In one particularly painful memory, I loudly declared I already had the game a classmate had given me as a gift at my birthday party. She was not a popular student. (Nor was I.) Years later, she was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It eventually took her life.

What I also remember about the birthday party incident is my mom pulling me aside and telling me that it wasn’t nice of me to make the girl feel bad. She told me what to say and made me apologize to the girl. I’m sure the damage had been done, but I’ve never forgotten the lesson.

I guess that’s what I wanted to see in the booth beside us. Adults being adults and instructing the next generation that it’s wrong to make fun of people just because they look different, even if they might “deserve” it at the time.

A day after the McDonald’s incident, an elementary student told me about a girl at her school who used to be her friend but decided one day that their friendship was over.

“She wrote a ‘p’ on my hand and said it meant I was ‘poo.’ Sometimes, I don’t want to go to school because of her.”

Her words haunt me, and even though she comes from the type of family who has probably talked about this, I’m resolving to tell her mom about it. Just in case.

No doubt as Black Friday approaches, we’ll hear stories of people trampling other people for the sake of a deal. I hope not. Those stories make me sick. It may not be bullying, but it’s definitely not right.

I’ll leave you, now, with this. I’d heard the song before this week but I really heard the words the last time it was on the radio.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBIpvoNVlDk]

Maybe if we start to look at each other through eyes of love, we can restore people’s sense of worth. And end the senselessness of kids and adults alike killing or prostituting themselves (or anything else) because of bullying.

Someday, my Prince will come

At first I was angry.

Well, maybe not angry, but definitely discouraged. And I’m not used to that reaction when I finish a great book. Especially not by one of my favorite authors.

Yes, it was a love story. Christian romance, if you will, though I hate that label and everything it conjures up. It was the second book in a retelling of the story of Ruth and Boaz from the book of Ruth in the Bible. Set in Scotland. Swoon.

I was hooked after the first book and had waited many weeks for a copy of the sequel to become available in the library system. When it was finally my turn, I devoured the book in a matter of days.

I loved it, for what some would say is all the wrong reasons: the Boaz character. The leading man.

If you’re not familiar with the story of Ruth, stop reading this and go find it in the Old Testament. Or click here to start reading. It’s only four chapters. It won’t take you long to read. It’s a love story, too.

Back to the leading man. He was so perfect. He rescued. He protected. He loved. He pursued. He was everything a woman could want in a man.

And there lies the problem.

I know women who say they won’t read Christian fiction because of how the men are portrayed, giving us women a standard for our husbands (or future husbands) that is unattainable.

I’ve never felt that as strongly as I did with this book. When I closed it, I wanted what the leading lady had — this perfect, handsome, all-around great-guy husband who did everything right.

And I was disappointed. Not because I don’t love the husband God has given me but because it didn’t feel like enough.

Then, I realized something.

My husband wasn’t supposed to be the ultimate source of fulfillment in my life. He would make mistakes. He would not love me the way I thought he should. He would fail. Even at his best, he would fall short of perfect.

It’s true that I would not find a man who could live up to the expectation set in this book.

But, when I compared the book’s ideal man to Jesus, something inside me changed. My husband couldn’t love me perfectly but Jesus could. And did. And does.

In the days after I finished the book, I found myself longing — not for my husband to act like the character in the book — but for Jesus. Suddenly I wanted to know more about Jesus. I wanted to read my Bible again. And pray. I could feel His closeness around me. And my heart was filled with a desire to see Him.

Most days, I’m pretty comfortable here on earth. I’m not eager to leave it, nor do I think God wants me to be. But in so many ways, the life I’m living falls short of what I want it to be. The Ruth character in the book loses everything and struggles to survive. Some days, I can identify. And she dares to hope that something better might come her way.

Fairy tales thrive on this longing — someday my prince will come.

I don’t have to merely hope or long forever.

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” (Hebrews 11:1)

If I could have everything I wanted the way I wanted in this life, I wouldn’t need Jesus. Longing is part of the path that leads me to Him.

Someday, my Prince will come.

Saturday smiles: the better late than never edition

Time got away from me this week, so here are my weekly smiles, a day late.

I could stop right there, right? Girl+chocolate=happy. She’s learning that lesson early in life.

Other smile makers this week:

  • Six little girls in leotards prancing around the tumbling gym following their teacher.
  • Hula hooping with my daughter on International Hoop Day, the same day as tumbling class.
  • No pants dance party. Let me clarify. The kids weren’t wearing pants. But we were ALL dancing. Like this. In the living room. With the shades open.
  • Getting my Zumba groove on for the first time. I think a Wii is in our not-too-distant future.
  • Food names according to Corban: rock’n’rolly (guacamole), monster cheese (muenster cheese) and hamon (salmon — pork of the sea?).
  • Date night.
  • Passing 20,000 words written in the first two weeks of November. (Go, NaNoWriMo!)
  • Using my imagination. And letting the kids use theirs. We created this a couple of different times this week:It’s a barn for the animals and the Barbies. House/barn party?
  • Grand opening of the Bartelt School of Arts and Crafts. This is so out of character for me, but the kids had a blast, and we didn’t even make a huge mess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And a few more just for fun. Sometimes I have to make myself play with my kids instead of turning chores into play. I’m almost guaranteed a smile if I play with them. Who could resist?

Not I.

Five reasons my life will never resemble a romantic comedy

I enjoy a good rom-com every now and then. Sometimes, you get something totally off the wall, though. Like recently we watched “Gnomeo & Juliet.” On purpose. Without our kids. Slightly ridiculous. I’m not sure Shakespeare would approve. But he’s dead, so who cares?

And “Date Night.” That’s old news, I know, but from the first time I saw the preview, I HAD to see the movie. I was left feeling “eh.”

I’m no Tina Fey and my husband’s no Steve Carell, but here’s our version of Date Night and a few reasons Hollywood’s never going to make a movie that truly represents date night reality.

1. My pre-date preparation included a diaper change and not one, but two children asking to wear makeup. The boy got an adamant but polite “no.” Daddy let him wear a dab of cologne instead.

2. My favorite outfits only fit perfectly in my dreams. Jeans fit a little too tight. (Note to self: get back to the gym.) I think I pick the same shirt for every date. (We’re not regular about our dates, so it could be months between outings. Who remembers what they wore two months ago?) I’m not gonna turn heads, and I’m okay with that. Although when I walked through the bar from the bathroom, I’m sure I heard someone say, “she’s hot.” I’m sure they were talking to the television. I would have been embarrassed if they weren’t.

3. My husband out-of-the-blue complimented me. That sounds bad. Like he doesn’t do that. But sometimes when he does it, I’m expecting it. This time, I wasn’t. Unscripted. I was talking about Bible study at the time. (The reason this scene of our lives would never make it in a movie.) I wasn’t saying anything clever or witty. We were talking about a passion I had. Apparently, that made me beautiful to my husband. His words stopped mine. And I almost cried. I’ll be replaying those words in my head for days.

4. The atmosphere was perfect: dim lighting, high-backed booths, white tablecloth, practically empty dining room. (These pictures tell a better story.) A Food Network-worthy menu. We ate goat cheese pizza for starters. I had local trout with broccoli rabe and roasted potatoes. My husband had short ribs with mushrooms over pasta. My food was perfect. My husband was a little disappointed. In a movie, the food would be the best we’d ever eaten. And our bill would have been expensive. (Post-Groupon, we paid $5, not including tip.) We like to think we’re thrifty at times. Thrifty and romance don’t often mesh. We’re always on the lookout for cheap, I mean, frugal dates. (Look out Salamandra’s, we’re coming your way in December, thanks to a deal on www.saukvalley.com.)

5. That whole ride-off-into-the-sunset, happily-ever-after stuff … I don’t buy it. Our dreamy date ended with our 2-year-old taking a fall down a couple of slick steps outside our friends’ house. He had a knot on his head and a scraped up face. Our daughter, meanwhile, at the same moment, had freaked out about a large worm she almost stepped on and walked right out of one of her shoes. Did I mention it was raining? After we headed back into our friends’ house to clean up our son a little and calm him down, we headed home where we fought the 3-year-old for bed time, doctored the 2-year-old’s head, and read a parenting article about head injuries to make sure we shouldn’t be at the hospital or on the phone with the doctor instead. Once the kids were settled for the night, my husband and I decompressed in front of the computer, watching the latest episode of “Next Iron Chef.” Then, I turned in for the night while my husband stayed up to watch something else.

A totally romantic ending? Maybe not. But it’s reality ever after. I’m learning I can handle reality better if I recognize that my dreams and expectations will rarely measure up to reality.

This band says better what I’m trying to say, I think.

We had escaped our world for a moment and despite the missing ingredients to a successful romantic comedy, we had a wonderful time.

It’s amazing what a couple of childless hours can do for a marriage. Refresh. Renew. Shift the focus off the kids onto the marriage.

Why don’t we do this more often, again?

A helping hand for helping hands

Sometimes, you just don’t know what to say.

Or do.

You’ve been there, right? A friend experiences a loss, or a tragedy. A neighbor goes through a hard time. And you want to help, but you just don’t know what to do. Or if your help would be welcome or appropriate.

If this is you, then a new book by Lauren Littauer Briggs might help you find your helping hands.

The Art of Helping offers practical advice for dozens of situations where people are hurting and what you can do to help in those situations.

And I can’t stress enough the word “practical.” The tips in the book are tangible and doable. They’re also varied enough that if cooking a meal isn’t your thing, you have other options for helping.

I was impressed by the number of scenarios Briggs covers in the book. She categorizes “hurts” into sections: personal crises, health needs, and loss. The final section in the book is a general guide for prayer, gift ideas and recipes.

Another positive point of this book is that you don’t have to read it cover to cover. It’s meant to be a resource you can pick up when you want to help someone facing a specific hurt and can turn to the chapter addressing that hurt. As a future pastor’s wife, I’m excited to have this book on my shelf.

Read on to hear from the author and for more about the book.

All of us want to offer comfort and support to someone who is hurting, but we often don’t know what to say or do. The Art of Helping—What to Say and Do When Someone is Hurting addresses 30 of the most common heartaches people face and takes away your fear of involvement by helping you understand what people are feeling and going through. From over 100 interviews and her own life experiences, author Lauren Briggs shares proven advice and offers practical help with a list of what to say— and do.

Why should I read The Art of Helping?

Do you know someone who is facing a crisis and wondered what you could do to help?  Have you ever faced a difficult time and wished your family and friends knew what you were going through and knew how to help you? 

I found that during my darkest hours, no one knew how much I was hurting, what I was going through or how they might help.

This is a book you’ll want to read before you need it—so that you will have ideas of what you can do and how you can respond—when you first hear the news. We want to help our family and friends through the hard times, but the right words or actions just don’t come to mind. The Art of Helping will give you the tools and enable you to turn thoughts into action.

How will The Art of Helping change me?

The Art of Helping is your go to book when life gets tough. It is a social Bible filled with concrete, tangible action items to empower you to make a difference at times when we would otherwise feel helpless. When people get this book in their hands, they always say, “How I wish I had this book when my friend needed help.”

What are some basic Do’s and Don’ts I need to know?

DON’T wait before you make contact.
DO Respond as soon as you hear the news.

DON’T SAY “If there’s anything you need, give me a call.”
DO Offer a specific thing you can do.

DON’T put pressure on yourself to do something you don’t like to do.
DO use your gifts and talents to help.

DON’T minimize what they are going through.
DO offer caring statements of acknowledgement.

DON’T ASK “When will you be your old self again? or Aren’t you over it yet?”
DO understand that once their life is touched by tragedy, they will never be their “old self” again. They will eventually reach a “new normal” but life will never be the same.

What are some of your favorite creative suggestions in The Art of Helping?

  • A mother of two young children picked up a hurting family’s laundry on Mondays, took it home and returned it all laundered and folded on Thursdays.
  • A man volunteered to come mow the lawn once a week and do some simple “honey do” chores.
  • My sons brought their game boy to the hospital for a friend going through chemo therapy. Every few days they would bring a different game to swap.

How can I learn more about The Art of Helping?

The Art of Helping is reshaping the way people reach out to others. To view more information, visit my website: www.laurenbriggs.com. You can follow me on Facebook as Lauren Littauer Briggs and on Twitter as @Laurenbrgs. The Art of Helping is available in e-book and paperback formats through Amazon.com. If you would like an autographed copy of The Art of Helping, email me at Laurenbrgs@aol.com.

—————————————

I was given a complimentary copy of this book from the author in exchange for posting the author’s interview on my blog. This blog tour is managed by Christian Speakers Services (ChristianSpeakersServices.com).

The reasons I have laugh lines

My son, almost 2, says while riding in the car this week: “We need more snow.” That’s enough to ensure my face bears the joys I’ve experienced long after the experiences have passed.

When my husband asked him why, my son said, “Because, for the grass.” For his, sake, I hope we have more snow this winter.

Other smile-worthy events this week:

  • Coffee and conversation at Starbucks. (This was only the second time I’ve ever been to Starbucks. It’s a good thing I can’t afford $5 coffee too often.)
  • This conversation with my daughter: “Mommy, do you really like boys?” “Well, I like one boy in particular.” “Who?!” “Daddy. And I like Corban, too. Do you like boys?” (Please say no, please say no.) “Well, not if they’re mean.” I’m so not ready for this.
  • The end of antibiotics for my son.
  • Dinner as a family with another family of friends.
  • In a related matter, my husband having a night off of work when he doesn’t also have class.
  • Isabelle’s excitement to trace letters in a preschool activity book. “I’m getting ready for preschool,” she says.
  • Sunny, 60-degree days in November. (It was short-lived.)
  • Realizing there’s only 2 weeks till Thanksgiving, 3 weeks till my son’s birthday, a month till the end of the semester, all of which means we’ll be able to go home to Illinois soon.
  • Here’s one I should have added last week but forgot: Living up to my hair color. “Um, I think the copier is broken.” “Did you put money in it?” “No. I bet that would fix it.” Please note that I’ve used the same copier many times before. Brain. Dead.

Are you smiling about anything this week? Tell someone why. Lord knows, we could all use a little more to smile about.

Growing Pains

I haven’t been at this parenting gig long, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be the one crying at tumbling class.

I’m the 33-year-old, after all, not the 3-year-old.

No, Izzy didn’t suffer an injury. I did. And not the physical kind that tends to heal more quickly than the emotional one.

After watching her classmates complete the circuit, Isabelle finally got her turn and halfway through it, she peed. On the mat. In her new leotard. In front of everyone. The poor teacher had to leave the class to fetch a janitor, who assured me that I didn’t have to clean up the mess, even though I felt it was my penance for … what? Bad mothering?

I gathered Isabelle’s things and hurriedly ushered her out of the gym while the other parents tried to guess what was happening.

“I guess one of the kids had an accident,” one mom said as we left.

With all the drama I could muster, I declared, “I’m horrified,” then burst into tears as we walked the long hall to the locker room. Encouraging words from the other adults in the hallway followed me, but I barely heard them.

It happens to everyone. I know this. But I’m still embarrassed. And it’s not like Isabelle didn’t go potty before class, less than 30 minutes before her accident.

Maybe if this had been a one-time incident, but it’s been a pattern for the last week. After going almost an entire week with NO accidents, she’s had at least one a day for the last several days. We can count on one finger the number of days in the last 10 that she’s been accident-free.

Frustrating.

That’s the only word for it. I feel like eight months of patience and training (and impatience) has yielded nothing. We’re back to what feels like square one. Packing extra clothes for every occasion. Afraid to leave the house because she might have an accident. Anxious that she’ll pee during one of her “big-girl” classes.

I guess we can cross that last one off the list.

But I don’t know what to do. Bribery, threats (the harmless kind, like taking her out of swimming or tumbling class)  and guilt aren’t working. I feel like my kid is the last one on the block to be accident-free and potty-trained. (She’s going on 4.)

And, of course, that makes me a bad mother. At least it does in my head.

Fortunately, I guess, Isabelle wasn’t bothered by the whole incident. We found her a suitable change of clothes and she went back to tumbling class for the last few minutes. Enough time to jump on a bouncy mat with the other kids.

Now, I’m more embarrassed that I couldn’t handle the situation with grace and a cool demeanor. Probably I’m “that mom who cried” now. Whatever. Sometimes humbling and humiliating seem like the same thing.

But that’s part of the growing process — for both of us. It hurts, and sometimes I hate it. (See my post on the other things I hate about being a mom.)

I know it’s for my good, though. And hers. But don’t you sometimes wish you had it all together now?

How do you handle a situation like this? And what do you say to your kids?

And if you’ve got any magic tricks to potty training, send them my way. Like other things in my life, I’m ready to pray about it after trying everything else first.

If nothing else changes, prayer will change me, at least, and maybe I won’t be the one crying in tumbling class next time.

 

 

The day music saved my life

I’ll never forget what happened that night.

Change was on the horizon. I’d seen hints of it, like the first wisps of color in the sunrise, but the full light of day was yet to break.

And oh, how I needed light.

From the outside, you might not have thought I lived in darkness. Even now, I don’t know how close I was to the edge of the abyss.

I was 19, a college sophomore, majoring in mass communication, settling in to life “on my own.” But I was also insecure, desperate and lonely. For months, I had been clinging to a relationship that I knew — in my head — was over but that I wouldn’t let my heart let go. What I believed about myself was wrapped up in this relationship, and if it unraveled, I had nothing to fall back on. He told me I was pretty. I believed him. He said he loved me. I believed that, too. Then he broke my heart, and instead of picking up the pieces and putting myself back together, I let him break it again. And again.

That night, I was walking and talking with friends, appearing to have a good time but sinking in self-pity.

Light was dawning, but gray skies clouded my view.

We were on our way to a concert. A Christian concert by a band I’d never heard of. (They were local, though even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t familiar with any Christian bands back then.) That I was attending a Christian concert was not shocking. In college, I adopted a casual practice of religion — a few  Sundays in church, some Bible reading, nothing changed about my day-to-day life — partly out of curiosity, mostly out of peer pressure. (The aforementioned heartbreaker was a regular churchgoer. You could say I blessed to impress.)

No, what was surprising was the company I was keeping. A mix of new friends and old, with the heartbreaker nowhere in sight. I was being pulled toward something, but I didn’t know what. All I knew was, it was different. My best friend was among us that night. Something had changed in her life, but I didn’t understand it, and those whom I thought would, were afraid of it.

But back to the concert. It rocked, literally. My parents were teenagers in the ’70s, so rock ‘n’ roll was part of my upbringing. I loved it. And music, in general. Songs had a way of speaking what I couldn’t, of expressing the emotions I felt deep inside, connecting me to others who struggled when I thought I was alone.

Is it any wonder, then, that music saved my life?

The band had pressed the pause button on the hard rock set and gave the lead singer a chance to showcase a ballad. Or so I thought. Every good rock band has a ballad or two in their set, right? We sat. And we listened as this guy, probably not a lot older than us, poured his heart out about a time when he felt lonely and unloved and let down. He had my attention. Then he sang, and though I can’t remember the words of the song, I’ll never forget what I felt, what I couldn’t ignore. This sense that I needed to stop caring about what other people would think of me and start caring about what God thinks of me. “Live your life for Me.” Those words filled my mind and pounded in my heart. I was in tears. I wasn’t alone. Somebody wanted me.

Life as I knew it was over. And it was just beginning. Dawn had come, at last.

I could tell you I never made another bad decision or lost my temper or sank into a pit of despair and self-pity. But I’d be lying.

Over time — 14 years now — God has changed me in ways I wouldn’t have thought possible. And He’s still working on me. He didn’t change everything that night, but what He did change made all the difference.

He gave me a purpose. A reason to live. I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but I knew He wanted me for me.

Jason Gray

A few nights ago, my husband and I took our kids to a concert. Music speaks to him, too. Two little ones and no room in our budget for concerts has created a gap in our lives. This concert was a treat. And a privilege. And it reminded me of that night so long ago that some days still seems like yesterday.

I made a decision that night to get to know Christ better. To live for Him. To follow Him. I asked my best friend to help me because I knew I was weak and would make excuses. (She did. She is still the truest of friends.)

Watching college kids at this recent concert, making declarations with their praise, I wondered if they knew what would be required of them in the years to come. I was humbly reminded that I didn’t back then, and if I had, I might not have signed up for this journey.

Music continues to speak to me, refreshing my soul, showing me Truth in new ways. I’m grateful for musicians, songwriters and singers who share their talents so that others can know Christ more.

It was fitting, though I almost didn’t realize it, that we could attend a concert this weekend, the anniversary of the day my life changed forever. Fitting also that God’s timing is both perfect and sometimes comical. That concert that changed my life — it happened near the heartbreaker’s birthday, a period of time I can’t forget if I tried.

In that week, my heart was broken, and it was mended.

I’m grateful for both.