Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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I am a Mom

I am a Mom.

I can’t always tell you what I did yesterday.

I don’t shower regularly.

I can’t keep a clean house. Or even keep up with the housework.

I can’t stop worrying that something terrible might happen to my kids.

I am a mom.

I lose patience.

I get frustrated. Especially when I have to answer the question, “Why?” for the millionth time.

I wish I could go back to the “before kids” days. Or I look ahead to the empty-nest days.

I beg. I plead. I bribe.

I sneak chocolate during nap time.

I am a mom.

I can’t do all the things I used to do. Like go out to eat whenever I want. Or see a movie. Or stay up as late as I want. Or have a lazy day. Or meet a friend for coffee. Or serve on a committee. Or work full-time. Or dedicate myself to my work.

I am a mom.

But I CAN:

  • name all the characters in my kids’ favorite shows.
  • spot or smell poop from across the room.
  • distract my kids from temper tantrums. I’m becoming a master at this art.
  • juggle, as in do three or four things at one time. But I’m forever dropping the ball on something.
  • use one hand to do things that usually require two.
  • make just about anything into a song if it’ll make my kids smile or giggle.
  • tell stories at a moment’s notice, like in the public restroom where my daughter is potty training while we’re out shopping.
  • read stories for the billionth time.
  • be a doctor, a firefighter, a police officer, a queen, and a cook, all in the course of a day. And be prepared to be any or all of those at the whim of my daughter’s imagination.
  • bargain hunt.
  • survive on only a few hours of sleep, sometimes with coffee, sometimes not.
  • give up chocolate for my baby. (But oh, is that hard.)

I am a mom.

I’m never perfect, but I’m always right. At least that’s what I tell myself when I start to doubt.

I’m not graceful (Is that a Cheeto handprint on my shirt? Did you just wipe snot on my pants?) but hope to be full of grace. At this, too, I fail.

I say, “No” a lot. I worry about the mess. I take life too serious.

But God gives me another day. And He doesn’t give up on me.

I am a mom.

I don’t always love my job, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Why the least childproofed thing in your house might be you

“Mom, let’s play leapfrog.”

An innocent request from the 3-year-old. Unfortunately, she wasn’t talking about any of the technological doodads we have of the same name. Nope. She was talking old-fashioned, jump over each other kind of leapfrog, though I have my suspicions she didn’t really know what she was asking.

We’d just read a book about a frog that plays leapfrog with another frog. Isabelle put “play” and “leapfrog” together and must have thought, “That sounds fun.”

Initially, I resisted. Our house isn’t exactly set up for leapfrog type space. And I was trying to imagine how she would jump over me. I resisted; she persisted. So, I said, “OK,” thinking, what could happen?

Famous. Last. Words.

Isabelle hopped and then crouched down on the ground. I took that as my cue to jump over her. I assumed the leapfrog position with a hand on her back and my legs ready to propel myself up and over. I jumped, and as I did, Isabelle stood up, just as I was descending. The collision forced her face to the floor with a thud I won’t soon forget.

My husband and I quickly checked for blood as Isabelle screamed and cried. We found none. I held her and rocked her, tears streaming down my face as I berated myself for making such a boneheaded decision.

I kept checking her nose, sure it was going to swell to Marcia Brady-broken-nose-by-football proportions. I imagined myself embarrassedly confessing to the doctor that I had broken my daughter’s nose because she wanted to play leapfrog and I was too much of a wimp to say, “No.”

More tears, from both of us. We put a Hello Kitty cold pack on her nose and started playing peek-a-boo with it, laughing and crying at the same time. “I guess we can’t play leapfrog anymore,” Isabelle whimpered through her tears, which for some reason made me laugh and cry all the more.

Meanwhile, our 15-month-old had made a deposit in his diaper that I hadn’t yet taken care of. My husband asked him to go get a diaper and wipes. He obeyed, by wheeling the entire diaper cart to the living room.

Maybe it was the tension of the situation or maybe we’re warped, but suddenly, my husband and I were rolling with laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Isabelle’s nose did NOT turn purple, just a nice shade of I’ve-smacked-my-face-on-the-floor red. (Probably won’t see that in a Crayola box anytime soon.)

Life went on as usual. No harm done.

I’ve heard that the best childproofing is a vigilant parent.

Guess I just proved that I need to find a way to childproof myself.

If you’re happy and you know it …

I’m happy.

And I don’t know what to do about it. Clap my hands? Stomp my feet? Say, “Amen!”? Scratch my belly? — all options offered by the well-known children’s song or my daughter’s Elmo storybook of the same name as the song.

Frankly, I can’t remember ever being this happy, and in a way, it scares me a little.

Weird, huh? I’m afraid to be happy. But I wonder if that’s not a little bit normal. Or maybe I just hope it’s normal.

Honestly, I’m slightly suspicious of happy people — you know, the ones who are happy AND they know it AND their faces really show it. I mean, what are they so happy about anyway? Don’t they watch the news? Don’t they read the paper? Don’t they worry about ANYTHING? Do they ever get tired or cranky or snippy? Are they some kind of superhumans?

I’ve been skeptical, at best, that a person could truly, honestly be happy living in a world of so much pain, suffering and injustice.

Even as a Christian, I’ve been taught that I don’t really NEED to be happy as long as I have the joy of the Lord. Now, I wonder if that’s just an excuse to be miserable in this life yet hopeful about my eternal existence.

Happy is fleeting, I’ve heard; joy is everlasting. Happy is based on circumstances; joy on the unchangeable truths of God’s word. Maybe that’s why I’m scared to be happy — because, in that line of thinking, something could take “happy” away.

Happy people seem to have it all together, and I assume their lives are perfect. My life is far from perfect or even ideal. I wish a whole lot of things were different, but still there’s this deep down, smiling in my heart kind of feeling that won’t go away. My life isn’t perfect, but I don’t want to change it. Things may not happen the way I want them to, but I’m OK with that. Is this really what “happy” feels like?

This happiness has been a recent revelation, but I’ve still been reluctant to share it. I’m afraid people won’t believe me, especially if they know where I’ve been the past six months. But not even that is enough to contain it.

A quick search for the word “happy” in the Bible shows me this:

Psalm 68:3: But may the righteous be glad and rejoice before God; may they be happy and joyful.

Proverbs 15:13a: A happy heart makes the face cheerful.

Ecclesiastes 7:14a: When times are good, be happy.

James 5:13b: Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise.

I’m not about to construct a theology of happy, but I think after reading these verses it’s safe to say that happy is OK with God.

And what to do with happy? Sing and smile, that’s a start. I guess the song’s not far off, after all.

Happy, I’m wondering where you’ve been my whole life. You’re certainly welcome to stay.

Here’s a few of my favorite “happy” songs:

“Oh Happiness” by David Crowder Band

“Happy” by Ayiesha Woods

“Happy” by Matthew West

The ugly side of church

A radio station in our area is running a promotion called “The Ugly Side of Church.” I heard the advertisement for the first time tonight and, at first, thought, “Wow. What a great idea.” Then I realized it was like “Extreme  Makeover: Church Edition.” The premise is to submit a picture of an ugly room at church and win a chance to have the room made over.

I get it. We’ve been at churches with rooms in dire need of improvement and no resources — manpower or money — to fix them.

But I was more excited when I thought it was a chance for authenticity. A chance to acknowledge that sometimes the church, the Bride of Christ, has some warts.

I don’t want to make this a church-bashing post. I feel like I do that far more than is healthy. Francis Chan, in his book “Forgotten God,” asks this question: “How much do you love the church?” I struggled with that question: do I love the church too much and therefore long to see her be all that she’s destined to be, or do I not love her enough to see past her faults and look at the good she does?

I’m still not sure of the answer.

But I’m tired of putting my best face forward. I’m actually not that good at it. When I’m upset, I have a hard time hiding it, even when I want to. This past week at church, I was tired from the 14-hour day on the road on Saturday, and emotionally drained from a tough but rewarding week with family. Corban was overtired and fussy and hard to put to sleep. I thought I could just get through the day unnoticed. Turns out someone noticed.

How many other Sundays am I struggling with something and able to hide it so that no one notices?

That’s just a start to my ugliness. And I’m just one person in the church. Tell me I’m not the only one who hides behind a made-up mask of perceived perfection.

I have seen the church do beautiful work. I have met her beautiful saints. I see her potential to radiate God’s love in a dark world.

But the truth is, the church DOES have an ugly side, and that too often is what the world sees and remembers.

I was challenged a couple of weeks ago by this quote from our Beth Moore Bible study: “When, because of your faith, your life too becomes perceptibly different; when your reactions are quite opposite to what the situation seems to call for and your activities can no longer be explained in terms of your personality; that is when your neighborhood will sit up and take notice. In the eyes of the world, it is not our relationship with Jesus Christ that counts; it is our resemblance to him!” — “The Queen and I” by Ray Stedman (emphasis mine).

Lately, I’m convicted at how little I resemble Christ to the world. There’s an ugly side to me, and maybe there always will be to some extent, but I’m desperate for God to work in me in such a way that the ugliness diminishes day by day.

We were reminded tonight at Bible study that God makes everything beautiful in its time. That’s true for me and for His church.

Maybe “Extreme Makeover: Church Edition” isn’t such a bad idea after all. But the church needs more than a fresh coat of paint or new carpet. She needs a change of heart, a return to her first love, a revival of the Spirit’s leading.

I don’t know when or how it will happen, but, man, will it be beautiful.

Ugly’s had its day. Time for a facelift.

Tested by fire

“For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ. If anyone builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw,  their work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each person’s work. If what has been built survives, the builder will receive a reward. If it is burned up, the builder will suffer loss but yet will be saved—even though only as one escaping through the flames.”

This passage from 1 Corinthians 3, emphasis mine, was part of our Scripture reading at church on Sunday.

This is what I was thinking about:

A day earlier, my grandparents’ house had burned. By the grace of God, although it was the middle of the night, they escaped, mostly unharmed physically, but devastated emotionally. (This photo was taken by the incredible fire department and its members who responded to the call.)

My mother was raised in this home. Nearly every childhood memory I have of my grandparents involves this home. Fifty years worth of memories — gone in practically no time.

Our pastor could not have known this when he prepared his sermon for Sunday. I love how God works that out. He talked about foundational faith and building from the ground up. And I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandparents’ house.

The house itself still stands, but that’s only a matter of time. It will be many days before we know what all survived the fire and what is damaged beyond repair.

I can tell you this: the fire didn’t damage everything.

My grandmother, though technically homeless, offered my kids and me their room at my parents’ house when we come to visit next week. We declined, but that’s the sort of sacrificial person she is. They’re receiving clothes and support from the community they’ve faithfully served for most of their married life, and when I asked her what I could tell people she needed, she thought only of those who were helping them.

Gas cards, she said, to give to the people who are taking them to appointments.

She hasn’t much to give herself, yet she’s still thinking of others.

“Fire will test the quality of each person’s work” — The work the Lord has done in my grandmother is of an imperishable nature.

Losing all the stuff that’s “yours” has to be one of the worst things a human can experience. My grandfather has mourned the loss of things, but that’s not where he’s staying in his mind.

“You can’t take it with you anyway,” my grandfather said when I talked to him today. “We’ll get a new house and new stuff.”

He told me about his new wardrobe and how he has more clothes now than he had before. I could hear the hint of the lighthearted, joking man I know.

The fire took a lot of things, but it didn’t take the important things.

When my life is tested by fire, what will I find that is left? Will my life consist only of things that could be burned up in a fire? Or will something far more valuable, and indestructible remain?

Author speaks to the “Heart”

Essentials of the Heart by Susan Weagant (Tate Publishing, 2010)

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  • Are you tired of playing hit and miss with your spiritual life? 
  • Are you looking for a more purposeful and committed walk with the Lord?
  • Do you ever feel so broken that there seems to be no hope? 

If you answered yes to any of these questions, Essentials of the Heart is for you. This thought-provoking book is full of personal examples and peppered with Scripture. Susan Weagant takes you from life-changing decisions to daily disciplines necessary for a passionate spiritual walk, using personal examples from her own past as encouragement. Join Susan on this spiritual journey to find out what decisions and disciplines are Essentials of the Heart.

Interview with the Author
Susan, you and your husband serve as Christian Camp missionaries. Share with us how this ministry-focus came about and how it influenced the writing of your book.

My husband and I have been missionary supported at Camp Peniel since 1992. The word Peniel comes from the Bible in Genesis 32:30 where Jacob wrestled with an angel.  He named that place Peniel because he said that he had seen God face to face and his life had been preserved.

The man who started Camp Peniel had a desire that anyone who came would experience God face to face, either by coming to know Him as their Savior or growing in their walk with Him.

Many spiritual turning points in my life happened at Camp Peniel. Decisions that impacted my spiritual life the most were made at that place. Those decisions and disciplines that I learned there are what has influenced my book the most. It is for that reason that a portion of the proceeds will go to Camp Peniel’s scholarship program.

I understand Essentials of the Heart is blessing both men and women. Did you consider the impact it would have on men when you wrote it?  What are they saying about it?

I was blindsided by this one. I speak to women’s ministries; so, my audience is women. One day my friend came to me to apologize for not reading my book that she got a month earlier. I told her that she didn’t need to apologize for that, but she insisted to tell me why.

Her husband had picked up the book and started reading it. She did not want to take it from him until he was finished, but it was taking a long time.  (It is a small book so it shouldn’t take him that long.) He finally came to her and told her to go buy two more books because he wanted to give them to his adult sons for Christmas.

I was floored that he would enjoy it so much that he would want his adult sons to read it, too. 

Essentials of the Heart is divided into two parts, Decisions and Disciplines.  What is the significance of this?

“He has made everything beautiful in its time; He also has planted eternity in men’s heart and mind [a divinely implanted sense of a purpose working through the ages which nothing under the sun, but only God, can satisfy]…” (Ecclesiastes 3:11, AMP) What that means to you and me is this: God created us with a sense of eternity in our hearts and mind. We know that there is more to this life than the here and now. We sense it deep within us.  The only thing that can bring lasting fulfillment to you and me is our relationship with God and growing in that relationship. That is what has brought me the greatest fulfillment in my life, and it starts with heart “Decisions”, which is the first section of the book. The next section is “Disciplines”. These are daily practices, which are necessary to grow in the Lord. 

So the first Essential of the Heart is the decision we make personally for eternity … accepting Christ as our Savior. You list several more Decisions we need to make such as: Who do we want our life to count for, a Decision to Trust, a Decision to Build Intimacy, etc. I’d like for us to look at the issue of Trust. You explain though we often use the words trust and faith interchangeably, we first need to understand what they mean. Could you shed some light on this?

The word trust, according to Webster’s Dictionary, is an assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something.  Faith according to the Bible is this: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1, KJV). The Greek word for faith in the New Testament is pistis, which is a firm persuasion or conviction based on hearing according to Strong’s Dictionary.

If you look at all the definitions, that will give you a better picture of faith. It is important what you base your hope on in this life. Here is my definition of faith.  Faith is a firm conviction of hope based on God’s character, God’s ability, God’s strength, and God’s truth when I can’t see what lies ahead.  When I base my hope on God’s character and God’s Word, it is then that my faith will grow.

If someone would like to have you speak at their event, how can they contact you?

They can go to my website, SusanWeagant.com, for information on my speaking ministry.

I know your book is blessing individuals. Can Essentials of the Heart be used for a group study?

There is a pdf file of study questions for each chapter on my website and it is free to download.

About the Author
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Susan Weagant is a loving wife and mother of two wonderful boys. She and her husband, Ben, are missionary supported in the Christian Camping Ministry and have been since 1990. She home-schooled her older son until he went off to college and is currently homeschooling her youngest. Fifteen years of teaching women’s Bible studies have honed her skills in working with women. Susan’s current speaking includes Stonecroft Ministries, MOPS, Women’s retreats, and a women’s community Bible study. Susan’s passion and gift for teaching God’s Word blend well with her desire to share her heart with others. She welcomes the one on one relationship with the women she encounters.

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 Speaker Services.

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Lisa’s review: Weagant’s personal journey is inspiring and her biblical insight is challenging. I look forward to returning to this book and spending more time with it, reflecting on the passages and messages and using the included reflection pages to record my own journey through it. At first I was a little hung up on her use of the King James version of the Bible for Scripture references, but that has given me a surprisingly fresh look at some familiar passages.

Want to win a copy of this book? Click here and leave a comment on the CSS blog.

Why exercise might not be the secret to my weight loss success after all

I lost 3 pounds this week. And I only went to the gym once. 

Previous weeks found me visiting the gym twice or three times a week, spinning vigorously on a stationary bike, running laps on the track or making tracks on the cross-trainer.

This week found me lying on the couch, succumbing to a mucus invasion of historic proportions. The uncommon cold, as I’m calling it, has struck all four of us, but my husband and I have taken the worst beating. Between us, we’ve consumed almost three boxes of cold medicine, and our house is littered with tissue box carcasses, at least 10 that I know of.

So I was fully expecting, after my husband weighed in and had lost only a pound, to have made no progress or gained weight this week.

Three pounds lost was a pleasant surprise but not a reason for me to advocate a monstrous head cold as a weight-loss method.

What I did discover, though, was some principles that will help me on my journey to a new pair of jeans. (Five more pounds to lose and I can go spend the Kohl’s gift card I got for Christmas. Unless I decide to save it for a bigger goal.)

1. Sleep. A lot. Twice during this sickness, I went to bed earlier than normal. One night, I was in bed before my 3-year-old. A majority of the days, I’ve taken naps. Long ones. I’ve heard that sleep deprivation can make you gain weight. Now I see the converse. More sleep can lead to less weight.

2. Eat. A little. This wasn’t a stomach-flu kind of sickness so it’s not like I lost weight because my stomach wouldn’t keep food down. But, because my nose has been plugged, my taste buds aren’t functioning right, and therefore, nothing really tastes good. My husband and I love food, sometimes to excess, but he has much more self-control than I do. What I’ve learned this week is that I don’t have to eat a lot to get through the day. And, I can always eat it again tomorrow.

3. Skip. Seconds, that is. My gluttony with food starts with taste. When I go back for seconds, it’s usually because I like how something tastes, not because I’m hungry for more. I’m no anatomy expert but I know the nose and sense of smell are linked to taste buds somehow. Because I can’t smell much of anything, I’m not interested in seconds.

4. Drink. Water. Water and tea have become my staples during this sickness. This usually isn’t a problem for me, but once I stopped breast-feeding, I got a little lax on the water intake. More water in, more weight off.

5. Snack. But not at night. Earlier bed times have also meant less TV and less eating while watching TV. Late-night snacking is another of my food vices. I haven’t had a bowl of ice cream in 10 days. I still like ice cream, but maybe it’ll be more of a treat if I don’t eat it EVERY night while watching my favorite shows.

If I practice these tips AND exercise, maybe I won’t have to be secretly jealous of my husband’s weight loss.

Melt away, pounds! Melt away!

Unfinished work

Last month, I started cleaning our house. This may not be a revelatory experience for any of you, but for me, active, purposeful cleaning is new. I’m more of a clean-up-after-messes-or-when-company’s-coming-over kind of gal. But I finally got to the point where I felt like our living space was contributing negatively to my mood. I’m not talking Feng Shui or furniture arrangement or anything like that, but everywhere I looked I saw clutter, and it made me feel sad.

I think it started with the Christmas decorations. Once those came down, I simplified the area on top of our entertainment center. What used to be a place for random clutter now, almost, looks like decoration.

Because I can only work in short bursts — like when the children are napping and I’m not, or when they’re otherwise happily occupied for the 2 minutes a day that seems to happen — the house cleaning/organizing/simplifying is a gigantic work in progress.

But it’s progress nonetheless. I’ve been able to tackle several major eyesores — like this one.

Before:

Yeah, there’s a bookcase in there somewhere.

After:

We let the kids take it over.

Here’s an after picture of my dresser. I forgot to take a before, but just imagine stuff piled high, cascading down the side of the dresser, no view of the top of it.

And we even rearranged the kids’ bedroom to make more usable space. (We rent and aren’t allowed to put any more holes in the walls.)

While I feel like I’ve accomplished something, I wish I could finish more of what I start. A few days ago, I started clearing the upper shelf of the kids’ closet, and I haven’t been back since. Last month I started cleaning the bathroom closet. I got back to it two days ago.

I leave my unfinished mess all over the house, but at least it reminds me that I’m on my way to something better.

I could use that reminder in my spiritual life. I’ve felt a little “off” lately. Like I’m not as close to God as I want to be, not as much like Christ as maybe I should be. Or could be.

And I thought about this:

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”  Philippians 1:6

I’m not done yet. God’s not done yet.

The mess is evidence of the work in progress.

Life as we know it

I’ve been away too long. Is this really what the calendar says?

When the New Year begins, I always think life is going to move slow. January has 31 days, after all, and we all know that 31 days in January is longer than 31 days in just about any other month. Especially August. August could have a hundred and 31 days and still not be enough. I hate to see summer end, even when I can’t stand the high temperatures. Or May. I’d take twice as many days in May as what the calendar gives us.

But now it’s February. The shortest month. The one that always seems to drag.

Our cluster of four doesn’t have any family milestones in January, and with the seminary semester picking up speed, I feel like I blinked and missed much of what happened to us this month. So, for posterity, and to shake the winter blahs, here’s a recap of what we’ve been up to.

We’ll start with the little guy, who’s not so little anymore. 14 months old and he runs this joint. At least, that’s what he thinks. Walkin’, talkin’, destroyin’, makin’ noise. I’d like to say he’s ALL boy, but then he goes and does something like this.

Phil assures me it’s fine. But what does he know? He likes to wear pink.

When he’s not showing off his bling, Corban likes to color. Well, he holds the crayon and sweeps it across anything in his path. If a coloring book happens to be within reach, then we call it coloring. Otherwise, it’s a “No, Corban” moment. We have a lot of those.

His favorite food these days varies from “nana” — a banana, which he would eat at every meal if he could. He looks straight at them, grins as wide as his face and shouts “nana” at the top of his lungs. His grandma is also called “Nana,” but unless she decides to wear bananas on her head like the Chiquita banana lady, she might have to change her name — to “crackie,” which is NOT any kind of illegal substance unless there’s something I don’t know about Wheat Thins, Honey Maid and Kashi TLC products. Jesus said man cannot live on bread alone, but I’m pretty sure Corban could live on crackers alone.

Then, we have the drama queen.

 She’s going on 3, but some days I’d swear she’s going on 13. She flips her hair across her shoulders. She wants to “get holes in my ears.” (Mom is not on board for this yet.) She says she wants something then immediately follows that statement with “but I don’t.”

Example:

Mom: What do you want for a snack? Apple? Cheese and crackers? Yogurt?

Isabelle: Apple!

Mom pulls apple out of fridge as Isabelle yells, “I don’t want an apple!”

Sigh. Parents whose children are older than mine tell me it gets worse after this. I. can’t. wait. (Insert sarcasm if you can’t read into that statement.) I cling to the hope of kindergarten. I once thought we would homeschool our children, but now I know better. Someone would end the day in tears and it would probably be me.

Isabelle would go to kindergarten tomorrow if we would let her. She’s sad when the yellow bus speeds by our house without stopping to pick her up. Lately, she’s been really interested in letters, the ABC’s, and wanting to write them. She’s in love with “Chutes and Ladders.” (See previous post here.) And puzzles. I don’t mean to brag, but she can put 8 pieces of a 24-piece Spongebob puzzle together without much help from me. It’s for 3-7 year olds. She’s brilliant, right? (When you read that, think humor, not stuck-up. Please?)

What about this guy?

He’s the cheese to my macaroni. The colored marshmallows to my frosted oats. The fizz in my soda.

In other words, he makes life interesting. He taught Isabelle to play hide-and-seek recently, and she loves it. Except that she doesn’t exactly get the concept of hiding. If Phil walks through the house wondering, “Where is Isabelle?” she’ll giggle and come out of hiding saying, “Here I am!” But she loves to count and then find him hiding wherever he might be. Our house is small. We may have exhausted our hiding spots, but to Isabelle the game is not old yet. He’s a good daddy.

He’s in the second half of his third year of four for seminary. Which makes him somewhere in the neighborhood of five-eighths of the way to graduation. (Somebody get a calculator and check my math.) He’s also in training to win a weight-loss competition at work. Grand prize is $100. It’s like a mini-“Biggest Loser.” First weigh-in after the initial weigh-in is tomorrow. Hope he’s on the right track!

Then, there’s me.

Yep. There I am. Honestly, in front of a computer is where I’m usually the happiest, but I’m learning to give it its time and walk away. For the children. For my family. For myself.

I’ve been blessed with a couple of opportunities to expand my writing horizons, so I am. And that’s one reason you haven’t seen much on this blog lately. Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but I’d like to think someone out there missed me! (OK, enough self-pity and searching for significance!)

I wish I had something profound to tell you tonight, but mostly I just wish you could experience the joy of our house, even in times of trouble. This is as close as I can get you. We can’t bring you to our house, so I’ve tried to bring our house to you.

Winter’s half over. Soon I’ll look back on February and wonder where the time went.

Until then, I hope to keep in better touch.

The secret of contentment can’t be in wiping noses, can it?

It’s the winter of my discontent. Poetic language is sometimes lost on me, so I’ve always thought there’s something about winter that makes a person discontented. For some reason, I dwell on all the things I want or don’t have more in the cold, snowy, dreary months of winter.

This winter, my discontent includes:

  • our house
  • our income
  • being a stay-at-home mom
  • my husband
  • the present
  • the future
  • church
  • seminary

And those are just the things that come to mind immediately. I know I’ve dwelt on other areas recently. Earlier this week, I was convinced I was not cut out for motherhood and God had no use for me in His kingdom. The reason? I’ve spent the better part of the last week battling illness (in myself) and wiping the children’s noses. This latter activity brings me no fulfillment whatsoever. So, I began to wonder, what use I could possibly be to the kingdom of God while wiping noses every couple of minutes. My heart longs for greater things; my mind has dreams of glory.

Somewhere inside me, I know that motherhood is a blessed gift, the HIGHEST calling maybe, but in this instant-gratification, microwave dinner world, the payoff of parenting is like slow roasting a turkey. I feel like I have to wait years before I’ll see any reward from this gig. I used to work in newspapers. The results of my labors were daily. Motherhood seems to be the same thing, day in, day out.

That’s not exactly fair. Our days are not boring by any means, but sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who experiences the madness, and what good is that to anyone else?

The apostle Paul said he had learned the secret of being content, and people usually follow that with his statement, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” So Christ is the secret to contentment, but how does that live itself out in my world? I know I ought to be content, but I’m not really sure how to get there. When I find myself wanting to be content, I discover something else with which I’m discontented.

And I’m a little afraid I’m going to spend my whole life like this — wanting what I can’t have or don’t have, wishing for another season of life, wondering why I’m not OK with life as it is instead of longing for life as I wish it was.

What are your secrets to contentment? How do you live with your life as it is while still hoping for better things to come?

Yesterday, three auction trucks pulled up in front of the house across the street. Our neighbor had been sick for a few weeks then was moved to an assisted living facility. Her family, it seems, had been through the house. What was left was left to the auction company to haul away.

Two trucks of stuff. One truck of garbage. A person’s whole life, as it were, all her possessions, gone in a day. Someone else determined what was important enough to keep, what could be sold and what should be thrown away.

Watching the process was sad, in a way, even though I didn’t know our neighbor at all. But it reminded me how quickly life passes, how easily “stuff” comes into our life and leaves it.

I’m trying to start this process myself in our house. One of my areas of discontentment is the size of our house compared to the amount of “stuff” we have. It’s not the house, really, that’s the problem; it’s our accumulation of things. I’ve begun boxing up things we aren’t using right now. I’ve started a give away bag. I’ve bagged up newspapers and magazines to recycle.

I’m not convinced it will solve my discontentment, but it’s a start.

When Shakespeare wrote the “winter of discontent” line, he meant that discontent was dying. I get it now. And I’m hoping that this really is the winter of my discontent.