Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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The older you get

Sometimes I’m surprised to learn the ages of athletes, especially when they’re the same age or younger than me. I think that because they are well-known and professionals in their field, they must be older than me.

I tend to think of Jesus as this older, father-like man. Maybe because of His wisdom and authority. But I realized recently that He was my age at the time of His ministry and death.

It was sort of a freeing revelation. Not sure why exactly. Maybe it gives me fewer excuses for obeying Him or stepping out in faith.

In a way, it makes me feel young. And full of life. No matter your age, it’s a great feeling!

Mommy 911

Moms with 2 or more kids, I need your help. I’m drowning here. I never imagined having 2 kids could be so hard. Maybe because you all make it look so easy?

I feel constantly pulled in two directions. It’s like the kids conspire against me to need something from me at the exact same time. The baby has a full diaper, and Isabelle’s suddenly starving or needs a glass of juice. Or Corban is nursing and Isabelle chooses that moment to want to sit on the potty. Or they’re both ready for lunch at the same time, and I’ve yet to figure out how to nurse and make a sandwich.

I feel like one of them is always getting shortchanged, and maybe that’s OK. I also feel like I’m just surviving and I want to enjoy this. It’s like I’m walking around half-asleep, half-starved and always thirsty, subsisting on whatever I can put in my mouth the fastest and easiest. Cheese, chocolate, granola bars, occasionally something healthy like a banana.

On my worst days — you know, the ones that end in “y” — I’m convinced that Isabelle will still be potty training when she’s 5 and Corban will still be refusing baby food when he’s 2.

Yesterday I talked with a mom whose kids are about the same age as mine and she practically bragged that her baby took two scheduled naps a day and was eating regular baby food meals. I wanted to hate her. Motherhood to two children didn’t seem to faze her. I’m sure she never lets her 2-year-old watch 4 episodes of “Dora” in a row, and I bet they always eat regularly scheduled meals at the kitchen table.

My husband helps when he’s not doing husbandly things — working, meetings, school prep, sleeping, watching sports. OK, that’s a bit unfair. He does help a lot, but he basically told me to get used to this. With two years of seminary left, a “real” job isn’t far off and he won’t be as available to help during the day as he has been.

So, ladies, can you offer any advice? Is it possible to keep two kids happy at the same time? Am I ruining them by denying what seems to be a basic request so I can take care of the other one? How do I do this day in, day out with losing my mind? (I know why they call those housewives on Wisteria Lane “desperate” — they have children!)

And, if there aren’t any good answers to these questions, could you just let me know I’m not alone? That you’ve been there, done that or are there right now?

This mom just needs a little encouragement.

Bad potatoes

A sticky, smelly goo pooled on the floor of the kitchen just underneath the stove.

“Has that been there long?” I asked my husband, somewhat rhetorically. He didn’t think so. We examined the goo, but because we were already running late for church, we ignored it till later.

“Is it getting worse?” I asked, later.

“Only one way to find out,” he said, wiping the goo from the floor.

Hours later, the goo was back. Thus began the search for the source of the goo. While I was in the living room putting our son to sleep, my husband, flashlight in hand, was in the kitchen trying to determine if the goo was oozing from underneath the stove or elsewhere.

Back in the living room with an upturned nose and a grimace on his face, he announced, “The potatoes.”

Ah, the potatoes. In an effort to find a dark place to keep them, off of the floor, out of reach of the toddler and baby, I had forgotten to take into account the warmth of our kitchen over multiple 90-degree days.

I realized that I had been smelling these rotten potatoes for a few days now, but given that not all of the dishes in the kitchen are clean, I thought I was smelling the griddle on which we had recently cooked salmon burgers. Even after the griddle was clean, I couldn’t pinpoint the smell, nor did I try to discover its source.

I offered to clean the mess up.

“It’s really gross,” my husband said. He bagged the potatoes and took them straight to the garbage. (Praise the Lord for the discovery of bad potatoes on garbage night!) I never saw the potatoes, only the residue they left.

The clean-up was gross, but nothing a little Fantastik with Oxy Clean and a Swiffer Wet Jet couldn’t handle.

I was a little annoyed at myself for not investigating the stench earlier. And I thought about how these bad potatoes are like the bad things in our lives. Attitudes, behaviors — sins, the Bible calls them — that we try to hide in the dark parts of our lives, hoping no one will discover them.

But eventually, we start to rot. And we stink, so to speak. And we ooze these hidden parts of our lives until we’re dripping with goo and can no longer hide the rottenness.

Maybe people turn up their noses at us, or hold us at arm’s length so as not to dirty themselves with us. Maybe they avoid us so they don’t have to come into contact with our stench.

And maybe there’s Someone willing to clean us up. To take out the trash and give us a good cleaning. And maybe He wants us to keep looking into the hidden parts of our lives to find more rotten stuff and get rid of it until we can’t find anymore rotten stuff.

Maybe His name is Jesus.

Who is my enemy?

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him. If he is thirsty, give him something to drink.”

My daughter showed me what this verse from Romans meant tonight. After a mini “Dora the Explorer” marathon, we went to wash dishes. And as we were washing dishes, she told me that Swiper needed a drink of water. And that he needed something to eat. And that he needed to go potty.

If you’re not familiar with “Dora,” as I wasn’t two weeks ago, Swiper is a fox, and he’s always trying to take things from Dora and her friends. (Say it with me, “Swiper, no swiping!”)

He seems to be the most memorable “Dora” character to Isabelle. She even wanted him to come brush his teeth with her as she got ready for bed tonight. I had to tell her that Swiper went home.

I don’t expect that a 2-year-old understands what “swiping” is or why it’s bad, but the lesson still resonated with me. She wanted to offer food and drink and shelter to a fox with a bad reputation. Me? I only wish I had that inclination.

Isabelle doesn’t know yet about enemies. She only has friends. I don’t have many known enemies. Last week in church, we talked about the “Who is my neighbor?” question asked as a lead-in to the parable of the Good Samaritan. I think it’s interesting that we don’t have to ask that question about our enemies. If God tells us to love our enemies, at least one face or name probably comes to mind.

I just finished reading Donald Miller’s “Blue Like Jazz.” (I know, I’m behind the curve for popular Christian literature.) So much of what he writes was stuff I should know but needed to hear in a new way, or stuff I think or do but am too afraid to admit. Anyway, he talked some about wanting Christian spirituality to rid his life of hate. And how he loved people who some Christians can’t imagine loving — liberals, homosexuals, hippies, Democrats.

Maybe it’s not always enemies we need to show kindness to, but people outside of our social, political and economic circles.

I want off

The first roller coaster type of ride I was ever on was Space Mountain at Disney World. I don’t remember when this was, but I was an older child, too old for this to have been my first experience with roller coasters. Years later, my brother, cousin and I would stand in line at Six Flags Great America to ride The Demon, which at the time would have been my first upside-down roller coaster if we hadn’t been too freaked out by a malfunction that left riders stranded on one of the loops. We picked another ride.

I wouldn’t say roller coasters are my favorite pastime. We joke around this house that if our daughter continues on her daredevil bent, then my husband will be the one to ride with her, even though he’s not the biggest fan of them either.

I’m not even sure what it is I don’t like. I’ve ridden several in my life and have fond associations of those times. I’m not really a big risk-taker. And I definitely don’t like to be out of control. I suppose those qualities contribute to my anti-roller coaster nature.

Lately I’ve been having a bit of a roller coaster emotional life. One day the world’s as great as can be; the next day I can hardly muster the strength to get on with my day. Some days there are reasons for either or both of these feelings. It’s possible I’m mildly depressed. Having kids can do that to you, I’m told.

But I’m tired of this ride. I want off, in a sense. More than that, I want to enjoy it. I don’t want to fear the clack-clack-clack as the coaster cars climb the hill, uncertain of what’s around the bend. I want to stop gripping the bar that holds me in with white knuckles and have the freedom to throw up my hands and let out a scream of pure exhilaration. I want to look the coaster in the face, so to speak, and tell it I’m not afraid. That I will ride it again and again and again and not lose my lunch.

My recent emotional ride reminds me of a story I once heard. I’ve posted it below. I want off the ride that lets my circumstances determine whether my day is good or bad, whether what happens to me is good for me or bad for me. The Bible says that God works for good in the lives of those who love and trust Him. I want to believe that even the worst things that happen can be worked out for good, even if when they happen, all I can think is how bad they are.

Once there was a farmer who  had one son and one horse.  One day his horse ran away.  When his neighbors heard about it, they came to comfort him. 

“Such bad luck- we’re sorry your only horse ran away.” they said.  

“Who is to say whether it’s good or bad, replied the farmer.  All I can say for sure is, my horse has run away.  Time will tell whether this is good or bad.”  

His neighbors just shook their heads and walked away.

A week later, his horse returned home-  along with 20 wild horses!!!

 His neighbors, upon hearing the news, came to congratulate him. 

“What good luck you have.  Not only did your horse return, but he brought with him 20 more.  Such a lucky man you are!”

“Who is to say whether it’s good or bad-  All I know is my horse has come home along with 20 wild horses-  and leave it at that.” 

Again, his neighbors shook their heads and  scoffed –  “Of course it’s good luck you old fool!  Twenty new horses is obviously good luck!”

The next week the  farmer’s son was out riding in the pen with the new horses, fell off and broke his leg. 

Upon hearing the news, the neighbors came over to comfort the farmer. 

“You were right- Those wild horses were not a sign of good fortune- now your son has broken his leg- and right before the harvest.  Such bad luck!”

 Again the farmer replied- “Why do you constantly want to label something as good or bad.  Why can’t you just say, ‘My son has broken his leg while riding a horse’ and leave it at that.  Who is to say whether it is good or bad?”

Upon hearing this, the neighbors were indignant.

“Listen old man, to have your son break his leg at this time is unfortunate and a sign of bad luck.  You are such a fool to think otherwise.”

The following week, an army came to town and drafted all the eligible young men, and sent them off to war in a far away place.  They did not take the farmer’s son on account of his broken leg.  Afterwards, the people were heartbroken and came to the farmer in tears.

“You were right. Our sons are gone, we’ll probably never see them again. Such bad luck our town has experienced!”

 The old farmer (again) said “Why do you continue to insist an event is good or bad?  We do not know the end from the beginning. Why can’t you just say, Our sons have been drafted, and only time will tell if it is good or not.”

Who the (bleep) are you?

Sometimes it’s annoying being a writer. You hear a phrase, see a word, look at a picture and without warning or permission, your mind begins putting sentences, thoughts, ideas, stories together. And until you let them flow out of your fingers to paper or screen, you are weighed down with them. That’s how it is for me, anyway.

My husband and I were watching “Leap Year” one day last week, and in the movie, there’s a scene where the Irish hero of the story is trying to help Amy Adams’ character get her luggage back from a group of goons. (Goons … that’s my nod to the Myerstown Herald for anyone who has read that poor excuse for a newspaper.) Adams is trying to convince them to give her the luggage back and her traveling companion enters the room with his two cents about the situation. One of the goons replies, “Who the (bleep) are you?”

I’ve heard this phrase so many times before but only that day did it trigger something in my mind. The goons knew who they were dealing with in Adams — she was the girl from whom they stole the luggage. This guy, though? Who was he? And why was he butting in? She had every right to fight for her belongings. What did he have to do with it?

It reminded me of a couple of instances in the Bible where authority is questioned. Jesus, after his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, cleared out the temple of those who were using it for personal gain. His actions created no few enemies among the synagogue leaders of the day. He was teaching in the temple and the leaders came to him, asking, “By what authority are you doing these things?” and “Who gave you this authority?” (Matthew 21:23)

In modern parlance, they might as well have asked the same question the goons in the movie did: “Who the (bleep) are you?” A better question, had they known, would have been: “Who in heaven are you?”

They needed Jesus’ credentials to perform miracles, clear the temple, even teach. Their authority was threatened, so they questioned his.

Another time, recorded in Acts, in the life of the early church, seven sons of a Jewish chief priest tried to cast out demons. Acts 19:13-15 says:

“Some Jews who went around driving out evil spirits tried to invoke the name of the Lord Jesus over those who were demon-possessed. They would say, ‘In the name of Jesus, whom Paul preaches, I command you to come out.’ Seven sons of Sceva, a Jewish chief priest, were doing this. (One day) the evil spirit answered them, ‘Jesus I know, and I know about Paul, but who are you?'”

The sons then received the worst beating of their lives from the demon-possessed man, and people were in awe of the name of the Lord. Verse 17 says “the name of the Lord Jesus was held in high honor.”

I don’t know all the ins and outs of that passage and what it means for us, but I know that we are not to use God’s name lightly. At the same time, though, we, Christians, do have some authority in talking about matters of faith. That’s not the same as having all the answers. The more answers I think I have, the more questions I come up with.

I am an authority on my life, however. I know what the Lord has done for me. How He has changed me, held me, grown me, supported me, disciplined me, carried me and blessed me. Of those things, I can confidently speak. Beyond that, I must humbly admit that only God knows. Only He knows why certain things happen in our lives. Only He knows the breakthroughs that are about to occur. Only He can see the end of a situation that to us seems neverending.

Who I am is no contest to who He is.

If Momma ain’t happy …

I walked out on my family today. Sure, it was just for 10 minutes so I could talk a walk around the block and regain some sanity, but in a way, I felt like I was quitting. I could say it’s been a rough week, but I’m not sure that it has. Some really neat things happened this week — conversations that I wouldn’t have expected, deeper friendship, openness to meeting new people, a greater glimpse of God at work in me, my family, this community. Despite a week where the high temperature reached 97-99 four days in a row, I’d call it a great week.

So, what gives? Why did I flip out today? I thought the walk would have helped, and it did somewhat. It prevented me from further yelling at my daughter because she wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace, not even to go to the bathroom. But even after the walk, I still ended up a ball of blubbering tears because Corban wouldn’t take his afternoon nap and I had no idea what to make for supper. I felt like a big, fat, motherhood failure with a capital F. I ran to our bedroom, locked the door and curled up on the bed, seeking just a minute or two of solitude and maybe a wink or two of sleep. My heart cried out to God, the only One to whom I can be 100 percent transparent without fear of judgment.

When it was over, this assault on my mind, I felt like I’d been held by my heavenly Father for a few minutes. Why should this surprise me? Didn’t Jesus say, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

Rest. For my body. For my soul. Both have been lacking, but the absence of the rest I’ve needed for my soul threw my entire world out of perspective today. I was spiritually tired and willing to believe any thought that entered my mind.

Those same verses, paraphrased in The Message, illustrate for me a better way to live my life.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

“The unforced rhythms of grace” — what a concept. I thought of that as Isabelle helped me with the dishes. She doesn’t do everything the way I want her to. Sometimes she messes up. Do I get angry at her for that? Or do I calmly explain and show her a better way? I know what God would do with me.

So much of how each day with the children goes depends on my attitude, I’m learning. If I start the day pessimistic, worried, anxious, tired or stressed, then chances are, the kids are going to pick up on that. It really is true, that old saying, “If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

We took another walk tonight, me and the children. All the way around the “moo-cow” block as we sometimes call it. Isabelle didn’t dawdle as much. The weather didn’t bother me as much. She listened to my calm suggestions to stay on the grass and away from the fence, to not run too far ahead of me. We missed, by minutes, getting hit by a baseball that went foul from the park. It hit a parked car where we’d walk just a little bit before. We were gone for 45 minutes or so, and it was lovely.

Attitude, certainly, is everything. And mine can only be right when I take time for spiritual rest.

Gentle. Humble. Easy. Light. These are the things Jesus promises about walking and working with Him. When life is any other way, I fear it’s because I’m trying to do life without Him.

“Apart from me, you can do nothing,” Jesus also said.

I don’t want my life to be nothing. Or hard. Or heavy.

Come to Him, I must.

Waiting game

I’ve discovered the antidote to a good day. It’s the word “no” especially when directed at my 2-year-old daughter. If she even senses that I’m about to use the word “no” in response to her request, she prepares to throw a fit. What’s more, she responds the same way to the word “wait.” In her mind, “wait” and “no” are equally disappointing. Only immediate obedience to her request is acceptable. Funny how it doesn’t work the other way around. I nearly carried her the whole way when we went for a walk around the block today because I had no patience for her dawdling.

Ah, patience. A lost art, right? Or maybe it’s a discipline. Definitely a discipline. Art sounds more fun, and patience is not fun. I guess my daughter and I agree on something. Hearing “wait” is almost as bad as hearing “no.” And boy do I want to pitch a fit sometimes when I sense that God is telling me to wait on something. As I remind my daughter time and again, “wait” and “no” are not the same thing. “Wait” just means I need a little more time to fulfill your request.

One of the hardest waiting games I played with God was for Phil. We were friends for nearly four years before we started dating, and in that time, I pined for him. God said, “Wait.” Reluctantly, I did, even giving up on him a couple of times and turning my attention to other men who were around. When a bombshell hit Phil’s life, I knew then why God had told me to wait. I still wasn’t sure that we’d end up together, but I knew that God had His reasons. Three months before we started dating, I realized I loved Phil, and acknowledging that to myself was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do because I knew that if we weren’t together that I would lose his friendship, too. I could not be just friends with a man I knew I loved. Especially if he loved someone else. The stuff of romance novels and great dramatic movies this was. Or so it felt at the time.

Obviously, we did end up together, and I don’t at all regret listening to God and waiting on His timing. He worked it out more perfectly than I could have. Once again, I’m facing a couple of timing frustrations. God is surely saying, “Wait” where one situation is concerned, yet right now it feels like it might as well be a “no,” and on the other, I’m still not sure. If it’s a “no” I’ll be crushed. I think.

I’d like to think I’m mature enough spiritually to not throw a fit, but I know better than that. I will whine and cry and try to force Him to give me what I want, or think I want, right now, not days, months or years from now when it might be better for me. I will pout and try to manipulate Him into feeling guilty for not giving my desire to me.

And I will be reminded of this: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” Psalm 37:4, NIV

If I know God, though, He may change the desires of my heart, especially if I spend my time delighting in Him.

If you can’t stand the heat …

… move to Alaska, or Maine, or Canada. The temperature hit 99 today. Ugh. And it’s supposed to be in the 90s all week. Given that I’m not all that fond of double-digit snowfalls and below-zero temperatures either, I’m thinking that moving north would not improve my discontent with the weather.

I don’t tolerate heat well, and I think my children are following somewhat. Whenever the temperature is high and the humidity likewise, our house seems less of a happy home. We’re more tired and less patient, eager to be outside but unwilling to roast our pale complexions in the sun. I’m the most guilty. I determined this morning to not turn the air conditioner on until it was absolutely necessary and by 3 p.m., it was. The damage to my mood was done by then. Isabelle wanted to go outside and do chalk, which I finally consented to at 5:45 p.m. The temperature at that point was at its highest, but my husband kindly withheld that information. Nobody wanted to eat much dinner, especially if it was warm in any way.

Does this happen in anyone else’s house?

And today’s only Monday. Anticipating that the heat/mood problem will likely worsen as the week goes on, I’m trying to think of ways to stay cool. Here’s my list so far:

Head to the mall. Isabelle can run free in A/C while I push Corban in the stroller. Downside: I’d be tempted to buy something with money we don’t have.

Phone a friend, especially one with a pool, wading or otherwise, or even a sprinkler. Our otherwise mostly perfect rental home has no outside hose hookup. I’m told sprinklers make just about anything better.

Liquid diet. Popsicles, milkshakes, smoothies … a brain freeze sounds pretty good right about now. Downside: Extra calories and sugar. Although maybe I’ll sweat enough to counteract it.

Indoor picnic. Lunch on a blanket in the living room, the coolest room in the house because the window air conditioner lives there.

Any other ideas? We’re talking inexpensive (free if possible), creative and fun ways to beat the heat with a 2-year-old and a 7-month-old, with or without leaving the house.

Help, please! Before I pack up our stuff and head north!

What’s your sign?

As the Fourth of July holiday nears, I’ve noticed the number of American flags increases. Actually, I started noticing it around Memorial Day. Most of our neighbors seem to have small ones lining their flower beds in their front yards. The flags are so prevalent I asked my husband, “Did we miss the free flag giveaway?” Last night on our walk around the block, we noticed a neighbor had put up a flag on a very short flagpole. The flag was just barely touching the ground while hanging limp from this too-short pole. We shared a look that indicated our appreciation for the effort at patriotism but disappointment for the execution. My husband, a veteran, is passionate about properly and respectfully displaying the flag.

Is it ironic, then, that we don’t have an American flag on display? I wonder if our neighbors, whose lawns are covered with small American flags, would consider us unpatriotic or un-American? I don’t much care if they do think that because flag or no flag, my love for my country is what it is.

So it is with symbols of my faith. I went through a couple of cross necklace phases (and a WWJD bracelet phase) but over time I abandoned those outward declarations, preferring to let my life speak for itself. (Disclaimer: I have no problem with anyone who chooses to wear a cross necklace, earrings or bracelets of any kind that proclaim a message about the Christian faith.) Granted, my life hasn’t always spoken well of the faith I profess, but I think sometimes the symbols immediately closed doors of conversation where without them, they could have been opened. Sure, the cross is offensive to those who don’t believe, but do we want people to be offended by us before we even have a chance to get to know them?

The Bible says people will know we are Christians by our love for one another, not by our jewelry, T-shirts, bumper stickers or fish magnets. (Or for my PA Dutch readers, by the black bumpers on our minivans.) If we aren’t loving each other in the church, and loving people outside the church, then the symbols of our faith that we wear will mean nothing to anyone.

I’m becoming more aware of how loudly my actions speak. What good does it do me to call myself a Christian if I don’t help those in need, pray for the hurting, visit the lonely and comfort the broken-hearted?

I’m reading this book, “Amish Grace,” about the shooting that happened at an Amish school near here several years ago, and how the families affected by this tragedy demonstrated forgiveness to the killer and his family. The authors describe how forgiveness is woven into the lives of the Amish for generations and is taught by example even to young children. It’s an essential attribute of their faith and lives, so when tragedy struck, they didn’t have to think hard about exhibiting forgiveness. That’s not to say it was easy, but they knew it was the right thing to do.

What is it about my life people will see? And will it move them closer to Christ? Most days I feel broken, unworthy and unable to carry the living water the Lord so freely offers. I mess up. I ignore. I judge. I dismiss. I see an opportunity and I pass it right on by. At least I’m honest, right?

Really, I guess what I’m saying is I don’t need to display a flag once a year or from Memorial Day to Labor Day to prove I’m patriotic, and I don’t need a cross necklace or a fish magnet on my car to prove I’m a Christian. Neither of those acts go very far in my mind to prove anybody’s commitment to anything.

In short, let your life speak, even if you think it doesn’t have much to say.