Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Mockingbird

“I’m going to Zanzibar,” Isabelle announced tonight at the dinner table. “I’m taking the car. I get groceries.” Phil and I looked at each other, smiled and told her we’d see her when she got back.

A month ago, I couldn’t have told you Zanzibar existed. Now, thanks to the Internet, I know it’s an island in the Indian Ocean off the eastern coast of Africa. Why is Zanzibar suddenly a household word? It’s in a Muppets-themed book Isabelle got at a garage sale recently.

This time last week, she sat at the table eating her dinner, asking, “I look stupid to you?” We repeatedly told her not to say that because it wasn’t nice, but the more we acknowledged her, the funnier she thought it was. So, we ignored her, all the while trying to figure out where she would have heard a phrase like that. Later that night, I had a revelation. She’d been watching “A Bug’s Life,” and one of the grasshopper characters says, “Do I look stupid to you?”

Oy. Our house isn’t one for coarse or offensive language (though I was really close to swearing the other day when I stubbed my toe in the kitchen), nor do we often have any TV programs on in Isabelle’s presence that would contain that sort of language, so I’m confident she won’t pick that up from us, if she ever does. But I’ve suddenly become aware of just how spongy her little mind is and how much influence her books, movies and the people in her life have on her. And whether she knows what something means or not, she’s going to repeat it.

It’s a reminder to me of how spongy my brain is, too, even if at times it feels more like a worn-out, full-of-holes sponge than one brand-new out of the wrapper. What I see and hear daily enters my brain, and if it isn’t good, then that will affect my whole being. That’s why sometimes I just have to listen to Christian music or read a good book (especially THE Good Book). Too much bad stuff brings me down.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8)

This verse is often quoted, but I wish I had it memorized so I could train my mind to stay on the right path. I’d love to be able to have a word picture for each of the “whatever” clauses.

Isabelle comes by her sponginess honestly. My parents probably don’t know this story, but I have a clear memory of using a “naughty” word at school one time simply because I didn’t know what it meant. I had been watching a program on TV — some sort of cop show — and the arresting officer told a colleague to “take these
b—–ds away,” referring to the criminals. Sometime later, on the playground, during a game that included jail time, I hollered to a teammate the same phrase, thinking that the “b” word in this case was a synonym for criminals. My friends quickly “shushed” me and looked around to see if any adults had heard me. That was my first clue that maybe I should figure out what a word means before I use it, especially in public.

Given the world we live in, I know it’s only a matter of time before Isabelle hears a “bad” word and repeats it, but I’m hoping that day is later rather than sooner. Still, I’m praying now for the wisdom to not freak out, like my friends on the playground, but to keep the lines of communication open so we can talk about what’s appropriate.

 She’s only two, but kids seem to grow up so fast these days (can I get an “Amen”?) and seem to know more than they should at a young age.

To quote Psalm 19:14: “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord” and may they be words I wouldn’t mind hearing come out of my daughter’s mouth.

Worth the mess

Isabelle and I made a pie tonight. Correction: I made a pie; Isabelle made a mess. This is one of my biggest struggles right now in parenting a 2-year-old. She’s eager to help and wants to do EVERYTHING by herself, even stuff she’s not supposed to. Like give her little brother his medicine, or use scissors to open a package.

While I gathered the ingredients for the crust, she dived right in, dipping the 1 cup measurer that I needed for the flour in the shortening. After I measured the flour, she dumped half of the 1/4 cup on her chair, covering the chair pad and herself. As she stirred the flour and salt, I wondered if I could make a crustless pie, just in case the rest of the flour ended up on the floor as well.

She let me let her “help” with the pastry blender, then insisted on having her own fork to stir as I added the water. She kept asking if she could taste it, and despite my repeated “no” answers, I’m pretty sure she sneaked a few bites.

When it came time to pick through the berries, there was no sneaking involved. If she ate one blackberry, she ate 12. “Mommy, I need another one,” she said, over and over again. I relented. Maybe we should have had more for supper than salad and toast with peanut butter. She helped stir the sugar mixture into the berries. The recipe said “gently stir.” We didn’t quite achieve “gently” but most of the berries still look like berries, so I guess that’s a success.

She threw a fit when I wouldn’t let her help cut the lattice strips.  I had to draw the line somewhere. I’d love to be able to tell you that I patiently instructed my daughter in the ways of pie making and that we had a lovely mother-daughter bonding moment because of it. In reality, I was rushed, frustrated and impatient.

And I was reminded again how far I am from treating my daughter like God treats me. I insist on doing life my own way, on “helping” Him accomplish His will in my life. And I make a terrible mess of things. Yet He cleans up after me, or really, helps me to clean up my own mess, again and again. And He gives me more chances to work with Him on the work He is doing. He gives me so much grace, so much room to fail. Who am I to insist on perfection from a 2-year-old?

We’re taking the pie to dinner with friends tomorrow.

It looks great. Even if the taste doesn’t live up to the look, at least I’ll be able to tell them that Isabelle helped. And maybe, just maybe, that will do a little to build confidence in her.

And, Lord willing, it will lay the foundation for many mother-daughter bonding moments to come.

Father, may I?

A friend recently told me that 2 1/2 is a special age. We’re finding that out with Isabelle. Her imagination is expanding. We frequently have a baby and an Elmo join us at the dinner table, and she brings them to her table to play Play-Doh. And she sings made-up songs. Or a combination of made-up songs.

She’s also becoming increasingly inquisitive. Besides asking, “Mommy, what’s that?” she also frequently asks permission to do all sorts of things. “Mommy, can I?” is an oft-heard phrase around here. Sometimes, it’s appropriate, like, “Mommy, can I watch ‘Barney’?” Other times, it’s not. “Mommy, can I finish my dinner?” is not a question that needs to be asked. Am I going to say “No” to that? Some of her questions are met with a “yes,” others will always be answered “No,” like “Mommy, can I ride in the back seat?” when we’re in the van negotiating our little lawyer into her car seat before we start the car.

Her questions make me think of how I talk to God. Sometimes I think I ask Him questions I already know the answer to. Like, do I really need His permission to help someone in need, or start a conversation, or smile at a stranger? Or any other number of things that would always get a “Yes” from Him. Conversely, I know that some things are always going to generate a “No.”  Can I hold a grudge? Can I be bitter? Is it OK for me to envy that person a little? Can I temporarily disown my husband while he’s engrossed in watching World Cup soccer matches and shouting at the TV or computer?

We’re studying prayer in our Sunday School class right now, and this week we learned that obedience to God opens the lines of communication with Him while sin and disobedience close those lines. In some ways, it’s like when my daughter whines for something she wants. I sometimes tell her I can’t hear her when she talks like that. Or if she forgets “the magic word” when she demands we fulfill a request, we wait until we hear it before letting her have what she’s asked for.

God is the ultimate parent and being a parent has deepened my relationship with Him because I see so much more from His point of view what it must be like to watch His children grow in their faith. How much patience, love, instruction, discipline and work is involved, and how He cares for us.

I didn’t intend for this to be a Father’s Day post, but it’s sort of turning into that. I wonder if God celebrates Father’s Day or if for Him, every day is Father’s Day.

God ruined my life

It’s been no secret that lately I’ve been struggling with being a mom to my kids … feeling overwhelmed, underqualified, impatient, tired and exasperated. Then I had a wake-up call and my attitude has changed. The past week has been one of the best weeks with my kids (minus the tantrums my 2-year-old threw over the weekend at bedtime). This change of heart and mind was confirmed by the sermon I heard on Sunday.

I will admit that I cannot remember much about what our pastor said, but one phrase stuck out. I can’t remember the context, either. (Sorry, Pastor Dave. Saturday night was a rough one with Izzy.) But I recall hearing something about God invading our lives, and something in my mind clicked with that concept.

I remember exactly how God took over my life, when I let Him, but He began invading it long before then. He was wooing me from a young age, through my uncle, my grandparents and friends. I just didn’t get it until I was 19. Actually, I’m not sure I totally “get it” now, but I know one thing: I’m not the same as I was then.

God ruined my life. At least, the life I was living. I was depressed, insecure, desperate for love, on the verge of jumping into a sexually loose lifestyle and ignorant of who I was or  what I wanted out of life.

God changed all of that. He gave me joy, security, unfailing love, purity, acceptance, purpose and hope. He ruined the path I was on, and I am forever grateful.

In a similar way, my children have ruined my life. They, too, invaded my life and took over. In a whole new way, my life is not my own. They’ve ruined me for selfishness, laziness, monotony, greed, and independence. Without them in my life, I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, anytime I wanted. I could spend all the money I had on myself and be my own person. Those things are attractive, sometimes, and please don’t think I’m in any way condemning or judging you if you don’t have children. I just know myself and how I would be as a person if God hadn’t given me children.

Sometimes I’m frustrated that my schedule revolves around theirs, that I have to share whatever I’m eating or drinking with my daughter if I’m consuming it while she’s awake, that I can’t even go to the bathroom without her opening the door or calling out, “Mommy, where are you?” And, at times, I’m a little jealous that I have to buy the kids new clothes every few months while my tired wardrobe decays further in my closet. (Except for the new pieces I got for my birthday; thanks Mom and Grandma!)

I may not have known what I was in for when my husband and I decided to have children (at least the first one!) but I knew sacrifice would be involved. The same is true of my faith. In both cases, I can’t stay the same person I was or even do a lot of the things I used to do. Most of the time, that’s a good thing.

I like this song “Miracle” by Audio Adrenaline. The chorus says:

“You took my dreams
And stole my schemes
And turned my life upside down
You took my heart
Stole every part
And made it a miracle”

I wouldn’t trade this miraculous life for what it was before, but when I entertain the thought of going back, I have to remember that this was no hostile takeover of my life. With God and with my kids, I surrendered the ground I was holding and welcomed the invasion.

A week’s worth of thoughts

I’ve had a lot running through my mind this week and little time to write out my thoughts. So, lucky you, if you’re reading this, you get to take a peek at a week in the life of my brain. Try not to be afraid.

— I haven’t had as much sleep this week as I would like. Early in the week, Isabelle decided to assert her 2-year-old independence and boldly declare, “No, I not go to sleep” at bed time. This, followed by an hour or more of screaming, “I want my mommy” and throwing herself around her room, passing out in various areas of her room. One night, she fell asleep in the middle of the floor. Tonight confirmed one of my fears about this … she passed out in front of the door to her room, so I woke her up (by nudging the door into her head) when I went in to put Corban to sleep. The experts, doctors, I guess, say one reason for this sort of behavior is because they don’t want to miss out on what’s going on. Isabelle played that card tonight, conning me into letting her take a book and a Bible to bed with her, then desperately asking for anything she could think of to delay bedtime. As her mother, I disapprove of her antics, knowing that sleep is what’s best for her. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m guilty of the same. God repeatedly tells me to rest, and I repeatedly tell him, “But, the dishes aren’t done.” Or, “I need this time on Facebook to relax after a long day.” Or, “I deserve to stay up late and have ‘me’ time after being with the kids all day.” Rest, He says. And I know He knows what is best.

— Isabelle broke a glass in the kitchen this week. She didn’t do it on purpose. I think she was reaching for a dirty dish that she wanted to wash when it crashed to the floor. I rushed her out of the room while I picked up and swept the pieces I could see. I knew I needed to do a better job than that, but I just didn’t feel like it then. I was alone in the house with the kids and I didn’t want to have to play keep away from the kitchen with Isabelle while I tried to sweep and mop the whole floor. I paid for that decision all week. Four times, I stepped on a small piece of glass and had to dig it out with tweezers, wash the wound and affix a band-aid to the bottom of my foot. A few extra minutes when the breakage occurred could have saved me later, as could have a decision to wear shoes in the kitchen until I did. Reminds me of two things: that every decision has a consequence, good or bad and small wounds can cause big hurt.

— I’m having an increasing desire to “do life together” with people, and I’m not confident of being able to fulfill that desire where we’re at. Or maybe I just need to take more initiative. I said earlier this week that I was missing a sense of belonging. I know as a Christian I don’t belong here on earth, but I have to live here till I’m called home, and while I’m here, I want to know I’m part of something. I feel that on Sundays, most of the time. But the rest of the week, not so much. I’m not sure what the answer is, but I was grateful today to be able to hang out with a friend and her daughters. It was unplanned and unscheduled, but it was fun to connect, even though we were just “being.”

— My husband and I accepted a challenge this week, thanks to One Extraordinary Marriage, http://www.oneextraordinarymarriage.com. It’s totally out of my comfort zone, but I’m learning that I’ll do anything to strengthen my marriage. We’ve only been married three years, and while I know there is a cord holding us together (Ecclesiastes 4:12), sometimes that cord feels more like a kite string than a rope. I’m excited to see what’s changed after a week.

— I’ve been struggling with disappointment over things I thought should have happened but haven’t. I believe that God is in control and will not fail us, but acting on that belief isn’t always easy. I need to tear up my agenda for our lives and submit to His leading. Ugh. I can hardly even type that without throwing an internal tantrum.

I could probably go on, but my Swiss cheese mommy brain needs a break and can only think, “Oh, the laundry’s done,” and “It’s time for a snack!” And maybe I’ll listen to my Father for once and turn in early for some much-needed rest.

The most important thing

A life ended yesterday, a life I didn’t know well but can’t help but mourn.

Death is so common yet so surprising when it happens. We all know it’ll come to us someday. None of us can escape it, but until an “unexpected” death happens, we forget that for any of us, any day could be our last.

This death hit home because he was not much older than my parents. And he was a church leader. And he was a husband to a wife, father to children.

I believe God knows the time each of us will die, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying that someday my husband won’t come home from work or one of us will get cancer or whatever else I can (and try not to) imagine might bring death to our door.

I take for granted that I’ll have another day. Sometimes I put off till tomorrow what I should do now, thinking I’ll always have time. While processing through the death of this man, I urgently want to do practical things like buy a life insurance policy and create a will so my children will be taken care of if my husband and I die while they are young.

More importantly, I want to do everything God wants me to do when He wants me to do it. To stop slacking as a Christian and seek Him with all that I am, eager to obey.

We just watched an episode of “Biggest Loser” where the final four contestants had to run a marathon as their last challenge. I’m not a runner nor do I want to be, but I noticed something about these people as they approached the finish line.

They were tired from having run 26+ miles, but when they saw the finish line, some of them sprinted. Somewhere within them, they found an extra burst of energy to carry them across the finish line. They didn’t want to limp or drag or walk across the finish line; they intended to run and finish well.

The apostle Paul encouraged the early church with running metaphors. This verse came to mind as I watched the show: “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” (1 Corinithians 9:24, NIV)

Only one Biggest Loser contestant could finish first, but all who finished received a prize. For the Christian, there is no first or last, but all who finish will be rewarded. I don’t want to be found limping, crawling or walking toward my heavenly reward. I want to run!

Being tired is no excuse. Again, Paul said to the early believers:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9, NIV)

I don’t consider myself old by any means, but I know that I am getting older and that tomorrow is no guarantee. Tragedies like yesterday’s, though, cement that reality in my mind.

And I think of these words from James:

“Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” (James 4:13-14)

I’m guilty of planning ahead, of thinking about what will happen in our lives tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. I want to be prepared, but I’ve learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to God. At the same time, I know I can expect to die sometime, so I should leave nothing unsaid, nothing undone that God wants me to say or do.

I know that if I fail, that won’t keep me from heaven, but I want to end each day knowing that I did what God wanted and if it was His choosing to take me, I’d be ready.

Others who knew him better have said this man lived that way, that he was ready. So, really, his life didn’t end yesterday; it’s just beginning.

Knowing that for certain is the most important thing.

Call me Eeyore

I’m in a bit of a motherhood funk. After literally wrestling our 2-year-old to bed last night, and waking up at 3:30 a.m. for the teething baby, I’d like to chalk it up to being tired, but I’m not so sure. I find myself increasingly irritated, less patient and exhaling frequent heavy sighs. Sometimes, in public. Usually these attitudes I confine to the house, where only passersby or neighbors could hear me lose it with my kids. I almost always cry after it happens, upset with myself for growing so upset.

I can’t even totally pinpoint the problem. I told my husband this morning that part of it boils down to expectations. I have high hopes for the day — for what we can accomplish, for how I’m going to react, for how the kids are going to behave — and 15 minutes or less after we’re all up, those hopes are shot for the rest of day. I could lower my expectations, but that always feels a little bit defeatist, like I’m giving up on any chance of having a good day, but if it happens, then good for us.

It’s also a control issue. I have absolutely no control over my daughter, as evidenced by her repeatedly ignoring my requests to go throw away her juice box in the kitchen garbage. When my husband tells her the same thing, she obeys immediately. Thus, another sigh from me. I realize my attitude has gotten out of hand, though, because this morning, she yelled at me from her room, “Mommy, come here, right now!” When I didn’t respond immediately, she repeated her command. She must have gotten that from somewhere. I’ll confront the guilty party next time I see her in the mirror.

Babies are needy. I know this. I remember our daughter being that way, but I just didn’t think about what it would be like to have two children need you at the same time. And a teething baby is super needy. Thus, another sigh from me, and spiraling thoughts of negativity and hopelessness.

I know, as a Christian, I’m supposed to exhibit joy. But does that mean I have to plaster a smile on my face and keep my problems to myself? How do I show others I have joy when I feel trapped in a state of discontent, disappointment and discouragement. Sometimes I cringe when Christians are told they’re supposed to be joyful always because I think we take that and distort it and do the mask thing. Then we appear to have no problems and no one wants to talk us because they think our lives are perfect. Where the balance lies, I don’t know.

But I think of Naomi, the mother-in-law in the book of Ruth, who loses her husband and sons to death in a land that is not her home; who returns home with a daughter-in-law who wouldn’t leave her; and when greeted by her old friends says, “Call me Mara (meaning bitter), for the Lord has made life bitter for me.” (Ruth 1:20, NLT) That’s certainly not a testimony of God’s faithfulness. The story doesn’t end there, of course, and I know mine isn’t over either. But I appreciate the example of someone dealing with extreme emotion and expressing it to others.

The funk will pass. I feel better having written about it, as usual. Sometimes just airing it makes the weight of it lighter.

I love my kids. And I’m grateful to be able to take care of them. Someday they won’t need me as much, and maybe I’ll look back on these days with longing. Or maybe I’ll be able to live out these words of God:

“Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert
and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:18-19)

That’s a word for me, now, too. A new thing. I can hardly wait.

The myth of happily ever after

Three years ago today, I married the love of my life. I celebrated by taking both children to a WIC appointment by myself, then to the doctor so my 2-year-old could be diagnosed with ringworm, then to two grocery stores, where said 2-year-old threw a fit by throwing groceries out of the cart, all in 90-degree heat. And that was all before noon. Now, both kids are in bed, presumably asleep, and I’m dripping sweat onto the computer as I consider how to spend the rest of the evening. I’m tempted to just go to bed. I could use the sleep. But the house my husband so lovingly cleaned for us before we returned home is a tornadic disaster, and we’ve only been back one full day. Ah, life with children.

Aforementioned 2-year-old is showing a wild, independent streak. Tonight, she put her own supper away. (Miraculously, none of it ended up on the floor.) And she insisted on feeding her brother, not yet 6 months old, by herself. Needless to say, we were all a sticky mess after that was over.

Does anyone think this is what their life will be like when they get married? Toys strewn across the floor. Stepping over said toys on the floor. Stubbing toes on toys you forgot were on the floor. (This happened more than once tonight.) Wolfing down dinner because everyone, including the baby, is hungry at the same time. An hour or more to run errands that by yourself would take 15 minutes. Craving adult companionship while your husband is surrounded by friends, colleagues and brothers and sisters in Christ.

I promise, I’m not depressed. I can’t imagine not having my kids around, even if I sometimes can imagine what life would be like without them. I’m occasionally jealous of married couples who get to take a weekend to celebrate their anniversary. Since we’ve been married, I think our biggest celebration has been dinner and a movie. It’s OK. It’s life. It’s where we’re at. I know someday we’ll be able to do something special, and the time between now and then won’t seem long at all.

Three years isn’t a lot of time to gain wisdom about marriage and relationships, but I gave up the “Happily Ever After” myth a long time ago. People talk about the honeymoon phase. In some ways, I’m not sure we ever had that. But I certainly don’t view weddings the same as I did before I was married. I used to cry because I so badly wanted to be married. Now, I sit in the pew and think, do they have any idea how much work this is? I’m sure I’ll be real popular in any premarital counseling Phil and I do together.

But it’s true: Marriage is hard work. And I don’t think that ever stops. I know some marriages don’t last five years, and I wonder if some of those people were deceived about how much work goes into making a marriage … work. As I told a bride-to-be recently, some of the best pre-wedding wisdom I ever received was that marriage is not a 50-50 partnership; it’s 100-100. We don’t give half of what we are and the other person gives half of what they are. We both give everything we have to each other and to the relationship. I guess for some people that’s too much.

Enough rambling. I think my brain was melted by the heat today. All I really wanted to say was that I love my husband more today than three years ago, and different than I did then, and if we had to get married again, and I knew what I know now, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. God picked the perfect man for me, although he, and I, both are far from perfect.

Maybe happily ever after isn’t so much a myth but a distortion because I’m certainly happy in my marriage, but it’s not a no-problems-everything’s-perfect kind of happy.

It’s a satisfying, real-life, kind of happy. No castles, no fairy godmothers, just two people, madly in love, working out that love day after day.

There’s no place like home

Aren’t they cute? OK, so I’m biased. But I thank God for these two squirmy, can’t-sit-still-for-a-second, bundles of energy, every day. Especially today. They’re total troopers. After two days of traveling, riding in a car, strapped in their seats, with not much entertainment except a DVD player for the 2-year-old and a few toys and a taggie blanket for the baby, they’re both sound asleep in their own beds, in their own room. I’m soon to follow, if the caffeine I ingested all afternoon works its way out of my system.

Even with our stuff still a little out of place, it’s good to be home. Our own beds. Our own schedules. Our own comforts. Our own quirks, like the living room lamp that suddenly switches itself on and off every few minutes. And the shower that runs REALLY hot for a few seconds then turns ice cold for 10 minutes then warms up to a tolerable temperature, if you make it that long in the shower.

I missed these things, and others, while we were visiting family. And now that I’m here, I miss things about there. Constant companionship. Emotional support. A stocked fridge. (Grocery shopping here is scheduled for tomorrow.) I even miss the dumb dog a little bit.

Maybe I should feel blessed to have two places that I love so much. Actually, this is the third place we’ve lived as a couple. Although we didn’t stay long in the last town we lived in, we made lifelong friends and our daughter was born there, so it, too, holds a special place in our hearts. I knew going into this journey toward pastoral ministry that settling in wasn’t necessarily part of the deal. Some pastors stay in one place for a long, long time. Others, not so much. I think we’re in the latter category. Not that we’re short-timers by any means, but I don’t think we’ll spend 25 years at one church. God could change that, but that’s how I see it now. So, this leaving pieces of ourselves all over the country is just getting started. Our son was born here, and we are making lifelong friends again. This, too, will be one of many “homes” we have along the way.

There’s a song by Andrew Peterson, “Venus,” that really touches my husband and me (one of many of his, really) and while it’s descriptive of Peterson’s call to Christian music ministry, we can identify with it as future full-time pastoral ministers. Part of the lyrics are:

“Well I’ve never seen the spirit wind,
But I have seen the tall grass bend
So I’ll follow it wherever it may bring us
And as long as I’ve got songs to sing
I hope somebody’s listening
‘Cause we can always find a home right here between us”

Looking at those kids above, and thinking of my husband, I know that “home,” for now, will always be where they are. Ruby slippers or not, there really is no place like it.

Worlds Apart

It’s bed time. My daughter is screaming her head off downstairs in the bed that’s been hers for the last four weeks. She insists she’s not tired. I insist she is. I’m not sure who wins when I walk away feeling like a bad mother who is torturing her child while she screams and cries herself to sleep.

Inside, I know how she feels, and part of me wants to throw a fit, too. In two days, we’ll be headed back to Pennsylvania, our present home, after spending a month in Illinois, our past home. And it’s not that I don’t want to go back; it’s just that I feel like I’m being ripped in two again.

We went to a first birthday party tonight for my cousin’s son. Family get-togethers are rare for us. We usually make it home for Christmas; occasionally for my husband’s family reunion. Otherwise, for the last two years, we’ve missed a lot of family functions. I was almost giddy to be able to participate.

In the last month, I was able to celebrate Mother’s Day with my mom, my mother-in-law and my grandma. We had cake and ice cream as a family for my birthday. Dinner with my aunt, uncle and cousin. Lunches with Phil’s parents. Park days with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. A day in Chicago with my brother. Breakfast and dinner with my parents most days.

Those are just the memories with blood relatives. I have as many with friends and like-family.

As our daughter gets older, and more attached, the leaving gets harder. She’ll ask for Nana and Papa for days. She’ll wonder when we’re going to MeeMaw and PaPaw’s house. She’ll want to go to the park with Uncle Zach and Aunt Charlotte or see the fishies with Uncle Chris. And my heart will tear a little more when I tell her why we can’t do those things.

But we have to leave. We have a house. And jobs. And responsibilities. And church family. And friends. We have a life in Pennsylvania, too. A life God has called us to. A life we can’t turn our backs on because if we did, we’d end up like Jonah — running from a God who always knows where to find us and how to get our attention, who relentlessly pursues us with His love, who knows what is best for us.

Still, sometimes I’m angry. Or confused. And I wonder why God would do this. Why would He take us so far from family to accomplish His purpose in our lives? Why cause so much sorrow when we have to part? Why call us to this path?

When I voice those cries, He simply says, “Trust me.” Like I know that sleep is beneficial for my daughter’s growth and well-being, He knows that this time of our lives is necessary to make us who He wants us to be.

These verses from Luke are the theme of our journey thus far.

“Large crowds were traveling with Jesus, and turning to them he said: ‘If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple. And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.'” (Luke 14:25-27, NIV)

Hate? That’s such a strong word, but that’s how I think it must look to people when we pick up and leave, taking our parents’ only two grandchildren more than 700 miles away. Fortunately, none of our parents would say that of us. In some way, they must understand why we’re doing what we’re doing. If so, maybe they could help me understand.

I fear that someday I’m going to lose it on a well-meaning congregant. Someone is going to criticize something we’re doing (practically a given) or will want us to change who we are (probable) or expect us to do or be something we aren’t (also likely), and I’m just going to want to scream, “Do you know how much we’ve sacrificed for you?” That’s how it plays out in my head, anyway. I don’t think I’d ever actually say it that way out loud.

Sacrifice isn’t a competition. We all give up something to follow Jesus. I guess I’m just feeling the weight of it more these days.

This whole divided heart issue (wanting to be in Illinois while at the same time wanting to be in Pennsylvania) is a vivid reminder of the daily struggle we, Christians, have between the spirit and the flesh, heaven and earth.

One of my favorite Jars of Clay songs is “Worlds Apart.” It musically illustrates for me the pull between two worlds. Some of the lyrics that touch me the most are:

“I am the only one to blame for this
Somehow it all ends up the same
Soaring on the wings of selfish pride
I flew too high and like Icarus I collide
With a world I try so hard to leave behind
To rid myself of all but love
to give and die

“All said and done I stand alone
Amongst remains of a life I should not own
It takes all I am to believe
In the mercy that covers me

“Did you really have to die for me?
All I am for all you are
Because what I need and what I believe are worlds apart”

Really, I could have quoted the whole song. If my life had a theme song, I think this would be it.

My daughter’s asleep now, I think. No more crying and screaming, anyway. She gave in to what she needed.

So, too, shall I.