Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
“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.
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.