Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Cinderella Mom

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…

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This is 40

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…

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Beauty on the Backroads {or Why I Changed the Name of my Blog}

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…

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Hold tight

I can hear the wind howling outside. Two nights ago, the gusts were almost scary as a storm rolled in. The living room shades rattled and flapped. Papers flew off the printer and desk. The bedroom doors slammed shut.

We were in the midst of putting Isabelle to bed, and I knew the storm would hit soon. Although she sleeps soundly in her own room, in her own bed, I wanted to hold her close and sleep in the same room. And I wanted to keep Corban with us in the living room. Something about severe weather makes me want to hunker down, huddle up and stick together till the storm passes.

I wonder if we aren’t made this way — to crave community when the going gets tough. Our need for each other never seems to be more clear than in a time of crisis or great need. Think natural disaster, terminal illness, financial hardship or severe weather, to name a few.

We’ve been talking about and studying community for the last several weeks in Sunday School, and we were asked to share how we were welcomed into the community — the geographical and spiritual — because we moved from the Midwest to the mid-Atlantic. I had a hard time voicing my feelings on this subject because we felt very welcome, and we generally find people to be friendly and engaging. We know quite a few people, but we don’t know them well. Sometimes I think I have more of a bond with the nurses from our birthing unit than the people in our church. But maybe it goes back to the crisis and time of need idea.

The people I feel the closest to in my life are those with whom I’ve shared large chunks of life or something significantly out of the ordinary. I’ll always feel a bond with my maternity ward nurses, even if I don’t remember their names or faces, because they walked me through recovery and first-time mom worries.

I wonder if it’s like this for other people in church, even people who have been going to church together for decades. Maybe it’s just me. And I wonder if the church doesn’t need more crises, more significant moments, more life together in order to demonstrate the kind of bond and love that Jesus intended. I think of the disciples and how they held together after Jesus’ death, before they knew what had really happened, and how they held together after that, even when they faced extreme opposition.

At Bible study this week, we were reminded of this verse in 1 Peter: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” (4:8, NIV) We were challenged and encouraged to protect and defend our Christian brothers and sisters from outside attack and to stand close together to not leave room for evil’s entry.

I don’t like storms, neither the ones that bring physical rain, thunder, lightning and hail nor the ones that bring pain, turmoil, confusion and despair into people’s lives, but if they’re necessary to form bonds that can’t be broken, then I have to be willing to let them come.

They will know we are Christians by our love. That’s my prayer. That the church will more evidently show itself as a people who rally around the defeated, pick up those who have stumbled, walk alongside the wandering, protect the weak and defend the weary. And in the process, maybe we’ll find ourselves a little tighter.

Sacrifices

I’m holding my four-month-old son, who for some reason this week, has occasionally decided his bed is not the place for sleeping longer than a few minutes. As I type, he slumbers contentedly on my lap. A minute ago, he was screaming his head off in his bed. He didn’t nap well today or yesterday. He’s tired. I’m tired. On the plus side, his sister is sound asleep without too much fuss, although 45 minutes ago, I was sure I had entered a contest to see how many children I could make unhappy at one time.

Before I was a mother, I knew this was part of the deal, and by “this” I mean the lack of sleep, the giving of yourself even when you have nothing left to give. Most people know that mothers — most mothers — give up a lot for their children. Until I was a mother, I didn’t know just how much.

Some of the things I, and other moms I know, have sacrificed:

  • Personal privacy — “Mommy, you going potty?” Isabelle asks loudly, usually in a public place, like church.
  • Personal space — When I’m trying to rock Corban to sleep or feed him in our orange swivel-rocking chair, Isabelle undoubtedly wants to squeeze in with us. If we’re on the couch, usually the three of us are on the same cushion.
  • Peace of mind — Even when they’re healthy and sleeping soundly, I don’t feel like I ever completely relax about my children’s well-being. Lately, I’ve been envisioning all kinds of horrible things that might happen to them and trying to put those thoughts out of my mind. I know I can’t protect them from everything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.
  • Clean clothes — Seldom do I make it through an entire day without spit up, drool, water, food, stickers, marker and who knows what else on an article of clothing. Isabelle, particularly, likes to wipe her hands on my pants instead of using a napkin. Miss Manners would faint at our house.
  • And while we’re on the subject, a clean house — I’ve never been a great housekeeper, but I’ve never been a slob, either. Since having kids, I have an almost-constant desire to clean, with little to no follow-through. Case in point, there’s hardly a clean dish in our kitchen, but now it’s the end of the day, and I’m tired. Plus, the aforementioned baby is still asleep on my lap. The dishes will always be there, that’s what seasoned mothers tell me, but I don’t really want to be known for my mold collection, either.
  • Conversation — I’ve never been a great conversationalist. I’m even worse now. I hardly ever watch the news. I don’t read the paper (a journalist’s sin!). I spend most days with my kids and husband, and people will only listen so long to another story about the escapades of a 2-year-old, no matter how funny.
  • Caffeine and chocolate — My kids will hear about this when they’re older. Every now and then, I give in to the chocolate temptation, but I pay for it later with a fussy baby.

Geez, when I write them out like that, I seem selfish and shallow. None of those things can make me smile or give me an unforgettable memory like my two God-given blessings. Nor do any of those things compare to the ultimate sacrifice a Father gave of His son.

John 3:16 took on a whole new meaning for me after I had children. God so loved the world that He gave His only son to die in our place. I can’t imagine willingly giving my only child to save the life of someone who hated me and might never have a relationship with me.

What a great sacrifice, indeed.