Please, Please, Please

We used to take our sweet, strawberry-blonde haired, blue-eyed charmer of a baby everywhere. We would lug the pack n play pretty much everywhere and she would happily and compliantly go to bed wherever we were. I remember this because I also remember the comments we would get: "Wow! That is amazing! How do you get her to do that?" I think I smiled while mumbling something like, "God has just given us an easy baby," while thinking quietly in my head, "...and we've implemented the following schedules and routines into her life and spent quantity time loving on her so she knows she is secure wherever we are. And we are natural born parents..." or something like that.

Here we sit 7 years later. And I find myself thinking when I go anywhere, "Please please please don't judge me. I am trying my darndest to do this right and failing on every level. But I am trying." Even staying at dear friends' houses, I find myself no longer feeling like an 'expert,' but rather a very worn out student, wanting to glean any advice anyone can throw my way, in a non-judgmental way, of course. And being desperate to feel approved by them, friends who have already 'approved.'

Today, for example, our daughter was frantically trying to narrow down her search for the perfect cupcake to make for Daddy for Father's Day. We had about 20 choices. This was while I was trying to fix lunch after church let out late and we got home later than usual. I was desperate for it to be nap hour but knew that without sustenance naps would last about 5.2 seconds. So I whipped together some Bean with Bacon Soup and eagerly dished it out, only for it to be received with, "EWWW! I don't like that! No way! Uh-uh, I do NOT eat BEANS."

Excuse me! Where is your mother and why in the world does she let you get away with talking to me like that?! Oh, wait. That's me. And we don't let them get away with that. But they do it anyway. We call it a bad habit and this particular one is very very hard to break.

So as I am trying to lovingly, or at the very least, un-emotionally, explain that that is an inappropriate response to a meal being placed before you, our littlest guy decided to scale the oven door. It held until he lifted his feet to gain better leverage to get up on the counter and the oven door swung open. With him attached. And he hit the tile floor. Have I mentioned I've developed a disdain for tile floors? And in the midst of the screams of protest and pain from having to be peeled off the floor, another son is whining, "I don't want BEANS, I want a Z-Bar! Can I have a Z-Bar? Can I? Can I? CAN I??!!!!! I WANT A Z-BAR!!!!" and the other son has moved on and is now yelling, "SKI! SKI! SKI!" as he whisks his way around the whole bottom level of the house with his Tinker Toy 'ski poles,' in hand.

And I started laughing. The laugh included some tears, too. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of, "Someone has to have a camera on this chaos to see when I will break," and tears of relief that no one was sitting in my house and judging this. Judging me.

Let's be honest. I didn't have it together when I just had one, either. It was just a more manageable phase to be in. And God did bless us with a daughter who is a rule-follower. "Oh, that sleeping book tells you that I should go down without a battle and I should sleep through the night? Okay, that's what I will do!" "Oh, you said the rule stated I cannot hang off the slide upside down at the park? Okay, I won't. Hey, Mom, do you see the boys right now?" That is not to say that we don't have to parent her, that there isn't refining to be done in her life, but usually when things are simply put she is able to understand and go along with it.

The excitement in our life has been exponentially increased with the expansion of our family from three to six. And it has put me in a position of no longer being able to pretend that I have it all together. This is good. And extremely humbling.

So when you are at the neighborhood pool and the creepy woman in the blue one-piece walks by you with mascara smeared down her face, could you muster a smile? She's the crazy mom of four munchkins and she decided to be brave tonight and take them all down to the deep end of the pool where they could do cannonballs in her face and make memories. And they did.

How to Find the Approval Your Heart Was Made For

Encouragement for me today. Written by Jennifer Dukes Lee. Found here.

How to Find the Approval Your Heart Was Made For

 

by Jennifer Dukes Lee
My daughter and I stood at the starting line with numbers 566 and 567 safety-pinned to the fronts of our shirts.
We were excessively optimistic about the road race ahead of us.
And we weren’t the only ones. All around us, there was a palpable buzz of expectation as fidgety runners stretched and bounced.
A robin chirped. The sun warmed our backs.  I squeezed my daughter’s hand.

It was the perfect kind of spring day – the kind when everyone, even the spectators, ventured out-of-doors with short sleeves. The kind of day when your kid doesn’t give you an eye roll when you flash your trademark, overly enthusiastic mom grin.

“On your marks,” a growly man called out, raising his starter pistol in the air. “Get set.”
Boom! He pressed the trigger, and a puff of smoke rose from the barrel. In a blur, my daughter and I set out on the course, side by side, with only a few inches of pavement between us.

That’s how it went for a good mile, maybe two. We ran like mad, and a gentle breeze tangled with our hair.
But our bubble of optimism popped when the route veered out of town, onto the country roads. The gentle breeze morphed into a ferocious wind, whipping across the fields.
Runners passed us on both sides, apparently impervious.

Meanwhile, our run turned into something more like a wog – not quite walking, but barely jogging. We mopped our brows with the backs of our hands. Whatever direction we turned, the wind set its battering face against us.

This painful wilderness lasted for approximately forever.

We were still a half-mile from the end of our race, when my daughter squeaked out a breathless plea: “I don’t think I can do it.”

I knew the route, and I knew how close we were. “You can do it, girl! I believe in you! You. Can. Do. It.” (Though I wasn’t entirely sure if I could.)

Then, mercifully, we turned the last corner of the route. Up ahead, a white banner flapped over a spray-painted line on the street.
The finish!

“Look, Lydia!” I said between ragged breaths. “We’re really … going to … make it!”
Lydia’s weariness magically lifted. The two of us felt weightless, like our shoes were three feet above the street, like we could fly.
I grabbed Lydia’s small hand. Tears burned the corners of my eyes.
“I’m so … proud of you,  …. honey! …. You did it!”
Lydia turned her head to me: “I’m proud … of you too … Mommy!”

Lydia had completely forgotten that, minutes earlier, she didn’t think she could take another step. Or that we’d been left in the dust of everyone on the course.

Because now? The end was in view.

It didn’t matter that that the loudest applause had already been offered. Or that the shiny medals hanging around other necks. It didn’t matter that we were last.
It mattered that we made it.

In those last steps toward the finish line, it felt like the heavens burst open with a metaphor for life down here on planet earth.

The only race worth running — the only life worth living — is the one where everything else is counted as loss: every medal, every resume, every credential.  Life’s not about applause or mentions.
Life’s not about earning anyone’s love, but believing that you already are God’s beloved.
Life’s  not about reputation, but redemption.
We have nothing to prove. For in Christ, we are already approved – preapproved.

Some of us? Some of us jump out of the starting blocks of life with grand plans to prove something to ourselves and to prove something to the world.
We’ve got plans for straight As, and better hair, and a smaller jean size, and a corner office with an engraved door plate. There’s nothing wrong with an “A” or an atta-girl every now and then, but a woman can get so busy keeping up with the Joneses, that she forgets to keep step with Jesus.
And suddenly, your life feels more like a competition than a communion.

We could get so busy moving our feet, that we might forget to stop and wash feet. We could get so busy building empires, that we forget how to yield as servants.
(And even engraved door plates rust.)

Look, you can try to outrun Jesus all you want, but Jesus’ love will never, ever run out. And if you’re in last place, remember who actually comes in first.

That morning, as my daughter and I neared the end, we could see the announcer on a flatbed trailer at the finish line.
That man is my earthly father.

Dad has presided over the finish line for years. Some of the runners show up with arms raised and fists pumping. Others limp their way to the end. A few fall to their knees. Some cry.
No matter how they get there, Dad wants all the runners to hear their names. He once told me that he would never leave the finish line until the last runner crossed.

My daughter and I couldn’t wait to hear our names. And now we were seconds away.

Dad was looking right at us. And I don’t think I’m imagining the sparkle in his eye. He lifted the microphone: “Way to go, Lydia Lee! You made it!” The crowd cheered for that fierce little runner.

Then I heard my father’s words for me:
“And that’s my daughter, Jennifer!”

I suppose the crowd applauded. I can’t be sure. All I remember were the words my father saved for me, his daughter. These were the words of a father who loved me before I took my first step, and who was waiting for me at the end, even if I limped across the finish line.

And I knew in that moment, that the best words of approval we will ever hear will come at the finish.
Friend, there really is a finish line.

There really is a great crowd of witnesses, waiting. You can’t see them, but they are already cheering for you.
There really is a Father, waiting to welcome you. And He decided to love you before you took your first step. He decided to love you even before He made the world.

Believe that you are loved. Already.

In this life, you may never get the applause you hoped for. Someone else may end up with the medal you worked hard for. The crowds might remember your name, and then again? They might not.
But you will finish. And when that finish comes into view, you will run like mad, and the wind will whip through your hair, and you’ll forget how bad it hurt sometimes.

Because you can’t wait to cross over and hear the words you were created to hear at the finish, the approval you were running for all along: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”