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Jumping Jack

Sep 4th, 2009 by Amy

Slater Family 08 004

My two-year-old son is a fast learner.  It didn’t take him long to discover that standing at the top of the stairwell exclaiming, “Mommy, look!  I jump!” could initiate a performance of unparalleled drama and acrobatic skill from yours truly.  With his eyes opened wide and a grin revealing every tooth in that little mouth of his, he watches as I stretch my legs, leaping high, back arching and twisting, arms flailing, crying out in a panic-induced quivery voice, “No Sweetheart!  No, no, no…we don’t jump down an entire flight of stairs!”  By the time I’ve knocked my elbow into the handrail, and acquired a few rug burns on my knees making my rough and clumsy landing on the step below him, his smile has swelled to a hearty belly laugh.  I know he finds my “mother bear” antics both entertaining and impressive.  After the dust has settled and my heart rate has returned to normal, I wonder to myself what kinds of pranks this boy is going to pull ten years from now, and how on earth I’m going to survive them (especially since my joints won’t be nearly as limber as they are presently). 

 

The instant I heard my husband’s full and powerful voice echo through the delivery room (and down the hall) announcing, “It’s a boy!”, a flood of emotion washed over me.  I had a keen awareness that my life was forever changed, and I wondered – as his tiny, warm body lay curled up on my chest – “Am I ready for this?”  Two-and-a-half years, and innumerable panic-inducing moments later, I can honestly say I was totally made for this.  The adventure of raising a boy is one I never dreamed I had the disposition or temperament to handle.  How wrong I was.  I’ve realized it doesn’t take a rough and tumble, “natural chick” to connect with a boy.  It doesn’t take a once-captain of the girls’ basketball team to teach a son how to throw a ball.  And it doesn’t even take a former wrestling champ to flop on the floor for a tender tussle.  Nope.  Raising my little “Jumping Jack” takes only me (and a whole lot of prayer).

 

I wouldn’t trade having a boy for anything in the world.  There is no treasure as precious as walking with my son down a hotel hallway and watching as he flicks his “Lightning McQueen” clad foot with a slick “Ka-Chow!” at every passer-by.  Priceless.  Jackson’s obsession with cars, trains, and anything that makes noise and moves has opened a whole new world to me – a world that shuns pink, princess gowns, and tiaras but leaves room for hand-picked dandelions and wild flowers for Mommy.  This new world is truly a joy to discover.

 

And to think…I’ve only just begun.

 

(This post was inspired by the countless near-death experiences and mid-air ballet twirling rescue attempts that I have shared with my son, “Jumping Jack”.  Even as I am writing this, he is working tirelessly at putting a pair of miniature sunglasses on my face stating, “Cool Mama…Cool!”)

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Posted in Motherhood | 3 Comments »

Strike A Pose

Sep 1st, 2009 by Amy

Once upon a time I was a model.  Try as you might to find a picture of me hidden in the pages of an outdated fashion magazine or in a pile of resume head-shots, you will only end up disappointed (perhaps) and confused.  Stating, “I was a model” is using the term “model” very loosely.  In fact, the two words “I” and “model” don’t even belong in the same sentence together.  Let me try and say this again:  (A-hem) Once upon a time I wanted to be a model.

 

The time I’m referring to was my ninth grade year of high school.  My sister and I got our hands on a copy of Seventeen Magazine – this, in and of itself is incredible for two reasons:  First, we lived in Kenya, and Seventeen Magazine just didn’t float around our neck of the woods.  And second, even if Seventeen Magazine was available at the local grocery store check out lane, our parents would never buy it for us.  I’m still scratching my head as to how we managed to commandeer such a publication, but we did, and boy, were we inspired.  We studied each page with awe and intrigue.  I think what made the greatest impression on my teenage self-image was how the sixteen-year-old girls posing and articulating to the mag their “I-was-sitting-in-an-airport-terminal-and-this-modeling-agent-came-over-to-me-and-handed-me-their-card-and-the-rest-is-history” type stories, looked nothing of sixteen years but more like twenty-five.  Leaving an insecure, mascara challenged, fifteen-year-old feeling really discouraged and downright ugly.  Their lives were storybook as were their peaches and cream complexions and long tousled locks.  Every page held the unattainable dream of teenage beauty.  (No wonder my parents didn’t want those magazines in our home!)

 

So what did my sister and I decide to do?  We came up with the genius idea of taking our own modeling shots and perhaps shipping them to Seventeen Magazine, or any agency with the mailing address: New York, New York.  Oh yes…inspired we were (and not too bright either).

 

model0003We spent days on our little project:  Choosing our outfits, preparing backdrops and themes that would coordinate with our various clothing ensembles, planning our make-up and hairstyles for each shot, and all while listening to cassette tapes of our favorite bands.  We gleaned much inspiration from songs like Chicago’s “Hard Habit To Break” and “You’re The Inspiration”. 

 

It was truly a magical and sisterly bonding time.  Yet, once the pictures were taken, developed, and scrutinized, we came to the sobering conclusion that our modeling dreams would never be realized.  First, our complexions were far from peaches and cream.  Our hair was way too damaged from perms and overexposure to the sun.  Our figures, while thin, weren’t nearly womanly enough to catch the eye of the adolescent boys at school, let alone a modeling agent.  Even though we never verbalized our insecurities over the many flaws and imperfections we beheld in those rudimentary pictures, there was a mutual agreement that the likes of Seventeen Magazine and New York, New York would never be receiving our package in the mail.

 

Instead, the photos were sealed in an envelope marked “Please Do Not Open – EVER”, placed in a storage box and forgotten.  That is, until about two years ago.  I was rummaging through a bunch of my old high school paraphernalia and couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the old “modeling portfolios” of Amy and Jennifer.  I disregarded the strict instructions “Please Do Not Open – EVER” and tore open the envelope as quickly as my fingers could move.  As I flipped through the photographs recalling, to the detail, every memory of our modeling venture, I picked up the phone and called my sister on the other side of the country.  We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed again, and cried some more.  Once again bonding and wishing desperately we could share this moment in the same room rather than via phone call. 

 model0001

After hanging up and wiping the tears from my eyes and nose, I looked through the pile of pictures one last time.  Smiling, an uncontrollable reflex when looking at snaps like these, I thought about the fifteen-year-old girl staring back at me in the shot.  Wow.  She was actually kind of cute – dorky and without an ounce of “cool” in her DNA – but cute just the same.  For a moment I felt sad that the girl I was twenty years ago couldn’t see what I saw as a grown woman and mother of two girls of my own.  I longed to tell her that Seventeen Magazine and all those abnormally beautiful faces weren’t the scale by which she should measure her own beauty.  The beauty that God was cultivating in her far surpassed flawless skin and shiny smooth hair.  The beauty she should be chasing after wouldn’t be found in magazines and make-up.  Eventually, I think it finally hit home with her, and her passion for modeling was traded in for a passion of a different kind.  I hope I’m the woman I aspired to become when I was fifteen years old – a model of a woman with a heart after God.

 

I’m still in progress – working on a different modeling portfolio these days.  As my youth slips away little by little with each year that creeps by, I pray I grow more and more beautiful on the inside.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that goes for both physical and internal.  My husband thinks I’m hot when I’m dressed up, hair done just right and make-up meticulously applied, and equally, when I roll out of bed first thing in the morning.  (Others may not be as forgiving when my hair is a mess and my breath is not so lovely.)  In the same way, when God beholds me in our secret times and not-so-secret-times, I want Him to find me beautiful.  I want my life to reflect Him and bring glory to Him whether I’m sitting in my big red overstuffed chair at five-thirty in the morning, or hanging out with a bunch of girlfriends.  It is far greater a challenge to achieve a beautiful spirit these days than it is a beautiful face.  However, the beauty that comes from within is a beauty that lasts forever – a beauty that lives eternal.

 

Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;  But a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

model0002

 By the way, when my girls saw these pictures they asked me what was wrong with me and why I was “acting” so weird.  I couldn’t even convince a six-year-old and a four-year-old that I was a model!  Go figure.

Posted in Africa, Life, Random | 7 Comments »

It’s ‘Go’ Time

Aug 29th, 2009 by Amy

The countdown is on.  School starts in (a little over) a week, and I can already feel a slight shift taking place; not just in our home, but in the weather too.  I find myself waking up to a familiar autumn chill and, if I could actually smell, the scent of transition lingering in the cool morning air.  Yes, something fresh, something new, something exciting and wonderful is soon to begin.  Yet, rather than jumping up and down like a high school cheerleader, I pause instead – thinking and processing the wide scope of change that is on its way.

 

For those that know me, it’s no secret that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past three weeks, eagerly anticipating the first day of school.  In fact, if school could have resumed on August first, I would have been completely comfortable with that option.  (I already spent an entire blog post on my issues with the end of summer vacation, so I’m not going to go down that road again.)  Suffice it to say, as our home is slowly swelling from the influx of new school clothes, school supplies, backpacks and lists, the reality of our upcoming transition is becoming more and more an actuality to me, and I’m growing – believe it or not – slightly apprehensive as September ninth draws closer and closer.

 

To be frank, over the past (almost) three months I’ve been lazy.  I’ve done a few things scattered whimsically over the slow summer weeks, but by and large I’ve been a big bump on a log.  I’ve been staying up way too late, sleeping in, reading books for fun, staying in my jammies until noon some most days and playing on the computer much, much longer than my “allotted” time.  I’ve spent so much of my summer bucking the security of my regular routine, that laziness has quickly become equally as comfortable and second nature to me.  So, you can see why I might be looking ahead at the start of school with uneasiness.  I’m sincerely concerned that if I don’t get my act together over the next week, there could be some not-so-delightful ramifications for Mommy.

 

Joel and I were actually discussing this very thing the other night.  He, too, feels motivated to make some personal changes, and the kick off for fall feels like an appropriate time to do so.  We are embarking upon a new school year, a clean new slate, a new football season (Go Fighting Irish) and a fresh opportunity to reinstate order and self-discipline into our lives.  So, how do we plan to do this?  How will we corral our quasi-feral herd that has run wild and free in the sweet rays of succulent sunshine? What will be our strategy in turning a lazy summer home into a ship shape vessel prepared to set sail on a fresh, new course?  Since I am all about routines, schedules and organization, I have come up with a pretty darn good plan.  Uneasiness is giving way to confidence and motivation, and I think the kids have even caught a whiff of my take-charge vibe. 

 

It’s ‘GO’ time at my house starting today Monday.  We’re going to take September by the horns and ride into the new school year with confidence, determination and a full eight hours of sleep on our side. 

 

(Pause.)

 

(Sigh.)

 

Wish me luck!  (I think I’m gonna need it!)

Posted in Life, Motherhood, Random | 2 Comments »

Espresso, Pheasant Feathers & A Lesson In Parenting

Aug 28th, 2009 by Amy

The other evening my husband and I enjoyed a very rare and much anticipated night out together.  We found a cozy and friendly café that has quickly become a favorite spot of ours, and nestled in for a delicious meal and uninterrupted conversation.  We finished eating, but neither of us was ready to dash out the door, so my husband suggested we order espresso.  I agreed.  Espresso sounded like a great idea.

 

As we continued our conversation over the strong flavor of rich coffee, taking slow sips between long and deliberate intervals, memories of my year living in France began to flood my mind.  It has been a long time since I stopped to enjoy a cup of espresso.  Equally, it has been quite some time since I rehashed old memories of France.  One experience in particular put a smile on my face, and even still evokes a good laugh.

 

It had been a busy day in the “bustling metropolis” of Vitrolles, France.  Truthfully, the bus ride home was more draining than the whole workweek combined, but I still was grateful to finally be off for a few days of Christmas holiday.  As I opened the door to Madame Buendia’s charming French townhome, I found a trail of feathers leading to the kitchen.  Curious, I followed the feather path.  Entering the kitchen, I startled Madame Buendia who was working on a stubborn pot in the sink.  When she recovered, a sly and mischievous grin crossed her face.  I asked her about the feathers.  She told me to open the fridge.  I did.  There, at the bottom of this tiny French refrigerator, lay three dead pheasants – “Christmas dinner!” announced Madame Buendia.  Her son’s father-in-law had a stellar hunting trip, and we were the honored recipients of part of his spoils.  Madame Buendia was getting the kitchen cleared and prepped so she could begin plucking the feathers from the pheasants.  I caught my second wind at the thought of plucking birds and hurried upstairs to change my clothes. 

 

When I returned, eager to start ripping away at the dead birds, I was sternly informed that I would not be permitted to participate in the pheasant plucking.  I asked why in as respectful and calm a tone as I could muster up.  Madame Buendia explained that this kind of work was not appropriate for “little American girls” (I was twenty-five years old and stood five feet, eight inches tall – not so little if you ask me).  After pausing for a few minutes and realizing she wasn’t going to budge on this one, I asked if I could at least get my picture taken with the dead, pre-plucked birds.  She acquiesced, and I got a nice “before” shot of Christmas dinner for my memory book.

 France Pheasant

I passed the remainder of the evening reading, and occasionally glancing over to the closed kitchen door.  Every now and then I’d hear grunting and cursing coming from, I’m quite certain, an exasperated and stubborn French woman.  If only she would have let me assist – we could have been grunting and cursing together!  How much more fun it would have been to pluck pheasants with company! 

 

The next morning, the remnants of the prior night’s activities were wafting in the air as I went to prepare myself a cup of espresso.  Feathers were everywhere: the floor, the countertops, chairs.  Every time I made a move, a rustle of feathers would swirl and whoosh like little tornadoes throughout the cramped kitchen.  Madame Buendia was still in bed- I’m sure recovering from her work out with the three dead birds the night before.  To this day I really wish I could have been a part of the Christmas-pheasant-feather-plucking action.   Yet, all I have is a picture of me holding two of them up by the legs. 

 

What’s the moral of the story?  As I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, Sydney is less than a foot away from me, earnestly sharpening a pile of pencils for school.  She is making a mess, but doing a great job and accomplishing a task that is well within her purview.  As I am slowly discovering – I tend to be a very slow learner – my kids are far more adept at simple and even not-so-simple tasks than I give them credit for.  They can make their beds, clean their dishes, do regular household chores and help me in the kitchen (my two-and-a-half year old included).  Do they do it perfectly?  Not always.  And I’m learning to lower my expectations and appreciate the effort they put into making their beds more so than the quality of the “military corners” and placement of throw pillows.  Those things really don’t matter anyway.

 

Another thing this teaches me is that the mess is not a bad thing.  Whether or not I helped Madame Buendia with the feather plucking, there was certain to be a mess.  Alone, she stayed up half the night working, long after I had drifted off to sleep.  And later, didn’t have the energy to clean up once the job was completed, as evidenced by the heaps of feathers lingering in the kitchen the next morning.  If I had been permitted to assist, the mess would have been made, but we could have finished a lot earlier and made sure the feathers were cleaned up too.  With my kids, I am doing them a great disservice if I never allow them to join me in making a mess.  Sometimes the only way to learn something is to mess it all up first.  Then, we also learn how to put it back together again.  I don’t want my kids to spend their lives staring at a “closed” kitchen door, longing to be in the thick of the chaos with me and learning something new.  I don’t want them to feel like I did the night of the feather plucking.  Witnessing a missed opportunity, but helpless to rectify it.

 

So here are a few “messes” I’ll be making with my kids this week:

 

  • Sydney and I will be cleaning out closets, throwing things away and re-organizing (she has a gift, and I want to nurture that in her and watch it grow!).

 

  • Brooklyn will be assisting me in the kitchen, putting together meals and snacks.

 

  • Jackson will be setting the table (something he loves to do!), and “folding” laundry.

 

If all of this came out of one demi tasse of café, there’s no telling what profound insights will emerge the next time I get a date night with my husband and another shot of espresso!

Posted in France, Motherhood | 5 Comments »

Wonder Woman

Aug 25th, 2009 by Amy

At the tender age of six I received my first pair of “Underoos”.  They were Wonder Woman.  When I donned this remarkable underwear ensemble, I felt powerful and unstoppable.  My little sister, too, received a matching pair.  Together we were a force to be reckoned with.  We would run around the house, wearing only our Wonder Woman Underoos and armfuls of our mom’s bracelets dangling from our tiny wrists (bullet reflectors, or something of that nature), thwarting off the powers of evil. 

 

In my six-year-old mind, I couldn’t think of a better role model than Wonder Woman.  (That girl could pull off a mean twirl.)  And as I would take a brief moment to consider my reflection in the mirror – clad in underoos, bracelets, and long dark hair – I knew I made for the perfect Wonder Woman double.  Yet my little sister, Jennifer, with her strawberry blonde locks and fair complexion – a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie – insisted she was Wonder Woman, and I was Wonder Woman’s sister.  Time and time again I would cave in to her demands and play the part of the superhero’s sibling, perplexed at how any of it made sense to her.  Deep down in my heart, though, in that space that my strong-willed sister couldn’t control, I knew I was the real Wonder Woman.

 

Thirty-some years later, I find myself channeling my inner-Wonder Woman.  When my house is hiding under a heap of dirty clothes and miscellaneous toys, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling three times and miraculously being transformed into Super Mom.  I’ve tried that, you know.  I’ve tried the twirling thing, and it only left me dizzy, still wearing my blueberry stained khaki shorts, stretched out tee and ponytail.  (So much for my super powers.)  Instead, I feel like Bat Woman – a nickname I earned my junior year of high school.

 

We were camping out in the rural village of Rumuruti (in Kenya).  It was close to bedtime, and I needed to use the “facilities” (in Swahili, that translates to the “choo”).  My best friend and I, flashlights guiding our way, walked over to the choo, and I went inside.  I squatted.  Suddenly I felt something brush across my toosh.  I was startled, to say the least.  I jumped up and out of the choo in one swift movement.  My friend opened the door, peered inside, and with the dim light from the flashlight surveyed the scene of the incident.  We could find nothing to explain the tooshy brush, and so I figured it was most likely a moth or some “bug” that rear-ended me on its way out of the hole in the ground.  I went back inside to finish my “business”.  Before I was completely settled, this same “thing” slapped me, no less, on the bottom, and from the corner of my eye I watched a terrified bat fly up and out the top of the choo.  This time, I believe I screamed, and so did my friend.  From that day on, I was called “Bat Woman”.

 

Bat Woman is powerless.  Wonder Woman is all about power and control.  I much prefer to carry myself in Wonder Woman fashion, and not the “slap-on-the-toosh” Bat Woman.  These days I don’t have my Doctor Dobbins’ “Strong-Willed” poster child sister calling the shots in my life.  These days, well into my thirties, I am free to let my inner Wonder Woman out, and set her free.  The condition of my home, my appearance, the boundaries for my children, are all within my control.  While there are days when I feel I’m making no headway whatsoever in any of these areas (having one of many Bat Woman days), I know that I have the power to either correct the problem or act helpless and distressed.  Today, my friends, Wonder Woman is at the helm, steering the way of this massive ship called the Slater Home.  I’m taking control, one little step at a time. 

 

Now, if only I could rustle up good pair of adult sized Wonder Woman Underoos!

Posted in Life, Random | 3 Comments »

High-Strangeness

Aug 21st, 2009 by Amy

I learned a new term the other night watching ABC’s “The Outsiders”.  It is called, “High Strangeness”.  This term is used to describe those individuals who have been abducted by aliens, or “Close Encounters Of The Third Kind”.  If you are starting to hear the soundtrack of the X-Files playing in your mind, have no fear; this information had the same effect on me too. 

 

Alien abduction has to be one of the most terrifying thoughts to me.  Aliens in general pretty much give me the willies, especially after watching M. Night Shyamalan’s “Signs”.  And to think that this small group of people – those of “High Strangeness” – have actually lived through the experience and can share it with all of us simply boggles the mind.  If I were an alien and was commissioned to come to Earth, abduct humans, run tests, and experiments on their bodies, I’m not sure I’d want to leave any evidence of my existence behind.  I mean, if aliens are such intelligent life forms, certainly they’ve seen “Independence Day”, and they know how powerful we humans can be once provoked (spoken like a true skeptic).

 

Silly as it sounds, there are those out there that buy into this.  They truly believe they have been poked and prodded by otherworldly beings.  They live ostracized by the public because of their wacky beliefs and predictable testimonies.  More than the good laugh this “provocative” news story gave me, it also made me feel kind of sad for these men and women.  Whether it be an out-of-control active imagination or series of delusions, these people are living a very lonely and isolated existence.  I want to shake them and say, “Yes, the truth IS out there!  But you’re not going to find it in a camcorder shot of a blinking light in the sky.”  I wish I could convince them that they will indeed find the truth when they get their heads out of the clouds and start dealing with the gigantic void in their lives that they’ve been filling with garbage. 

 

One woman in this story shared that there has been something deep down in her heart that has always known, and been searching for, a higher power or intelligence.  Then she had her “alien encounter”, and now she believes she has found that intelligent life form she innately knew existed.  I wanted to stand up and scream at the television set.  “Did you know we all share this innate longing to find a higher power?  This is actually a God-given intuition we have drawing us to find God.”  Unfortunately, there are so many that fall for a counterfeit “god”, and walk in blindness to the truth.  As much as I want to chalk all those of “High Strangeness” up as a bunch of crazies, conviction tells me that they are sadly deceived.  As a follower of Christ, I am commissioned to be a light in the darkness.  My prayer is that, while I really do believe much of the alien hullabaloo to be whacky and ridiculous, I would still be a light, shining brightly on the path of truth.  I may never get the opportunity to talk, listen and share with these misguided individuals, but for those around me, I hope my light never dims.  I pray that I may shine brighter and higher than any bobbing UFO zipping through this vast universe.

Posted in Random | No Comments »

On Being Blessed

Aug 19th, 2009 by Amy

It is difficult to sum up in a few paragraphs a thought that has been percolating in my brain and heart for months (and I venture to say that I tend to babble on even more than “a few paragraphs”).  Some thoughts are easy to express; they flow from head to Word document faster than my hands can type.  Other times the topic is so broad and so deeply personal that, as much as I try to keep it simple, it still takes me weeks to put it all together.  (And I’m never quite convinced I’ve conveyed it appropriately.)  So it has been with this current post on being blessed.  Recently I have found the foundations of my beliefs and conceptions of being blessed and receiving blessings shaken to the core.  I’ve questioned my status with God.  “Am I not doing enough for Him?  Have I let Him down and essentially postponed a hard-earned blessing?”  As I’ve been grappling such thoughts, I have sensed that God has been tugging at my heart to look beyond the momentary thrill of the blessing from God, and more intently on what it is to be blessed by God.  I’m not an authority by any means.  What I share is, simply put, a glimpse of where I am in the journey.

 

What does is mean to be blessed?  So often I hear people (myself included) throw out the phrases: “We are so blessed,” or “They live under a special cloud of blessing,” or “God has truly blessed them.”  Coincidentally, the individuals described are usually those who have a beautiful home, a beautiful family and healthy bank account.  Things that most of us secretly wish we had too.  I struggle with the parallel that material blessing somehow stands as a symbol of a blessed life, or more specifically, blessed by God.  Then there’s the perception that receiving those blessings signifies an individual’s rank in God’s hierarchy.  Neither one of these thoughts makes much sense to me, nor do they settle right within my spirit. 

 

I think there is a profound difference between “being blessed” and “receiving blessings”.  A person can have nothing at all- no home, no money, no family- and still be blessed, just as a person can have every blessing in the world and not be blessed.  Being blessed is so much more than having things.  Being blessed is the privilege we have to simply be in the presence of God – to have God when we don’t have anything else.  I am blessed because I know that God is in my life.  God is working all things for my best outcome.  And God’s best for me may not always appear so “blessed”.  God’s best may mean I have to lose something, or a struggle that I am going through, or a very difficult season of life.  God’s best oftentimes contradicts every natural conception of blessing and greatness, but the result is something marvelously supernatural.  A life blessed gives all glory to God because a life blessed comes only from God.  A life blessed is contented in whatever circumstance or challenge it faces because there is a deep seeded faith and hope in that God’s hand is still upon them.

 

Receiving blessings, on the other hand, is something that happens to both the godly and the ungodly.  Blessings are those temporal moments or gifts that give us a glimpse into what heaven might possibly be like.  I count my husband and the births of our three children as four of the most amazing and indescribable blessings in my life.  The miracles that God has worked on our behalf: financial provision when we desperately needed it, having a home to live in, a job to go to every day, a healthy family, are all blessings that I attribute to God’s graciousness towards us.  However, I can’t confuse my being blessed by God with the blessings I have received from God.  Why?  Because I could lose everything today: my husband, my children, my home, and my health.  I could lose every blessing from God, but I would still be blessed by God.  What I have should not be the measuring stick for how blessed I am.

 

Job had everything.  Job was a righteous man.  Job had a life that most people envied.  Then, Job lost it all.  He lost his wealth, his home, his children, and his health.  Had God turned against him?  Was God disappointed in Job and trying to teach him a lesson?  No.  God knew Job’s heart.  God knew that the relationship He shared with Job far surpassed any material blessing he could receive.  And I think it is important to state that God did not take anything away from Job.  However, God did allow tragedy, at the hand of Satan, to fall upon Job.  Even still, Job remained righteous and faithful to God.  He was blessed, even at his most lowly state, even in those questioning moments when he cried out for mercy (have we not all been there at some point in our lives?).  God observed this and did not forget, and in the end, poured double the blessings upon Job. 

 

Before David became king, he went through the hell of his life- running from a deranged Saul, hiding out in caves, and sleeping among rocks and wild animals.  As David looked to the heavens and bore his fear, frustration, and anger on God, he continued to be “a man after God’s own heart”.  Amidst the struggle, God’s hand was upon David – David was blessed. 

 

As God is dealing with my heart on this issue, I am challenged to redefine and refocus my view on “being blessed”.  Rather than play the broken record prayer of “Lord bless me, bless me, bless me,” I need to stop and realize that I am, indeed, blessed by God.  And as I cry out for the blessings of God on my life, I should do so with a keen awareness that, whether or not I receive them, I still remain blessed by God.  If I’ve asked God boldly for a blessing or some provision, as we are instructed to do, then I can rest in the assurance that, even if God does not grant my request, He will carry me through the situation.  His hand is upon me and will continue to guide me.  I will come out on the other side reflecting more and more the glory and character of God.

 

Blessings, as wonderful and miraculous as they are, may come and go, but being blessed will carry us through the times when the blessings are few.  And the security in this remains forever.

 

Perfect submission, all is at rest;  I in my Savior am happy and blessed.  Watching and waiting, looking above, filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

- Blessed Assurance, by Fanny J. Crosby

 

Posted in Faith | 7 Comments »

Enough With Summer Vacation Already!

Aug 14th, 2009 by Amy

Disclaimer:  Read at your own risk.  The following may, or may not, come across as a negative tirade of complaints from a super exhausted mother of three.  The fact is it was, in fact, written by a tired and drained mother of three, but is not a true reflection of this tired mother of three’s character and mental stability.  It is simply a brief glimpse into a brief moment of a mindless brain spill (something that happens every so often when a perfectly good mommy lacks a perfectly good nights rest).

 

I feel like the “Friday Scrooge”.  I was just on Facebook, reading the Friday morning status updates of all my friends and felt a twinge of conviction that I do not share the same “Friday Feel-Good” sentiments.  In fact, had I not read a dozen “TGIF’s” on Facebook, I wouldn’t have known what day it was.  Of course, I can’t tell people this (and yet, here I am sharing freely with everyone and blogging about it too, which probably makes me look both pessimistic and contradictory).  So, before I lie and post “Amy is ready to get her Friday on”, I have to stop and explain why I’m not quite in the “Friday Spirit”.  It actually has nothing to do with Friday at all.  The negativity I have stems from a deeper emotional and physical drain called “Summer Vacation”.

 

For the past two-and-a-half months my oldest has been out of school (and my middle child has been out of preschool).  We have approximately three-and-a-half weeks left of summer break, and I’m literally counting down the days, hours, and minutes until I can shuffle Sydney out the door for the day!  I had activities planned and prepared for the majority of June and July, but by the time August rolled around I was out of both creativity and money.  This is not to imply weakness or lack of capability on my part.  As I looked ahead to the hectic fall schedule we would soon be jumping into – the endless car trips to and from school, church, ballet lessons, playgroup, etc. – I surmised that a little August down time would be beneficial to us all me.  I’m so excited, not just for Sydney to head off to school (and Brooklyn off to preschool), but also for fall in general.  However, while trying to take care of myself in preparation for September, my intense and activity-driven firstborn is starting to climb the walls.  Our needs are butting heads, and nobody is happy.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  There have been quite a few wonderful highlights we’ve shared while the kids have been on break.  We spent a couple of days at the coast: playing in the sand, making homemade pizzas, staying up late cuddling and watching movies into the wee hours of the night; we’ve gone swimming, participated in camps, had play dates and sleepovers.  It’s been great.  We’ve connected, made memories, and bonded as a family.  However, August is here, and Mommy wants to slow down.  Mommy doesn’t want to race to the park and pool multiple times a day.  And I find it difficult to relish in “Friday” when there really isn’t anything that differentiates Friday from any other day on the calendar right now.  Each day sort of blends in to the next, and I am so looking forward to the structure of school, the rigorous weekly schedule, and multiple activities for the simple reason that Friday will, once again, mean more to me than just another day.

 

As my need for rest and the need of my first grader to be active collide, I wonder if there is hope in getting through the final weeks of summer vacation.  Alas, one survival skill I have learned is to give her lots and lots and lots of things to do.  When I start to see that glimmer of misbehavior gleam in her eye, I give her a cleaning rag and send her off dusting.  When that is done, I task her to sweep the floors downstairs (which she is doing at this very moment), organize her drawers and bedroom toys, etc, etc.  If it means my desk being dusted daily for the next couple of weeks, rather than a whining and disruptive Sydney, I’m okay with that.  I’m finding that her boredom could possibly work to my advantage, ie: a clean house.

 

So, here’s my honest to goodness Friday Facebook status update: “Amy is conjuring up multitudes of chores for her kids to do today to beat the Summer Break Blues”.  Tomorrow may possibly look exactly the same, and the following day, and the day after that until finally all the World Wide Web will read, “Amy is celebrating the beginning of school and the return of TGIF” (“TGIF” meaning “Thank God Its Fall”), with a spotless house no less.  Until that day comes, I will have to live with the feeling that I am nothing more than a “Friday Scrooge”, keeping that only to myself (and every one who reads my blog), while wearing the façade that I, too, love Fridays and the opportunity to spend another glorious and magical summer day with my children. 

 

Oy vey – bring on fall!

 

By the way, I’m not the only one in this scenario who is longing for summer vacation to end.  Daily, both of my girls ask me how many more days until school starts.  We’re all in this together.

Posted in Motherhood, Random | 6 Comments »

“One In A Million”

Aug 12th, 2009 by Amy

There is nothing more unnerving than sitting in a hospital waiting room with the theme music from “Terms of Endearment” playing in the background.  (I think someone messed up on the music selection.)  As I was waiting to have a CT Scan of my sinuses such music was playing overhead, and – while I was not there for anything serious – I couldn’t help but tear up a little bit.  Just as my heart rate began escalating and the palms of my hands went cold and clammy, I heard my name being called by the technician signaling my escape from the depressing mood music.  The scan lasted all of two minutes, and I was free to go. 

 

I’m rare…very rare.  I guess you could say I am “One In A Million”.  I wish it were due to my unique personality and winning smile, or because of some hidden talent that very few people possess.  Unfortunately, my claim to fame is far from such an assertion.  So, what sets me apart from the rest of the populace?  Nasal Polyps Disease.  Approximately 2% of the population suffers from these benign intranasal tumors.  Of that 2%, the ratio of men to women presenting with this disease is 2 to 1.  I’m not certain of the percentage breakdown on that, but it would appear to me that I fall into a very small and rare category of women.  Which I believe makes me “One In A Million”. 

 

Usually falling in the category of “One In A Million” would consequently mean, “it’s never going to happen”.  For instance, the average person – like you and me – may have a one in a million chance of winning the lottery, or conceiving a baby after the age of sixty or meeting the Queen of England.

 

In my case, I did in fact win the lottery.  The  “Nasal Polyposis/Chronic Sinusitis” lottery! 

 

Joking aside, there are many other traits I hold that set me apart from the rest of society.  We are all “One In A Million”, if we are willing to open our eyes and receive God’s truth about us.  While there is a very small percentage of people that will win the Nobel Peace Prize or climb to the highest peak of Mt. Everest, God’s creativity can be seen in each and every human being on the planet.  I know personally that I don’t stop and think about this on a regular basis.  I fail to appreciate all that God has designed.  I’m so accustomed to looking at the negativity in the world, rather than the beauty and value that each person holds.  We are God’s workmanship.  We are more than “One In A Million”…we are that one unlike any other one.  What a different world this would be if we would all learn to embrace our unique and unparalleled design and see ourselves the way God does.

 

On the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, “Life will never be the same.”

Because there had never been anyone like you…ever in the world…

…You are the one and only ever you… 

For never before in story or rhyme (not even once upon a time) has the world ever known a you, my friend, and it never will, not ever again… 

Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn on the wonderful, marvelous night you were born.

…Wonderful…Marvelous…You…

- Excerpt from “On The Night You Were Born” by Nancy Tillman

 

You ARE “One In a Million”!

 

Posted in Life, Random | 3 Comments »

Blemishes

Aug 5th, 2009 by Amy

I am very freckly and I have moles.  The freckles are a result of many years of baking in the sun without sunscreen.  The moles?  Could quite possibly be blamed on the sun too, or maybe its just genetics.  I don’t think much about these physical blemishes very often.  That is, until my children so innocently point them out.  Brooklyn feels the need to pray for the mole on my eyelid (it’s inhabited that spot since I was a young child) every night at bedtime.  Jackson thinks my freckles are “boo boo’s” and points that out to me on a daily basis, “Mama…’boo boo’.  Mama…’boo boo’.”  He has even tried to pull the mole – that sits slightly above my upper lip – off with his little fingers.  Try as I may to convince these dear little ones that these are not, in fact, “boo boos”, they continue to insist that Mommy has been wounded in polka dots, and requires much prayer.

 

I have cowlicks that run all the way across my hairline in the front.  If I allow my hair to dry naturally, it would literally dry in three different directions.  Thus, my need to both blow dry the fringe in front and utilize a curling iron.  On the rare occasion that I have failed to do so, my firstborn is quick to notice, and matter-of-factly informs me, that something is wrong with my hair.  Mornings before showering are the worst.  The looks I have received from all three children while wearing a mop of bed head upon my crown are priceless.  I’ve even been known to scare my own son with my direction-challenged hair. 

 

Then there are the physical side effects of birthing three children.  My skin sags…everywhere.  I’m a pretty thin person, so it’s not the extra baby pooch that I’m experiencing, but mostly it’s my skin that hangs and droops.  I keep telling myself, “When the kids are all in school I’ll start working out and toning up.”  I figure I have a couple more years until Jackson, two, heads off to kindergarten.  I guess the saggy skin will have to wait.

 

I could fill quite of few pages with a long and tedious list of all my physical blemishes (for example, my girls emphatically ask me to PLEASE put make-up on – it’s a good thing I have a pretty solid sense of self otherwise I might fall to pieces), but I won’t.  It isn’t necessary, and after a while becomes depressing.  I neither want to depress you or myself, so I’m thinking I should stop right here with the self-deprecation.

 

Kids say the darndest things – yes, they sure do.  But when they say something sweet and profound, we pride them with innocent and sincere honesty.  For instance when Sydney says to me, “Mommy, God is shining on me right now,” as she awakens to streams of sunlight pouring on her face.  Or when Jackson cups my chin in his two-year-old hand before we head out the door and says to me, “Mama, pretty.  Mama, pretty.”  And then at bedtime as I’m saying goodnight to Brooklyn and she looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Mama, I just lub you.”  My heart wells up with pride and affection.  Yes, children are honest, very honest.  While taking their criticism can be somewhat daunting – because more often than not they are absolutely dead on – I, too, can take their affirmations.  If they are honest in one thing, then I can trust they are honest about other things too (minus the, “Who’s responsible for this mess?” and of course, no one ever is).

 

So, the next time I’m cuddling with my three mini-stooges and one of them makes the insightful observation that Mommy’s legs are prickly, I’m just going to keep smiling.  If I can learn to laugh at myself, and my many blemishes, then my kids will learn that imperfection is fine and normal.  And when one of my “babies” tells me that I am the most “beautifulest” mommy in the world, again, I’ll pull that sweet face close to mine and kiss both chubby cheeks!  The “joy” of motherhood that many of us speak about is not just watching our children coo and smile, but the “joy” comes from experiencing life through their eyes.  The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  They will most certainly have something to say about it.  And most of the time their words will bring the biggest, warmest smile to a mother’s face, only if we’re willing to accept the truth of both blemishes and beauty from the perspective of a child.

Posted in Motherhood | 4 Comments »

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