How to Really Love A Child

Be There.

Say “yes” as often as possible.

Let them bang on pots and pans.

If they’re crabby, put them in water.

If they’re unlovable - love yourself.

If they’re not nice - YOU be nicer.

Realize how important it is to be a child.

Go to a drive-in theater in your pajamas

Read books out loud with joy.

Invent pleasures together.

Remember how really small they are.

Surprise them.

Say “no” when necessary.

Bake a cake and eat it with no hands.

Plan to build a rocket ship.

Imagine yourself magic.

Make lots of forts with blankets.

Let your angel fly.

Reveal your own dreams.

Search out the positive.

Keep the gleam in your eye.

Mail letters to God.

Encourage silly.

Plant licorice in your garden.

Stop yelling.

Express your love.

A LOT.

Speak kindly.

Paint their tennis shoes.

Handle with caring.

CHILDREN ARE MIRACULOUS!

by Sark

God, please help me to remember, no matter how the day has gone, that our kids are miraculous, created in your image.  Please help me put aside all of my baggage and really love them… every day.

Big Jokers

Practical joking is an art form in our family. My husband is an expert practical joker, and I am a pretty decent practical joker myself. We both learned well as children. I have spent time with my husband’s family and can see that he absolutely came by it honestly. To this day, being in the presence of his folks, aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents means that you had best be prepared for anything, and I do mean anything! My parents are a tad more subtle. If you didn’t know them well, you would likely swear that neither of them are practical jokers at all. Oh, but they are. One of my favorite childhood memories was of a practical joke that they played on me together.

I was probably ten or so and we lived in Arizona at the time. My best friend Holly was at least as mischievous as I was, probably more so. Holly was spending the night over April Fool’s Day weekend. I’m not sure what my parents were thinking, allowing the two of us to have a sleepover during this particular weekend, but they had agreed to it. Holly and I spent most of the evening plotting all of the wicked things we could do… swapping out the salt and sugar, removing all of the lightbulbs from the lamps in the house, taping the piano keys together. You name it, we thought about it. As soon as my folks went to bed, we got down to business. By the next morning, the house was completely “April Fooled”.

I seem to recall that my parents both reacted with appropriate parental annoyance to all of the things that were switched, removed, and otherwise monkeyed with, but they may well have just been playing along with us. Either way, we didn’t get in trouble for all of these things we had done and we had a good laugh about it.  We thought we were very smart for being just ten. I spent the rest of April Fool’s Day at Holly’s house plotting April Fool’s tricks against her mother, sister and brother.

When I got home in the evening, everything seemed to be very normal. All was forgiven for the April Fool’s jokes we had played on my folks. We had all had a good day. It was time for bed. I headed for my room and my parents both followed, to tuck me in. I slipped between the sheets, and tried to stretch out.  I found instant resistance.

“What? How strange! My legs won’t stretch out. The sheet must be hung up on something,” I thought. 

I stretched harder. I pushed and pushed with my feet against the sheet, but it would not budge. I was folded up in the bed and getting more frustrated by the second when I looked up to see both of my parents in the doorway to my room, shaking with laughter. Now I was really confused! I couldn’t get into my bed and my parents were laughing at me… What was wrong with this picture?

“Are you having trouble getting into bed?” my Dad asked.

“Yes, the sheet won’t go down,” I replied.

This response was met with howls of laughter. I was still completely confused. I had never heard of short-sheeting a bed before and I was having trouble putting the bedsheet problem together with the laughter in the doorway. Finally, my Dad stopped laughing long enough to explain short-sheeting to me and I realized that they were paying me back for all of the things Holly and I had done for April Fool’s Day. I’m not sure which was funnier at that point–the fact that they had done it in the first place, or the fact that I had absolutely no idea what short-sheeting a bed was. I sure know now!

It’s fun to pass these kinds of things along to our kids. They are all experts at scaring each other, and have recently gotten pretty good at scaring us, too. They like to hide behind the wall, right at the bottom of the stairs, and jump out as you come around the corner. Their growing expertise is evidenced by the multiple stains in the carpet right there from dropping Slurpees, coffee, Diet Coke, or whatever other stain-making substance one happens to have in hand when a little body leaps out from the staircase with a great shout. They have worked out a system now that includes points for their mark dropping things, screaming, and flailing about in any form. They are mastering the art of practical joking. They have a good heritage.

I’m sure they think they’re pretty smart. They have no idea of the plotting that is taking place behind our closed bedroom door. I think this generation will have to have a lesson on short-sheeting very soon…

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Save that receipt

What do you do with your receipts? Call me anal retentive, but I save every receipt I get… the receipt from the Wendy’s drive-through for my $1.95 Biggie-Size Diet Coke, the receipt from the Conoco station for $0.79 for a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum, the receipt from Wal-Mart for $1 million for my latest grocery shopping trip, the receipt from the furniture store for $2 million for my sofa and loveseat.

I have a method… I get the receipt from (insert purveyor of fine something-or-other here), wrap it carefully around my Debit card, and stash it in my purse. On occasion, like when I purchased the sofa and loveseat, I have actually retrieved said receipt from my purse and filed it in the “to be filed” pile on my desk. Typically, however, said receipt stays wrapped around my Debit card until I get a new and exciting receipt that takes it place. Then said receipt gets relegated to the bottom of my purse along with so many gum wrappers, Sonic mint wrappers, folded-in-half-so-they-won’t-stick-to-anything-anymore kids’ nametags, and an assortment of pens, most in non-working order. This ugly cycle repeats itself until my purse is so full of receipts, gum wrappers, and nametags that there is no longer room for my wallet, finding my keys becomes an hour-long ordeal, and I can’t hear my cell phone ringing because my purse now has more sound deadener than the best recording studio out there.

At this point, it’s time for the purse cleanout. You’d think, since I’ve been hanging on to all of these receipts for dear life, that I would do something really cool with them. Maybe I would remove them from the purse and make a collage. Maybe I would recycle them all and save 700 trees in the process. Maybe I am super-creative and would use them for a new decoupage project (yeah, like I’ve EVER decoupaged anything). Maybe I would shred them all so that no one out there can steal my sensitive, personal information.

It’s not nearly that exciting. I just stand by the trashcan, foot firmly on the pedal thingy that keeps the lid open, look at each and every stinkin’ receipt to make sure it’s not necessary for my survival, and then throw it away. This crazy little ritual happens approximately monthly, and I always feel so much lighter, so much better, when I can see the bottom of my purse again. So why do I keep them all? Why do I stash them all in the bottom of my purse? Why do I have to wrap every receipt around the Debit card? What is my deal?!?

Honestly, I think I learned as a youngster to keep my receipts so that I could reconcile with my bank statement… the one that came in the mail… at the end of the month. I think I learned that I should always keep the receipt in case my bank made some kind of grievous error, NOT in my favor. Then I would have the evidence right there in my hand and I could march into the branch and demand satisfaction.

Well… along came the Information Age. I got Internet Access. I got Online Banking. I look at my bank statement online at least daily, and never look at the statement that comes in the mail at the end of the month. I develop hives if I haven’t checked the balance at least once in the previous 24-hour period. I think receipts have become obsolete. I can see (insert charge from purveyor of fine something-or-other here) hit my account instantly. It’s so instant, in fact, that my husband and I joke about being able to track each other’s whereabouts by just checking the Online Banking page. And did I mention that not once in my many years of banking has the bank ever made a grievous error, NOT in my favor, that required my presence at the branch, receipt in hand, to rectify? I don’t need these silly receipts anymore! I can be free of the wrap-it-around ritual, free of the relegate-it-to-the-bottom ritual, free of the stand-by-the-trashcan ritual! Outstanding news!

The bad news is that I came to this realization several months ago and there is something programmed into my brain that will not let me just throw the receipt in the trash. That something that is programmed into my brain is the same thing that makes my finger press the “Yes” button at the gas station when asked “Do you want a receipt?” I don’t know what the problem is. I don’t know how to break the habit. I can’t be free of the chokehold these receipts have on me. Perhaps there is something mis-firing in my brain. Perhaps I have undiagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Perhaps I just like all of the extra work these little pieces of paper create for me. Perhaps I’m just crazy.

Whatever it is, I stopped at McDonald’s this morning to get a Diet Coke on my way into work, and that receipt is now wrapped neatly around my Debit card, waiting its turn to move to the bottom of my purse where it can hide my keys and muffle the ringing of my cell phone. I have issues!

There’s only one Mineral Flower

I was listening to our kids singing along to a Praise CD today and it brought back some funny memories of my own childhood.

When I was a kid I listened to a LOT of country music. My Dad was a big fan. He had tons of records from folks like The Sons of the Pioneers, Dolly Parton, Merle Haggard, and more. I liked that music. When I finally got my own radio, in MY room, I naturally tuned it to country. I listened all the time and sang along at the top of my lungs to tunes like…

“Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine… I like to drink you with a little salt and lime. Then I kiss all the cowboys, then I shoot out the lights…”

“Well, your nobody called today. She hung up when I asked her name… Well, I wonder, does she think she’s bein’ clever…”

“You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and know when to run.”

“Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Don’t let ‘em pick guitars and drive them old trucks, make ‘em be doctors and lawyers and such.”

“And don’t it make my brown eyes, don’t it make my brown eyes, don’t it make my brown eyes blue.”

There were many more–probably some that would have made my parents blush if they knew I was singing the lyrics to my classmates at school (Jose Cuervo is likely right up there). Hey, I was only eight. I didn’t know what most of the lyrics even meant. It was just fun to sing them.

The funniest songs, though, were the songs that I knew and loved, the songs that I sang with great gusto, but to which I didn’t quite understand the lyrics.

One in particular was Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille”. I always thought he was calling this crazy lady “Loose Heel” and I wondered why on earth he would have 400 children. How could anyone possibly have that many children and still have a crop in the field? Where did they all sleep? How did he feed them all? Where did they find clothes enough for all of them? No wonder she left! I couldn’t handle 400 children either!

Another favorite was T.G. Sheppard’s “Only One You.” The lyrics went something like, “There’s only one Eiffel Tower, one Finest Hour, one New York Town, one Fifth Avenue. There’s only one Mona Lisa, one Leaning Tower of Pisa, one Paris and there’s only one you.” Awww.. what a sweet song. I knew about all of the “only one ofs” except the Finest Hour. I hadn’t learned about that one in school yet and I heard “Mineral Flower.” Makes sense right? I went right on singing it like that until my Mom asked me one day exactly what I was singing and almost fell over in a fit of laughter.

I’ve heard lots of other funny stories about misinterpreted lyrics. See if you recognize the songs that go with the following lyrics…

“Old Saint Cuervo.”

“Friends with slow faces.”

“I spilt tea all over you an me.”

“Younger than the mountains, growin’ lima beans.”

“Find a two-step partner in the KGB.”

“And just like the guy whose eyes are too big for his head.”

It’s been a long time since I listened to country with regularity, but I still like it sometimes (don’t tell!). I think Tim McGraw and Faith Hill are inspired. I usually know the lyrics and, if I don’t, I know how to find them in the CD cover. It was a little more fun when I didn’t know, and just made up words that fit instead.

Are you singing “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys” in your head now? Do you have your own funny stories about misinterpreted lyrics? I’d love to hear them!

I need to go… anyway

We used to go to the mission.  It was  regular, monthly event.  Our local mission has finite resources, like most.  If you want a bed, you go early and get a number.  The mission does a lottery drawing in early evening and if your number gets called you get a bed and a meal.  If not, you fend for yourself on the street.  On milder nights, maybe that’s not a big deal, although I certainly can’t imagine it myself.  On cold nights, below-zero nights, people freeze to death.

Homelessness has always been a heart issue for me.  I remember as a child reading a book my mother bought for me called “Trevor’s Place.”  What an inspiration!  Trevor was 10 when he started ministering to the homeless in Chicago.  He saw a news story about homelessness and couldn’t believe that we as a society would allow such a thing.  He got his entire family involved with his sandwich-and-service venture, eventually building a shelter with funds he had raised. 

I, like a lot of others, didn’t know where to start, even though I felt called to serve.  Enter our small group.  We discussed it, decided we wanted to do it together, and made a plan.  We got together as a group and made soup, coffee and sandwiches, raided a local bread company for their day-old stuff, packed up water, granola bars, socks and blankets, hats and mittens, and whatever else we could find that might be useful.  We headed downtown with our little caravan and pulled up in front of the building.  As soon as we pulled up, the hundred or so (sometimes more, sometimes less) folks would line up.  It was like they could sense our arrival.  They knew we were there to serve them.

We would all get out and set up tables and the people would be pushing the line forward before we were even ready.  They were hungry.  They were thirsty.  They were tired.  They were cold.  They were searching.  They needed ministry… and we were there for them.  We stirred sugar and creamer into their coffee, placed steaming styrofoam cups of hot tomato soup into their cold hands, gave them sandwiches to tide them over, filled their pockets with granola bars, gave them socks to warm their feet, and spent time with them, talked to them.  We heard many stories, some of hardship and loss, some of a life so broken that this existence was all that remained, some wild and unbelievable, all grateful for a listening ear.  I can’t remember a time in my life that felt more rewarding, more like God had called me to do something outside of my comfort zone and had blessed me with his presence just for answering that call.  I loved it.  I wanted to do it more. 

We did… for a long time.  Then something happened.  I think it’s called life, busy-ness, scheduling.  We got overwhelmed by the daily necessities of getting by and we let the mission get edged out.  I miss it. 

I was having this conversation with someone at work last week, discussing the rewards of going, of serving, of knowing we were making a difference, however small that difference might be.  The response I got kind of blew me away.  It’s a lifestyle, this person told me.  They want to live that way.  They expect you to be there for them.  As long as you continue to feed them, you enable them to continue this lifestyle.  The best thing for them is to hit rock bottom and realize they need help — then something will change.

Wow!  I mulled this over for awhile.  I needed to process.  Truth be told, I agree with some of it.  For some it definitely is a lifestyle, just part of their norm.  For some it is an expectation that someone will come and feed them.  For some, perhaps we are enabling. 

So what?!?  Let’s go anyway.  Isn’t that what God does with us?  I’m so thankful that He doesn’t write me off because I’m stuck in a rut, set in my ways, grouchy, argumentative, self-destructive, deaf or crazy.  He loves me anyway.  He serves me anyway.  He calls to me anyway.  And while I know that often I disappoint Him, I know He’s watching me anyway, looking out for me anyway, meeting my needs anyway.  In fact, in the times I’ve been the most broken, the farthest from Him, the most stubborn, those are the times He’s called to me the loudest.  I know that He will never just watch me spiral downward and wait for me to hit rock bottom, thinking that might be the best thing for me.  I picture him instead shaking his head in sorrow, sighing a big sigh, and trying again… anyway.  

That’s the God I want to bring to the mission.  I want to show those broken hearts His face, His hands.  I want to show them that no matter what they’ve done, how far they’ve fallen, how ugly life might be right now, God loves them anyway, wants them anyway, calls them anyway.  I don’t need to give a speech to do that.  I just need to meet their needs–with a hot cup of coffee, with a smile, with a listening ear. 

I need to get down there again, soon.  I need to go anyway - you going that way, too?

‘For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’   Matthew 25:35-40