Taste of Candy Land

Do you have a favorite indulgence? The carrot dangling two inches from your thoughts, a reward for spending countless hours in super mom mode. We all need one. Mine is Taste of Home magazine.

Last week I squealed in delight to discover a shiny new edition tucked in my mailbox. I love the photos of fancy desserts, tips for marinating pork chops and weaving pie crusts, recipes, recipes, and more recipes! Taste of Home feeds my dream of someday becoming a decent cook. Feeling giddy and suddenly a little hungry, I longed to slide my feet into fuzzy slippers and ingest the glossy pages.

“Momma, do you want to play Candy Land?” My four-year-old daughter roused me from my mailbox reverie, clutching a game box to her chest. Baby sister was napping, so my version of upcoming events involved the preschooler watching Nick, Jr. while I perused my luscious magazine.

“Not right now, sweetheart, Mom really wants to rest. Let’s play later, okay? I’ll let you watch Jack’s Big Music Show!” I replied, hoping to heaven she liked this alternative.

“No, Mom, I really want to play Candy Land with you!” She stood firm. Darn. I tried another tactic.

“Well, how about if you snuggle with me in the comfy chair?! I’ll make popcorn, and you can watch T.V. while I look at my magazine.”

“Yay, popcorn!” she cheered. “Let’s eat it together while we play Candy Land!”

Backfire. I stood hinged between two impending meltdowns—no Candy Land or no magazine—and I caved to the lesser tantrum.

“Ok, let’s play.”

My little opponent dashed toward the family room to set up the board, merrily oblivious to the debate that just waged in my head. I loosened my grip on the stack of mail, releasing Taste of Home to the “after kids are in bed” pile.

Before I had children, I was the axis of my own planet. Everything spun at my will. When I wanted to read a magazine, I read a magazine. When I wanted to sleep, I slept. When I needed to brush my teeth, I stood quietly at my own sink with nobody busting down the door to ransack my dental floss supply. Life was all mine.

Sure, there was my husband to consider, but he had his personal planet, too, and together we floated in harmony through the same solar system.  If he wanted to go golfing, I said “Have a good time!” and flopped onto the couch for a nap.

We ate meals at restaurants, interrupted only by waiters delivering refills. We spent Friday nights renting not just one, but two! movies—and we watched them past 10 o’clock, because we could snooze as late as we wanted the next morning before heading to Home Depot for shopping at our leisure.

Ah, our B.C. (before children) days! They were all so peacefully selfish. God knew we needed a cosmic shake-up.  Enter our first little asteroid, baby girl #1.

In pregnancy, I envisioned cradling a slumbering cherub, both of us smelling like sweet baby wash and Dreft. Instead, reality delivered me a saucer-eyed infant insomniac. For three months I reeked of spit-up and stale deodorant, desperate for an hour of sleep and a shower.

That’s when a savage thought invaded my sanity—a thought many new moms share but dare not voice. Is this what motherhood is all about? Why didn’t anybody tell me? I want my old life back! 

“Then he said to them all: ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?’” (Luke 9:23–25)

Pardon my blasphemy, but I’d like to paraphrase in mommy-speak:

“Then Jesus said to the woman post-childbirth: ‘If you claim to be a Christian, you must at last learn to live beyond yourself and take up your burp cloth daily and follow me. This means replacing your own wants with your children’s needs―including waking every 90 minutes to feed a newborn, dodging banana chunks catapulted from high chairs, scrubbing leaky diaper juice off bedspreads, and postponing meaningful adult conversation until the kids have flown to college. . . to name just a few.

“For whoever wants to read a magazine when the youngster pleads for attention will miss the lesson and the blessing, but whoever loses her selfish desires in an innocent Milton Bradley match will see my face in the eyes of a child. What good it is for a gal to gain a hundred new recipes, and yet forfeit the wise and loving soul I am refining through parenthood?’”

This has been the most shocking lesson of motherhood for me―denying self. I had no clue how self-absorbed I really was until God hurled children into my orbit.

Yet now, two daughters deep in the journey, I would never wish to trade parenting for childless freedoms. I get choked up just imagining it.

Yes, there are moments when this mom wants to sit and eat a muffin without breaking off bites for little beggars. But praise our great and loving God for two more mouths to feed, two beautiful legacies, my gifts. These children, by stripping away my old life, have taught me how to really live—selflessly, passionately, tear-stained, beaming with joy, and clinging to Jesus every step of the way.

So I don’t get to read a magazine on a whim. Fine. Instead, I get to count colored squares, chat about imaginary friends, and nosh on handfuls of Orville Redenbacher at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Is this not a beautiful life?

“Mom, you won! Good job, Mom!” my daughter exclaimed as I hippity-hopped my green game piece across the finish line. Her enthusiastic sportsmanship amazes me. Such a natural encourager, my girl. My heart puffed with mommy pride until I could almost feel my chest ache.

Yep, Candy Land was the right choice. Maybe later we can find a recipe in that magazine to cook together. It’s time a young lady learns to marinate.

Life Is a Highway

I don’t trust my husband.

Well, no, I take that back—of course I trust my husband.

Except for that, I don’t. Not really.

Gulp. This revelation is tough to swallow.

It all started one recent afternoon when we were driving our SUV down a major highway riddled with road construction barriers. I was a nervous Nellie, slamming my foot to the passenger side ghost brake anytime our fender got within 20 feet of the bumper in front of us. When my twisted imagination pictured a truck swerving into our lane, I grabbed for my phantom steering wheel, too.

“Would you please relax?” my husband scolded.

“These people are driving like maniacs,” I grumbled, subconsciously including my beloved among these people. “We should’ve taken the back roads.”

“Close your eyes and pretend we did. I can handle it.”

Yes. He can handle it. He handles a lot of things well. Faithfulness, integrity, deep love for me and our children. I do trust him—with the big things. It’s the little things that trip me up.

Like speeding down a congested death trap, for instance.

See, the issue isn’t my husband’s driving. He’s actually a better driver than I am. The problem was that I was not in control. I didn’t trust my capable man to pilot our vehicle through a danger zone, simply because I had no say in how he did it. Ultimately, this reveals my lack of trust in God.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight,” (Proverbs 3:5–6).

This verse is so well-worn in my repertoire, I can easily glaze over its impact. Let’s dig in a bit:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart: Notice it doesn’t say, “Trust in the Lord with all your head.” My brain registers the fact that God knows better than me. But my tendency to fret in uncertain situations indicates perhaps my heart didn’t get the memo.

Lean not on your own understanding: I like to think I have a little wisdom. But sometimes my own understanding is about as dependable as a generic-brand diaper on a six-hour road trip. Stiff and leaky. Why would I want to lean on that?

In all your ways acknowledge him: I’m pretty sure “all your ways” includes my knee-jerk response to crazy traffic, and anything else—big or small—that sends my pulse racing. Acknowledge him. Remember God is in the car, too.

And he will make your paths straight: God will guide me. He might allow some bumps in the road, but I can trust him with the bumps, too.

God is the best driver. He knows how to navigate my life. He sees the obstacles ahead, and he protects me from things I didn’t even know were there. More than that, he leads my husband to make choices for our family, including how to drive down the devil’s highway. Why do I keep wrestling the Almighty for the keys?

“I’m sorry I freaked out back there,” I groveled to my husband once we reached our destination. “I should’ve trusted you.”

“No, you should’ve trusted God,” he said. “If his plan involves us crashing on the way to Walmart, then there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

Did I mention my husband has a sense of humor? God bless him. But there’s truth behind the joke.

Learning to trust God means daily surrendering my anxieties. It means knowing the Lord has my best interests at heart, and he’s working everything out for good. Some days, some seasons, are wild rides. But that’s all the more reason to buckle up and let the Father drive.

Watch Me!

“Watch me, Mom! Watch me!” my daughter beamed, showing off a new dismount from the monkey bars.

“Wow! Super duper trick, sweetheart!” I applauded her fancy feat like it was a Fourth of July fireworks show. She skipped through the yard, basking in my praise.

My four-year-old adores an audience—and her own accomplishments. The phrase “watch me” fills my ears at least a dozen times a day. Watch me dance! Watch me draw! Watch me conquer the hopscotch board on one foot! Look what I can do! Aren’t you proud, Mom?

I do the same thing to God, of course. Watch me sing at church! Watch me mail this check to charity! Watch me bake lasagna for my friend who just had a baby! I am so thoughtful. I am so holy! Aren’t you proud, Lord?

Ah, but God has this little superpower called omniscience. Just like I see my preschooler sneaking cookies or wrapping her baby sister in a headlock when she thinks my attention is diverted elsewhere, God sees the bad behavior between my good deeds.

He sees me snap at my children, honk at slow drivers on the highway, set the dropped fork next to my husband’s dinner plate instead of my own. (Okay, seriously, I’ve actually done that. Forgive me!)

“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. . . . Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” (Psalm 139:1, 7)

How would my behavior change if I invited God to “watch me!” in every circumstance? How would my thinking be transformed?

Like it or not, my heavenly Father is watching at all times. I can’t promote my achievements while hiding my screw-ups. He knows about that fork before I’ve even stooped to pick it off the floor. He has searched me and he knows me―all of me.

“Mom, is God with me in the bathtub?” my silly monkey asked later that night as I scrubbed behind her ears.

Well, yes, I suppose he is. Or he’s at least leaning against the towel cabinet, probably delighting in my girls splashing each other with soap suds. And I realized he’s delighting in me, too, imperfect as I am. It’s a comforting thought.

“God is always with us,” I said. Always loving, always faithful, always cheering us on with mercy and grace. “And that’s a wonderful thing.”

Too Hot to Handle

I’ll never win Mother of the Year. That’s a given. But I was still in the running for Greatest Aunt Ever. Until a couple weeks ago.

“Auntie Becky, my fingers hurt,” my niece complained. She and her younger sister were spending the day at our house. At ages 11 and 8, they are the admired older cousins, two of my girls’ favorite playmates. And I was in charge of them all.

“Your fingers hurt? What happened?” I asked.

“Well, we were making a salad in the sandbox.”

Hmmm. . . . My daughter’s familiar “salad” game—stirring leaves and sticks in a bowl—and a garden patch blooming with fresh produce just five yards from the sandbox. My brain assembled the puzzle in a flash.

“Were you picking vegetables from the garden?” I pried gently, a tinge of panic welling in my throat.

“Yes.”

“Did you pick the jalapenos?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you do with them, sweetheart?” As if I didn’t already know.

“I put them in our salad!”

Heaven help me. Fiery hot peppers plucked ripe from the stem, butchered with a Play-Doh utensil, mixed by tender fingers with hose water and sand, and served up on plastic toy platters for “lunch.” Yum. It was a perfect recipe for play date disaster.

Have you ever touched the inner flesh of a jalapeno? Yeesh! Those searing juices seeped mercilessly into my niece’s skin, slowly setting her fingertips on fire. First-aid attempts did nothing to relieve the burn. Even after she’d washed her hands repeatedly and soaked them in a bowl of aloe gel, the poor girl spent half the night tossing and turning in pain.

I ran a gamut of reactions to this little incident:

Surprise—Really? The kids didn’t know they weren’t supposed to pick vegetables from the garden? (Hellooo, Auntie. Obviously you don’t remember being 11.)

Admiration—Pretty creative, actually. I might’ve applauded their imagination if only those veggies weren’t intended for my husband’s homemade salsa.

Gratitude—Thank God she didn’t touch her eyeballs!

Guilt—Oh, the guilt! How could this happen on my watch? I was supervising. I was! The baby snoozed securely in her crib, and the older kids were safe in the fenced yard, within earshot of my open windows. So I stepped inside just long enough to whip up a batch of brownies—for them! I am the Greatest Aunt Ever!

Whoops. Disqualified.

So kids will be kids, and aunties will be sometimes oblivious. I made my peace with that. But then another thought crept in and gnawed at my heart. What are my jalapenos? What do I grasp that appears fun and harmless in the moment, but hurts me after a while?

• A fascinating new novel—which I read in place of my Bible.
• A friend’s Facebook page—which becomes a distant substitute for picking up the phone.
• That double scoop of ice cream after dinner last night, and the night before, and the night before that— until my stomach feels sluggish and my skinny jeans shrink. (What? Is it just me?)

Tricky, those jalapenos. Smooth and shiny on the surface, but danger smolders under the skin. If I handle them carelessly, innocent amusements can burn me.

And where is God, my overseer, my protector? Unlike Auntie Becky in the case of the inferno salad, God is not negligent. He is not unaware of the details. He sees it all, and he allows me to make mistakes. He lets me snatch peppers and feel the consequences. That’s the messy, mind-boggling concept of free will, central to our relationship with God. He loves us, so he lets us choose—but not without guidance.

“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way. Walk in it,’” (Isaiah 30:21).

What if we listened more often to that little voice in our head? The one that says, Should I be doing this? How will I feel tomorrow? Is it becoming a bad habit? Would Jesus touch this thing?

Thankfully, poor choices aren’t the only trait that runs in my family. So does grace. My sister—the victim’s mother—has not booted me from her Facebook friend list, so I guess we’re okay. She says the pepper episode taught my niece a lesson. God knows it taught me one, too.

What are your jalapenos? Will you be brave and share in the comments below? If you’re reading this post via e-mail, click here to swing over to my blog site. We can compare stories of play dates gone wrong!