Daddy Can Fix It

“I am the LORD, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?” (Jeremiah 32:27)

Damaged goods are not useless. Try explaining this to a toddler.

My one-year-old and I were digging in the sandbox when she discovered a crack in her plastic shovel handle. “Momma, boke,” she said.

“Yes, it’s broken,” I replied. “But you can still use it. Look, the scooper works just fine.”

“Momma, boke,” she repeated. “Daddy.”

Of course—Daddy. Her sweet suggestion triggered a smile on my lips and in my heart. It’s a known fact in the Kopitzke house that Daddy can fix anything. His basement work bench is a fountain of youth for snapped toy parts, ripped book covers, and all sizes of dead batteries. Got a cracked shovel? No problem. Daddy is handy and he owns glue.

“Daddy can fix it later, sweetheart. For now, you can still dig with the shovel. See? Dig.” I demonstrated how the sandbox toy was functional in spite of its flaw.

“Momma, boke.” She couldn’t let it go. My baby girl crinkled her eyebrows, confused and determined, unable to see beyond the crack. In her little world, a broken handle meant the whole thing was useless. Done. Garbage.

Do you ever feel that way?

I do. I have cracks. Call them faults, limitations, misfortunes, mistakes—in the end they all serve as painful reminders that I am not perfect. And it’s easy to think sometimes that God can’t use me until I am.

But then I read about the Bible superstars.

• Moses was a murderer with a speech impediment.
• Joseph came from a dysfunctional family.
• David slept with a married woman and got her pregnant.
• In Paul’s early career, he was notorious for persecuting Christians.
• Mary Magdalene had seven demons—seven!
• The Samaritan woman at the well, she was, you know, loose.
• Peter—that fair weather friend—he deserted Jesus when it wasn’t cool to hang with him anymore.

Talk about damaged goods. These people had issues. If that’s where their stories ended, they would be sad stories indeed.

But our Father can fix anything. He has tools—mercy, grace, compassion, love, healing hands, eternal knowledge and supernatural power. God can mend us, the pitiful cracked shovels, and make us new again.

Yet even before he fixes us, we are valuable to him. “The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” (Psalm 34:18).

Do you feel broken? You are not worthless. Are your cracks showing? Your scooper still works when it’s held in the Master’s hands.

I dusted the sand off that little plastic shovel and brought it inside. My daughter had already forgotten about it and moved on to some unblemished bristle blocks. But I felt a silly kinship with the poor castoff sandbox toy. You are not boke, I thought. Just wait until Daddy gets a hold of you.

Sticky, Smelly, Dirty

It sparkled. It gleamed. I stood over it, mop in hand, gazing at my own spectacular reflection. Yes, ma’am, that floor was clean. And I adored it. For about 10 seconds.

Splat! A glob of mandarin oranges landed at my feet.

“Aw, come on!” I roared. “Mommy just scrubbed the floor!” The baby half-smiled, taunting me from her high chair, where I’d buckled her safely away from my mopping path. This was her revenge.

“Uh-oh!” she said, as if it were an accident—yeah, right. Just then, her older sister zoomed through the kitchen on a riding toy, chugging straight through that heap of orange mess. Plastic wheels dragged a streak of citrus juice across my pristine floor.

Yep, I thought. This is my life.

I’m a neat freak. I like a clean house, fresh clothes, and daily shampooed hair. I brush my teeth after every meal and wash my hands incessantly. I’m afraid of germs, dirt, sticky fingers, and dog licks.

Even as a teenager, I vacuumed my room every Saturday and cried when my sisters deliberately ground their sock prints into my carpet fibers as soon as I was done. Oh, and remember the old Charlie Brown cartoons? I still cringe when Pig-Pen trails across the screen in his disgusting puff of dust. That guy flat-out scares me.

A healthy bent toward tidiness isn’t bad. It’s a responsible, grown-up trait. The problem is, tidy is tough to maintain with kids. As soon as I pick up a stack of toys, my children haul out another disaster to spread across the room. While I wipe peanut butter off the babe’s face, she grabs a cracker and crumbles it in her shoe.

Clothes stain, food spills, piles accumulate, and daughters get Elmer’s glue in their hair. In my house, messy is a perpetual state no matter how I attempt to correct it.

But therein lies the problem. What am I correcting, exactly? Correcting implies there’s something wrong. And there is—with me. Some days I spend more time cleaning up after my family than I do enjoying my family. That is not how Jesus lived.

Jesus got dirty. He traveled dusty roads. He healed lepers. He washed his disciples’ feet. He pressed his lips to communal drinking cups. He was not afraid to touch disease, to hold grubby children in his arms, or to be swarmed by hoards of human beings in an era before antiperspirant, indoor plumbing, or Hoover steam vacs. In order to reach people’s hearts, Jesus got up close and personal with their grime. 

Am I willing to do that? When my daughter snuggles her cookie-crumb face into my shoulder, am I relishing the affection or worrying about soggy Oreo smudges? If my girls beg me to make mud pies, do I dig in and share their laughter or stand ready with the hose to spray them down?

Last night, my husband offered to cook dinner. I could’ve relaxed and enjoyed the break, but instead I nagged him to double-rinse the carrots. What is my problem?

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth,” (John 1:14).

The Word became flesh. Doesn’t that just boggle your mind? Jesus is God. Holy, immaculate, glorious God! God didn’t have to humble himself in human form, descending to Earth to live among filthy, sick, unkempt people. All those fishing boats and upper rooms—seriously, they couldn’t have smelled very good.

But he came. He lived a perfect life in an imperfect, germ-infested, post-Eden environment. He made his dwelling among us, in order to save us from ourselves. And that includes my irritating compulsion to pick up toys.

I want to invest in souls, not soap. The first step is to remember God loves me whether my floor is shiny or not. It’s time to seek a little less mop sparkle and a lot more glory of the One and Only.

The mandarin orange fiasco was my own fault. Next time, I’ll stick with Teddy Grahams. Better yet, I’ll hang up the mop and make a few mud pies instead. And when my baby girl drops a Teddy in the sludge and pops it right back into her mouth, I’ll pray for the impulse to laugh.

Yes, Lord, there’s no avoiding the mess. But I’m starting to see you in the midst of it, so it’s not that scary after all.

If you like this post, you might also like Sandy Grass. Hmmm. . . this seems to be one of my recurring mental issues topics. Blessings to those of you who can relate!

The Mirror

“No! Nooooooo! I don’t want to!” Feet stomped above me, clomp, clomp, clomp! A door slammed. Something hit the wall with a muffled thud. (Mr. Potato Head? A Dr. Suess book?)

I sat in the basement office listening to my daughter screaming upstairs. At the babysitter. Yes, lovely, I know. This was supposed to be my time to catch up on paperwork, but instead I fretted over how to intervene.

I can’t go upstairs, I thought. The baby would see me—kicking her separation anxiety into high gear—and I’d struggle to return to the basement while she cries for Momma, Momma, Momma! Then surely all hope of getting anything done would fly out the window—which, I might add, was open for the neighbors to hear this delightful hissy fit.

Should I send the babysitter packing? I considered my options. And I resorted to trickery.

“Honey, will you please call home and tell Clara you can hear her sassing?” I begged my husband for help, disrupting him at work.  Since our four-year-old learned to recognize her dad’s name on caller ID, I often let her answer when he calls. We hung up and waited for her to take the bait.

One ring, two rings. . . darn, maybe the sitter put her in a time-out. Three rings, four rings. . . gotcha! Sneaky Mom eavesdropped on the office phone.

“Are you being good?” my husband interrogated.

“Yes, Daddy.” Oo, a lie.

“Really? Well, I think I can hear you all the way at my office.”

I pictured my daughter’s darling blue eyes widening in fear and awe. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I was being naughty.”

“You’d better behave, or no popsicle after supper tonight.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll be good. I love you, Daddy.”

Ah, peace. A few minutes later, papers rustled at the top of the stairs. Clara drew pictures and slid them under the door. I collected my offering of purple crayon flowers with “TOMOMFROMCLARA” scrawled across the sheets.

How can a child be so unruly one moment and so darn sweet the next? Well, let me think.

This morning I made heart-shaped toast for my daughters served with a smiley face of grapes and strawberries. That was sweet.

Two minutes later, Clara spilled her juice, and I scolded her for being clumsy. That was not sweet.

I brushed Clara’s hair and told her how beautiful God made her. Sweet.

Then she ran away and hid from the torture of an attempted ponytail, making us late for music class, so I flung the hairbrush across the room. Not sweet.

Later I cheered while my girls shared drum mallets. Awww, sweet.

Then on the way home, I grew tired of my preschool passenger asking for the seventh time, “Mom, are you driving the speed limit?” (I was). So I snapped and told her to let me drive. Not sweet.

You get the idea. Truth is, I am worse than inconsistent. I’m unpredictable. Why is my pot so quick to boil over?

When my four-year-old stands with hands on her hips, lips pursed, eyes narrowed and staring me down, I look at her and I see. . .

Myself.

In her scowl, her body language, her impulse to throw things out of frustration. I model this for her, and she tosses it back in my face, as if God is holding a mirror to my ugly side.

“Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools,” (Ecclesiastes 7:9). According to the Bible, my little temper habit—my easily provoked spirit—makes me, by God’s definition, a fool.

Darn, that stings. I’d call myself a lot of things—impatient, tired, frazzled—but not foolish. Surely you’re not talking about me, Lord. I know my triggers. I snap when I’m distracted, thinking about my to-do list. When I’m worried or feeling anxious. When I’m living in my head and not in the moment. That’s when my children become an interruption rather than my focus, a signal that it’s time to rearrange my priorities. Cut me some slack, Lord! Fools are those other people. Right?

Wrong. Look in the mirror, Becky. When I allow myself to throw tantrums, I’m playing the fool—and I’m teaching my children to do the same.

“These pictures are fantastic!” I shouted up the stairs.

“Thanks, Momma!” Clara replied, giggling as the babysitter shepherded my girls outside to play.

Sweet, I thought. I’ll take it while it lasts. I imagine God says the same thing about me. He knows I’m still growing up. And like a good parent, he loves me unconditionally, tantrums and sweetness and all. And for that, I am forever grateful.

When Trials Come

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness,” (Lamentations 3:21–23).

My house is full of surprises. Yesterday I found a princess wand in the Tupperware drawer. Other times, I’ve encountered a doll stuffed in the toothpaste cabinet, Hello Kitty stickers on my pajama bottoms, and—my personal favorite—teeth marks in the purple glue stick. Really? Yum.

These endearing discoveries make me chuckle. They’re marks of motherhood, little reminders that I’m living the dream of family life.

Of course, some surprises aren’t so heartwarming. Like a Sunday night trip to the ER, because the toddler tripped over Mom’s shoe and smashed her nose into a chair frame. Yeah, good memories.

But then. There are those surprises. The ones we can’t joke about because they threaten to break us. Bed rest. Pink slip. Miscarriage. Intensive care. You know the list.

These, too, are signs that we’re mothers, wives, human. They’ve been handed to people I love. To me. To you.

We tell ourselves these hardships aren’t supposed to be part of living the dream. But God’s truth says they are. “The righteous person faces many troubles, but the Lord comes to the rescue each time,” (Psalm 34:19 NLT).

Last week, I got one of my favorite phone calls—from my dear old friend and college roommate, Alisa. Small kids and a state border have kept us apart in recent years, but all it takes is a half-hour chat to plop us right back in those bean bag chairs on campus.

She called because she needed somebody to laugh with her about a shameful mommy incident. Let me qualify this by saying Alisa is a fantastic mom. But that morning, she kinda, sorta forgot to feed her kindergartner breakfast before shipping her off to school.

No lie, she didn’t even realize the flub until her mini-van was idling in the drop-off line. Isn’t that terrible and altogether hilarious? Don’t judge—you know you’re capable of it, too!

So why is this remarkable? That’s what moms do—we chatter about what our kids ate for breakfast. No big deal.

But Alisa has much more to talk about, if she wanted to. Nine months ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Talk about one of life’s surprises. At 36 years old, with four kids under the age of 7, my sweet friend had to figure out how to juggle chemo with carpooling, packing lunches, and changing diapers.

She could’ve called to complain or to invite me to her pity party. But she chose to laugh. To focus on the everyday things, the busy work of being a mom. Because that’s what life is, isn’t it? We get up every day, strap on our burdens and go about the tasks God gave us.

Your burdens might be different from Alisa’s. But we all have them, and we all have a choice. We can remain in a state of shock, consumed by angst and shaking our fists at God. Or we can run to him and plead for the strength to suffer, trusting in his compassion, and holding on for the rescue.

Easier said than done—definitely. I have a hard time digesting the notion that pain is not supposed to be out of the ordinary. Or, that it might even be for my benefit.

If God loves me, then shouldn’t he want me to be happy? I suppose it depends on my definition of happy. Yes, God loves me. He loves me more than I can comprehend. And that’s why he’s more concerned about my eternal character than my temporal bliss.

Alisa got it right. I don’t know if I could handle cancer with as much grace as I saw in her this past year. But then God is in the business of grace. If he asks us to face trouble, I believe he will walk with us through the trial.

There’s another moral to this story. Keep a stash of crackers in your glove compartment, ladies. Oh sure, we think we’ll never be that mom. Alisa thought so, too. Thankfully God’s grace touches even the kindergarten lunch schedule—10:45 a.m., the earliest shift. Praise the Lord! His compassions are new every breakfast.

The Case of the Purple Car

I searched everywhere. In the toys bins, under the sofa, behind a box of waffles in the freezer—but that Little People rollercoaster car was nowhere to be found.

We need that car, I thought. Without it, the carnival set isn’t just incomplete—it’s non-functional! How else was my toddler going to shuttle her mini molded friend down the track unless she had the purple car? Where is that car?

By the end of the day I was convinced the thing grew legs and walked out the door, never to be cradled by my daughter’s chubby fingers again. Irritated, I logged onto eBay and found a used replacement—for $11.95 plus shipping. That price is probably more than the entire set cost originally, but I considered it for a moment. And then my brain snapped back into my head.

Seriously, Becky? You’d pay 12 bucks for a three-inch piece of plastic? There was a day not too long ago when you didn’t have $11.95 in your purse to buy toilet paper until the next paycheck. Now that you’re married with kids and a savings account, is a dollar worth less than a dollar? Where is your perspective, woman?

Like many moms, I sometimes fall prey to the temptation to give my kids everything. I am neither rich nor poor by American standards—I clip coupons, for goodness sake. I’m frugal. I am!

Yet what money I do have I’m more likely to spend on my precious munchkins than on myself. Their toy room is stocked, our pantry welcomes every variety of Annie’s organic Bunnies snacks, and I shell out a small fortune for music and swimming lessons without blinking an eye.

Is this wrong? Not necessarily. We all want the best for our kids. But what is “best,” actually? Having stuff, or having a heart of gratitude for affording and receiving the stuff?

A recent comment from my four-year-old suggests perhaps I’m not instilling the value of stewardship in my kids as well as I could. A few days ago, I caught her seated at the kitchen table, casually snapping all of her crayons in half.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked. “Those are new crayons!”

She shrugged and said, “It’s okay, Mom, we’ll just buy more.”

Yikes. Where did she get that idea? Three guesses: me, me, and me.

Jesus tells us, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” (Matthew 6:19–21).

I really don’t want my heart to be in the aisles of Toys R Us. More importantly, I don’t want my kids to think toys are the real treasures in life. This attitude can grow into adulthood, when we covet the latest electronic gadgets, designer clothing, luxury cars, shoes, shoes and more shoes—as if those objects can fill a void.

How do I teach my kids to appreciate material things? By storing up all the things that aren’t material: love, patience, sacrifice, kindness, sharing, laughter, hugs. Those are the gifts I want to give my kids, far more than I desire to see another Fisher-Price gizmo enter our house.

As I logged off of eBay, I reached for my Bible to seek God’s guidance and to pray for my heart and for my children’s hearts. There, stashed inside my Bible case, a little plastic car sat waiting to be discovered.

Funny, God. You’re funny.  This Sunday, I promise I’ll give my kids some extra money for the children’s offering at church—$11.95 to be exact.