“You look nice.” Emerging from the bedroom dressed in my Sunday best, I relished this rare compliment from my husband. It’s not that he’s stingy with his praise. Truth is, lately I’ve done very little to elicit it.
The daily grind of chasing after two young daughters has driven me into a fashion rut, and some days even I don’t like what I see in the mirror. When I’m donning faded yoga pants speckled with crusty jelly smudges, sporting yet another ponytail revealing tufts of post-partum re-growth sticking out at my temples, I can hardly expect my husband to comment. In fact, I’m grateful he doesn’t.
“Thanks,” I gushed. “These are the new pants I ordered online.” The ones I saved in my closet for six weeks, waiting for an outing and a mud-free forecast. My fresh duds were on my body for about three minutes before a sippy cup tipped and splashed Vitamin D milk down the front of my pant leg.
“Seriously?!” I whined. “Can’t I ever dress up?” Desperately, I blotted my pants with a wet cloth, knowing from experience how whole milk leaves stubborn stains. My thoughts slid down a pity tunnel.
All I ever wear are grubby clothes. And this is why. What’s the point in spending money on nice things if the kids are just going to destroy them? I used to wear tailored outfits to work. I used to feel naked without lipstick. What happened to me?
I’m a stay-at-home mom, and my kids are little. I spend my days spreading peanut butter and wiping stinky bottoms. I barely have enough time to get through a shower before the baby loses patience with her bouncy seat, let alone spend an extra half hour primping my hair and makeup.
I do the best I can on fast fix-up mode. Often that means recycling yesterday’s hairstyle, wearing glasses instead of contacts, or tossing on a T-shirt because it requires no ironing. Every once in a while, I like to recapture a glimpse of that old foxy woman—the one who assigned a column in the household budget for J. Crew and Salon Aura. It makes me feel, well, pretty again.
But how does God define “pretty”?
“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight,” (1 Peter 3:3–4).
In Peter’s day, I imagine braided hair was the equivalent of our modern color foils. Gold jewelry and fine clothes—the J. Crew of ancient times. Women throughout history have felt the desire to be beautiful. But our real beauty is not found in fancy clothes, great haircuts, or carefully applied cosmetics.
God says it comes from the inside—a gentle, quiet spirit that our daughters can emulate and our sons can admire. The problem isn’t spilled milk, or the loss of identity and freedom that we often pin on motherhood.
My identity is in Christ. And what is he asking me to do? Be a mom. Guide his little sheep. Train them up right. That involves demonstrating how to respond well to annoyances and disappointments. It means teaching my children what’s really valuable in life. And it’s not the pants.
During our 20-minute drive to church, a silent but lively conversation took place in my head. I progressed from stewing in self-pity, to considering how Jesus would’ve reacted to a volatile sippy cup, to laughing at myself, realizing I flopped once again. The milk thing was a great teachable moment, and I missed it.
“I’m sorry, everybody,” I announced to my family as we reached the parking lot. “Mom shouldn’t have blown her top over some silly new pants. Will you forgive me?”
I glanced at my husband. A grin spread across his stubbled face. He knows me—my heart, my struggles, my best intentions and my special talent for screwing them up.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. And I know he meant it, milk stains included.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Trouble With To-Do
My four-year-old loves to play a game she calls “checklist.” I write a series of tasks on her favorite monkey-face shaped notebook, and she draws a checkmark next to each completed assignment.
She gets this from her mother. I’m a checklist addict. I have lists for everything—groceries, housekeeping, Christmas gifts, party plans. My own trusty notebook sits on our kitchen countertop, catching random assignments for each day.
What does this say about me? I’m organized. I’m methodical. Or I’m flaky enough to forget things if I don’t write them down. Running lists help me spew thoughts onto paper instead of cramming them inside my daydreaming, over-analytical brain. For me, checklists are a form of mental freedom.
But they’re also a crutch.
I like to cross things off the list. So I spend a lot of time chasing immediate to-do’s instead of long-term, important stuff.
The bills have a due date. Life lessons do not. So the urgent crowds out the important, day in and day out, until my menial tasks are accounted for but I’ve lost opportunities to train my children, to invest in my marriage, to improve my own well-being.
What if my checklist looked like this?
These are things I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. But they get shoved to the bottom of the list because they’re not immediately attainable. The pots have to get scrubbed, the preschool snack has to be divided into baggies, and somebody has to run to the store to buy more diapers. So these are the tasks I tackle first. Until they’re the only tasks I tackle at all.
God has a checklist, too. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven—a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,” (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6–7).
- Draw a flower
- Spell your name
- Hop five times
- Sing the ABCs
She gets this from her mother. I’m a checklist addict. I have lists for everything—groceries, housekeeping, Christmas gifts, party plans. My own trusty notebook sits on our kitchen countertop, catching random assignments for each day.
- Wash the sheets
- Sign permission slip
- Thaw hamburger
- Call Mom
What does this say about me? I’m organized. I’m methodical. Or I’m flaky enough to forget things if I don’t write them down. Running lists help me spew thoughts onto paper instead of cramming them inside my daydreaming, over-analytical brain. For me, checklists are a form of mental freedom.
But they’re also a crutch.
I like to cross things off the list. So I spend a lot of time chasing immediate to-do’s instead of long-term, important stuff.
- I did the laundry, but I let my child’s High Five magazines pile up, unread.
- I took pictures of the girls diving in the leaf pile, but I haven’t updated our photo books in six months.
- I paid the bills, but I’ve been meaning for half a year now to create a chore chart designed to teach our elder daughter fiscal responsibility. She has yet to earn a single quarter. And it’s my fault.
The bills have a due date. Life lessons do not. So the urgent crowds out the important, day in and day out, until my menial tasks are accounted for but I’ve lost opportunities to train my children, to invest in my marriage, to improve my own well-being.
What if my checklist looked like this?
- Take a romantic weekend getaway to a log cabin
- Train for a 5K
- Scour the Bible for examples of gratitude, humility, and sacrifice—then use them to illustrate these values for my children
These are things I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. But they get shoved to the bottom of the list because they’re not immediately attainable. The pots have to get scrubbed, the preschool snack has to be divided into baggies, and somebody has to run to the store to buy more diapers. So these are the tasks I tackle first. Until they’re the only tasks I tackle at all.
God has a checklist, too. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven—a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,” (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6–7).
- Search
- Give up
- Keep
- Throw away
- Tear
- Mend
- Be silent
- Speak
Every pair of tasks seems at odds, but God gives them equal weight. Today, search. Tomorrow, give it up. By all means, keep. But don’t neglect to throw away.
Do you see the beauty of the pattern? It’s not about choosing between this and that, urgent or important. There is a time to do both. My mistake lies in consistently tipping the agenda too heavily toward one side.
I’ll confess, I was on a tight schedule this morning. When my daughter came skipping toward me with that monkey-face notebook, my eyes darted to the dirty dishes in the sink. But those verses from Ecclesiastes popped to mind, and I dropped the dish rag for ten minutes. It was the best game of checklist we’ve ever played.
Will you join me? What can you postpone this week in order to focus some time on the stuff that matters for the long haul? There is a time for everything. Let’s give our calendars a chance to prove it.
Do you see the beauty of the pattern? It’s not about choosing between this and that, urgent or important. There is a time to do both. My mistake lies in consistently tipping the agenda too heavily toward one side.
I’ll confess, I was on a tight schedule this morning. When my daughter came skipping toward me with that monkey-face notebook, my eyes darted to the dirty dishes in the sink. But those verses from Ecclesiastes popped to mind, and I dropped the dish rag for ten minutes. It was the best game of checklist we’ve ever played.
Will you join me? What can you postpone this week in order to focus some time on the stuff that matters for the long haul? There is a time for everything. Let’s give our calendars a chance to prove it.
- Do not vacuum
- Make a craft with the kids instead
- See what God does!
Monday, November 14, 2011
Confessions of a Hunter's Wife
In last week’s devotion, I talked about shifting our default from complaining to appreciating. This time of year affords me no shortage of opportunities to practice this new philosophy. Can you guess why?
Yes, ladies, it’s hunting season.
And I hate it.
Granted, I’ve been a little clingy due to recent sad events, and I have half a mind to super-glue my husband’s toes to the floor to ensure he will always be with me. Yet my left brain knows I must release him to the world under God’s sovereign control.
But for hunting? Really, Lord?
Let’s be brutally honest. While my husband is off to the deep woods communing with nature, I’m stuck at home on mommy overtime. These little people want their Cheerios now even though I barely catch a spare moment to peel myself a banana in two days.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my daughters to the core of my soul. It’s an enormous blessing to be home with them. I just breathe a lot easier when “home” is defined as the happy place where two parents are on hand to share the load.
Hunting is my husband’s passion. I support his love of the great outdoors, I truly do. Tree stand retreats fill his spiritual tank.
But there’s no getting around the fact that his absence is hard on me. It’s hard on the kids, too, who are growing old enough to miss Daddy when he’s gone—and to take out their frustration on their mother.
That is why, when my husband stands in the kitchen with his camouflage backpack and turns to hug me goodbye, I walk a fine line between rushing to return his embrace and dodging out the door to set his truck on fire.
But hold on a second. Is this about me? God says no.
“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others,” (Philippians 2:3–4).
Why do I complain about hunting? Because my husband gets time away, and I don’t. Because the kids drain me while he’s napping at the cabin. Because he misses me when he’s gone but not quite enough to skip the rut.
I, I, I, me, me, me. Yet God says, consider others better than yourself. Look also to the interests of others. Who are these “others” if not the people we love best?
Jesus did it for me. The day he dragged my backbreaking cross to Calvary, I’ll bet he was not thinking, this just isn’t fair. He understood selfless love in a way I never will, at least not on this side of heaven’s gate.
Maybe hunting isn’t your trigger. Maybe your husband is into sports, cars, computers, guitars, whatever. If the pursuit infringes on family time, even the holiest wife can trip toward resentment.
That’s when I give it to God. He knows exactly where my husband is, and it’s possible the man is closer to God on those hunting trips than when he’s sharing the chaos of my household. This is a hard concession to make, and it’s one I’ve had to remind myself to make repeatedly—every hunting season, every time Daddy drives away, every long hour when I’m on my own. But it’s what God asks of me, and it’s for my own good.
Ephesians 5:33 tells us, “Each of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.” If I expect my husband to treat me as his cherished lady, wholly loved and valued, then I ought to respect him as a man.
For some, like my beloved, manhood involves an innate desire to hunt, to conquer, to provide. It’s a healthy, God-given thing. I shouldn’t squash it, criticize it, or dread it.
What if, instead, I actually praised the Lord for creating my husband this way? What if I prayed for God to speak to my husband in the woods—to grow him, equip him, and affirm him? Imagine how that could change my own heart.
In a few weeks, my mighty hunter will hang up his bow for another year. I’ll have organic steaks in the freezer and a co-captain for my children—halleluiah! But do you know what else I’m looking forward to? My turn. I’m thinking frothy mocha lattes and a chick flick. Ladies’ night out, anyone?
Yes, ladies, it’s hunting season.
And I hate it.
Granted, I’ve been a little clingy due to recent sad events, and I have half a mind to super-glue my husband’s toes to the floor to ensure he will always be with me. Yet my left brain knows I must release him to the world under God’s sovereign control.
But for hunting? Really, Lord?
Let’s be brutally honest. While my husband is off to the deep woods communing with nature, I’m stuck at home on mommy overtime. These little people want their Cheerios now even though I barely catch a spare moment to peel myself a banana in two days.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my daughters to the core of my soul. It’s an enormous blessing to be home with them. I just breathe a lot easier when “home” is defined as the happy place where two parents are on hand to share the load.
Hunting is my husband’s passion. I support his love of the great outdoors, I truly do. Tree stand retreats fill his spiritual tank.
But there’s no getting around the fact that his absence is hard on me. It’s hard on the kids, too, who are growing old enough to miss Daddy when he’s gone—and to take out their frustration on their mother.
That is why, when my husband stands in the kitchen with his camouflage backpack and turns to hug me goodbye, I walk a fine line between rushing to return his embrace and dodging out the door to set his truck on fire.
But hold on a second. Is this about me? God says no.
“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others,” (Philippians 2:3–4).
Why do I complain about hunting? Because my husband gets time away, and I don’t. Because the kids drain me while he’s napping at the cabin. Because he misses me when he’s gone but not quite enough to skip the rut.
I, I, I, me, me, me. Yet God says, consider others better than yourself. Look also to the interests of others. Who are these “others” if not the people we love best?
Jesus did it for me. The day he dragged my backbreaking cross to Calvary, I’ll bet he was not thinking, this just isn’t fair. He understood selfless love in a way I never will, at least not on this side of heaven’s gate.
Maybe hunting isn’t your trigger. Maybe your husband is into sports, cars, computers, guitars, whatever. If the pursuit infringes on family time, even the holiest wife can trip toward resentment.
That’s when I give it to God. He knows exactly where my husband is, and it’s possible the man is closer to God on those hunting trips than when he’s sharing the chaos of my household. This is a hard concession to make, and it’s one I’ve had to remind myself to make repeatedly—every hunting season, every time Daddy drives away, every long hour when I’m on my own. But it’s what God asks of me, and it’s for my own good.
Ephesians 5:33 tells us, “Each of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.” If I expect my husband to treat me as his cherished lady, wholly loved and valued, then I ought to respect him as a man.
For some, like my beloved, manhood involves an innate desire to hunt, to conquer, to provide. It’s a healthy, God-given thing. I shouldn’t squash it, criticize it, or dread it.
What if, instead, I actually praised the Lord for creating my husband this way? What if I prayed for God to speak to my husband in the woods—to grow him, equip him, and affirm him? Imagine how that could change my own heart.
In a few weeks, my mighty hunter will hang up his bow for another year. I’ll have organic steaks in the freezer and a co-captain for my children—halleluiah! But do you know what else I’m looking forward to? My turn. I’m thinking frothy mocha lattes and a chick flick. Ladies’ night out, anyone?
Monday, November 7, 2011
Changing My Default: A Tribute
Today, I’d like to tell you about Cory.
High school kids looked up to him as their talented teacher, football coach, wrestling coach, and mentor. He was a loyal friend, persistent jokester, and quite possibly the greatest fan the Cubs have ever seen. Above all, he was a devoted husband and an outstanding dad. He treasured his family, and they adored him.
Cory died unexpectedly last week. He was 37 years old.
Why am I telling you this? Not for drama’s sake, please believe me. I personally avoid reading about other people’s tragedies because, quite honestly, they feed my fears. That’s not what I intend to do here.
I want you to know Cory because, if you read my recent devotion on facing trials, then you’ve met his wife—my college roommate, Alisa. Yes, she’s the Super Mom cancer survivor and infamous breakfast forgetter. I love her dearly. And I can hardly believe this is the next chapter in her story.
My heart is heavy. I’ve been wrestling with God. This loss makes no sense. What do we do when God makes no sense?
I’ll tell you what I won’t do, at least not here in this blog space. I won’t ask why God gives so much pain to one person at one time, as if cancer wasn’t enough. I’m not going to talk about how God is good when life is not, or even about heaven and how to get there. Instead, for now, I want to settle on this:
Gratitude.
What?!? That’s crazy, Becky. How can you be grateful at a time like this?
Well, for starters, because God tells me I should. And I’m still choosing to believe him. “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus,” (1 Thessalonians 5:16–18).
Give thanks in all circumstances.
What does that look like? It's not a Pollyanna, smile-when-it-hurts outlook. Sometimes life is gut-wrenching, and I don’t think God expects us to deny that.
Rather, I’m talking about a shift in default, from complaining to appreciating. From dwelling on the negative to catching a glimpse of the positive. From taking loved ones for granted, to acknowledging they could be gone tomorrow—and living today like it matters.
Thank you, Lord, for my husband’s snoring. It means he’s sleeping beside me tonight.
Thank you for my girls bickering over bath toys. Their voices are my favorite sound, and today it’s filling my ears.
Thank you for peals of laughter cutting through the tears in a crowded country church, where comical eulogy stories paid tribute to a special man’s unique brand of humor. This tells me that my friend knew the joy of a happy marriage.
Thank you, Lord, that you know things I do not. When I’ve run dry of answers, I can cling to you.
It’s been nearly 20 years since the folks in charge of university residence life matched two homesick small town girls on the third floor of Walker Hall. A lifetime friendship was born in that freshman dorm room. And I am so thankful for it.
Alisa, you were stuck with me then, and I’m sticking with you now. My love and prayers are with you across the miles.
Go Panthers.
High school kids looked up to him as their talented teacher, football coach, wrestling coach, and mentor. He was a loyal friend, persistent jokester, and quite possibly the greatest fan the Cubs have ever seen. Above all, he was a devoted husband and an outstanding dad. He treasured his family, and they adored him.
Cory died unexpectedly last week. He was 37 years old.
Why am I telling you this? Not for drama’s sake, please believe me. I personally avoid reading about other people’s tragedies because, quite honestly, they feed my fears. That’s not what I intend to do here.
I want you to know Cory because, if you read my recent devotion on facing trials, then you’ve met his wife—my college roommate, Alisa. Yes, she’s the Super Mom cancer survivor and infamous breakfast forgetter. I love her dearly. And I can hardly believe this is the next chapter in her story.
My heart is heavy. I’ve been wrestling with God. This loss makes no sense. What do we do when God makes no sense?
I’ll tell you what I won’t do, at least not here in this blog space. I won’t ask why God gives so much pain to one person at one time, as if cancer wasn’t enough. I’m not going to talk about how God is good when life is not, or even about heaven and how to get there. Instead, for now, I want to settle on this:
Gratitude.
What?!? That’s crazy, Becky. How can you be grateful at a time like this?
Well, for starters, because God tells me I should. And I’m still choosing to believe him. “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus,” (1 Thessalonians 5:16–18).
Give thanks in all circumstances.
What does that look like? It's not a Pollyanna, smile-when-it-hurts outlook. Sometimes life is gut-wrenching, and I don’t think God expects us to deny that.
Rather, I’m talking about a shift in default, from complaining to appreciating. From dwelling on the negative to catching a glimpse of the positive. From taking loved ones for granted, to acknowledging they could be gone tomorrow—and living today like it matters.
Thank you, Lord, for my husband’s snoring. It means he’s sleeping beside me tonight.
Thank you for my girls bickering over bath toys. Their voices are my favorite sound, and today it’s filling my ears.
Thank you for peals of laughter cutting through the tears in a crowded country church, where comical eulogy stories paid tribute to a special man’s unique brand of humor. This tells me that my friend knew the joy of a happy marriage.
Thank you, Lord, that you know things I do not. When I’ve run dry of answers, I can cling to you.
It’s been nearly 20 years since the folks in charge of university residence life matched two homesick small town girls on the third floor of Walker Hall. A lifetime friendship was born in that freshman dorm room. And I am so thankful for it.
Alisa, you were stuck with me then, and I’m sticking with you now. My love and prayers are with you across the miles.
Go Panthers.
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