A Father's Wisdom

You know how some people think their way is the only way? Folks like that used to bug me. Until I realized I’m one of them.

“Mom, where are my brown shoes?” My daughter skipped into the kitchen where I was griddling pancakes for breakfast. I took one look at her and nearly flipped a flapjack to the floor.

“Did Daddy choose your outfit today?” I asked. Behold a stunning young redhead wearing camouflage overalls and a wrinkled pink T-shirt from the summer castoff pile. And are those blue socks I see? Pretty.

“Well, actually,” she explained, “he let me pick it myself. But I needed some help with the buttons, so Daddy did those. Can I have chocolate chips in my pancake?”

Ugh. Clearly I was on my own here. It’s not that the overalls were bad. Believe me, I am not a high-fashion momma. My girls live in hand-me-down play clothes, and most days that suits us all just fine.

But on this particular day, we were heading to a birthday party—an event at which other parents would be present, you know, parents who dressed their children in coordinated Old Navy outfits. I kind of wanted to be one of those parents.

This was my dilemma: Do I change my daughter’s ensemble and risk offending my husband, who had already approved the camouflage? (With the blue socks. Let’s not forget the blue socks.) Or do I let it slide, releasing my expectations for stylish children, appreciating that their dad was making a genuine effort to help?

I’d like to say I took the holy road. But you know me well enough by now. Would this be an interesting story if I’d done it right the first time?

Nooooo, I gently suggested to my preschool fashionista that maybe she’d like to wear the lovely purple dress hanging on her dresser. Her daddy caught wind of this “suggestion” (“Daaaaad! Mom says I can’t wear this!”) and let’s just say it was not one of my finer family moments.

My husband is an excellent father. He and I are united on the major approaches to raising our children. But when it comes to smaller aspects of parenting, he has his own style, which is often different from mine.

That does not make it wrong.

As the daytime-at-home parent, my jobs include primary nurturer, teacher, police officer, nurse, taxi driver, chef, housekeeper, entertainer, therapist and fashion consultant. I have a system and a routine for getting through the day. My husband supports my role and my familiarity with our girls—what they eat, when they nap, which library book is the latest favorite, and so on. He seeks my input and my guidance.

Shouldn’t I also respect his?

Proverbs 1:8–9 says, “Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mother’s teaching. They will be a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck.” This verse tells me that fathers and mothers are in the game together. For kids with two caring and well-intentioned parents in their lives, the wisdom from each is valuable. When I try to control child-rearing decisions and squelch my husband’s input, I am denying my daughters a blessing their father was designed to impart.

Not good, Momma. Not good.

So the overalls weren’t ideal. But they weren’t the real issue, either. Once again, it was my attitude that got me in trouble. Darn it.

The truth is, sometimes Daddy’s way is actually better than mine. Remember those pancakes I was flipping at the start of the scene? They used to go to waste, as my girls rarely took more than a few picky bites of their morning meal.

Until my husband announced a “standing breakfast” party. He invited our daughters to park upright on low chairs at the kitchen counter, with their plates set in front of them. Would you believe those little stinkers ate the entire pancake that day? Now standing breakfast is a novelty, shared only between the girls and their dad on special mornings when he’s home and in charge.

Like this past weekend, for instance—when Momma Cat enjoyed a rare getaway to our church women’s retreat. My little mice greeted me home yesterday afternoon with hugs and kisses and happy stories of their adventures with Dad.

“Mom, guess what! Dad let us have M&M’s in our pancakes!”

Eh, what’s a few M&M’s between parents? I’m just grateful our girls were in such capable and loving hands while I was gone. So grateful that I didn’t even bother to ask what they wore to church that morning. Sometimes it’s better not to know.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Daddy's Girl, Life Is a Highway, Confessions of a Hunter's Wife and Why I Date My Husband.

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Linking up with To Love, Honor and Vacuum: Wifey Wednesday.

Precious In My Sight

“You are precious and honored in my sight. . . .” (Isaiah 43:4).

I wasted a year of high school starving myself. Tall is fine when you’re 30-something, but back then my 5-foot 9-inch healthy frame didn’t fit the tiny sophomore cheerleader mold, and I concluded I must be a big girl.

I was a smart girl, too, who should’ve known better. Straight A’s looked great on college applications, but they did nothing to enhance the mirror image. So I did what good overachievers do. I set a goal. My goal was to be skinny—and I chased it with gusto.

For breakfast, I rationed exactly half a cup of cereal because the box said one serving was four ounces and by golly, I was going to follow the rules. At lunch I stopped joining my friends in the cafeteria for fear I might be tempted to devour something hearty like an orange or a carton of milk. Instead, I packed two slices of bread in a baggie and shoveled them into my mouth before English class while no one was looking. After school, I avoided the family dinner table and snuck a plain baked potato into my room where I silenced a gnawing stomach with homework. Such was my routine, day after dieting day.

The weight dropped, yes. I shed 15 pounds and got compliments from people who noticed a slimmer physique but not my low blood sugar jitters or crashing energy. Their praises only propelled my insanity. I convinced myself that constant hunger pangs were a good feeling.

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about that phase of high school, until a few weeks ago when I read another mom blogger’s bulimia story. Poor thing, she’s got issues, Present Me said. But then all of a sudden these memories came busting out of their mental cage, and I saw Past Me posting a “No Eating” sign in her locker, slipping down the same road to destruction as the sad skeleton girls and purgers who ended up in a hospital.

I never made it that far, though. I snapped out of it. How? Why?

At first I couldn’t remember—that’s how deep I buried my high school reel. Did I reclaim some sense on my own? Did I just give up one day and order a pizza? And then I saw it—a memory clear as yesterday.

My mom.

I was 16 years old, crumpled like a rag doll on my bedroom carpet, dripping exhausted tears into long locks of strawberry blonde. My mom sat beside me, speaking gently. You are not ugly. Eating is not failure. A hot dog will not kill you. Starvation will. Do I have to check you into the fourth ward, Becky? Let the hunger go. Come back to us.

My mom detected the signs. She was watchful. She knew my heart, and she understood the lie.

Smaller is better. Skinny girls win. Beauty above brains.

What a load of garbage.

Now. I’m not suggesting we should all toss our kids a pack of Ho-Hos for breakfast. I’m on board the good nutrition train like any wise momma. But—I have two daughters. Lord help me, I do not want them to grow up believing their worth is found in a pair of size 2 jeans. My mom had the wisdom and the courage to pull me off the ledge. Do you know what that tells me? Moms matter in this area.

As parents, we can make the difference in how our children see themselves. Am I painting a biblical picture of true beauty for my girls? Do I emphasize their value in God’s sight above all else? For my friends with sons—are you training your boys to build character before muscle? To admire a girl’s faith more than her figure?

And what comments do we make about our own weight, shape, hair, flaws? Filtered through young ears and minds, a mother’s attitude can either combat or affirm the cultural lie that pretty is paramount.

These days, I have no problem popping a few cookies every once in a while. I feed them to my kids, too—although usually not until they’ve swallowed the prerequisite broccoli, of course. We’re thankful for abundant food, and we want to be good stewards of it. Maybe our mealtime prayers should go one step further and thank God for what food is not.

It is not our boss.

It is not the measure by which we are accepted.

It is not the thing that ruined my life—thanks, in great part, to my mom.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Spilled Milk and Daddy’s Girl.

Love Is Not Easily Angered

"Love is patient, love is kind. . .it is not easily angered,” (from 1 Corinthians 13:4–5).

Oh, how I’ve failed at this one. If you’ve been to any wedding in the last century, chances are somebody stood at a podium and read from 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient, love is kind. . . Love is not easily angered. That scripture passage is such a beautiful picture of what human relationships are meant to achieve. The words are cozy and familiar, yet I neglect time and again to put them into action.

To illustrate, I’ll share an actual screenplay from the Kopitzke show.

        Husband: Those noodles are done.

        Me: I’m cooking supper. Let me decide when the noodles are done.

        Husband: I was just trying to help.

        Me: No you weren’t. You were telling me what to do.

Easily angered? Whoops, yes indeed. See, there are two conversations going on here: the actual dialogue, and the Becky translation (BT). That’s the version containing imagined details and connotations. Let’s replay the scene—this time with subtitles.

Husband: Those noodles are done.
BT: You don’t know how to cook noodles, wifey.

Me: I’m cooking supper. Let me decide when the noodles are done.
BT: I have a college degree, too, buddy. You’re not the only smart one in this family. Just because you’re slinging a briefcase and I’m sporting this pretty apron doesn’t mean I’m incompetent. I can handle the noodles! Get out of my space!

Husband: I was just trying to help.
BT: You don’t know how to cook noodles, wifey.

Me: No you weren’t. You were telling me what to do.
BT: I can’t do anything right. You’re always criticizing me. Just let me live in peace, man! I know how to cook the stupid noodles!

I love my husband. But I sure don’t show it sometimes. My responses aren’t just angry, they’re ridiculous. When I fly off the handle over silly situations, I am stomping all over 1 Corinthians, as if God didn’t really mean those verses for me.

Of course he did. I’m a wife, I’m a mom, I’m human. I was created to love.

In relationships, we have a choice, and it goes much deeper than deciding whether or not to be irritated. I must first choose to believe my husband has good intentions. It’s basic, but as wives I think we lose sight of this far too often.

My husband is not my enemy. He doesn’t wake up every morning plotting his next attack. He loves me. He means well. Even if his words don’t come out right, they are not darts aimed at my heart. Retaliation is the wrong answer. My husband deserves the benefit of my doubt. He deserves my love.

And what is love? It is patient, it is kind. It is not easily angered. It cooks a perfect pot of noodles and smiles when the Mister offers to clear the dishes.

What, you don’t like the way I stack the plates in the dishwasher?

Time to scratch the BT. The only translation I need is the one in my Bible case. This week, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m planning to memorize 1 Corinthians 13. Will you join me?

If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on! You might also like The Mirror and Confessions of a Hunter’s Wife.

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Linking up with The Alabaster Jar: Marital Oneness Mondays and To Love, Honor and Vacuum: Wifey Wednesdays.

No Eat Play-Doh

“Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says,” (James 1:22).

“Momma, no eat pee-doh!” I stopped fixing my hair and looked down at my toddler standing in the bathroom doorway. A chunk of green Play-Doh sat in the palm of her hand, which she held out toward my face to illustrate her point.

“That’s right, sweetheart. We don’t eat Play-Doh,” I confirmed. Wow, after months of hammering home this rule, it finally sunk in. I was proud and amused at the same time.

I’ve read parents need to reinforce a concept up to a dozen times before a child really owns it. That seems like a lot. But do grown-ups do any better?

After years of studying my Bible, the rules ought to stick by now. Yet I’m as rebellious as any toddler when it comes to following the Father’s guidelines. Sometimes it’s not convenient, popular, easy or—let’s face it—fun to do what he asks of me.

Can I imitate my daughter, clutch a temptation in my fist, lift it up to the Lord and say, “No! I won’t do it!” Simply because he said so—and he always knows best.

No! I will not let Satan get my marriage. I will apologize to my husband before my head hits the pillow tonight.
“In your anger do not sin: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold,” (Ephesians 4:26–27).

No! I will not spread that juicy bit of gossip I just heard.
“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen,” (Ephesians 4:29).

No! I will not hold a grudge. I will forgive that person who hurt me.
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you,” (Ephesians 4:32).

And on and on through every situation in which my sin nature is pitted against God’s wisdom. Just as we moms set rules to protect our kids, God gives us the Bible to protect us, teach us, and bless us. Yes, his grace covers bad decisions. But good decisions are within our grasp if we humble ourselves to do what he says.

I unplugged my hair dryer and walked into the kitchen—where my girls sat grinding oyster cracker crumbs into their Play-Doh. Silly Mom didn’t predict we’d need a rule against that. So I heaved a sigh and grabbed the broom. At least they weren’t eating it, Lord.

I could almost hear him chuckling in reply. “Tell me about it, child. Been there, done that—with you.”

If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on! You might also like Too Hot to Handle, Watch Me! and Time for a Change.