“She senses the worth of her work, is in no hurry to call it quits for the day. She’s skilled in the crafts of home and hearth, diligent in homemaking,” (Proverbs 31:18–19, MSG).
Last week, I spent a sunny Monday afternoon scrubbing my kitchen floor. It was delightful.
Why?
Because I was alone.
Most days, I have helpers—my children. I sweep; they beg to hold the dustpan. I fold laundry; they play rowboat with the baskets. I wash a pot and put it away; they pull it from the cupboard again to stir imaginary soup.
Have you ever held a toilet brush in one arm and a baby in the other? Me, too.
Monday, however, was different. Monday was rare. The little one napped while big sister was at school. In those odd, quiet hours, I usually feel pressured to relax and read a book or do something that counts as “me time.” But you should’ve seen the sticky mystery blotches on my kitchen tile—like Venus fly traps for socks and stray cereal crumbs. The urge to clean took over. I had to scrub the floor.
At first my strategy was to get the job over with as fast as possible so I could move on to something indulgent. But as I whirled the mop across the room, it occurred to me, this is something indulgent. No little legs scurried around me; no sweet voices begged to play outside. I heard only the hum of the dishwasher and my own random thoughts. So I scrubbed and scoured and sashayed through that kitchen like I owned the place.
Wait a second. I do own this place. Isn’t that fantastic?! I’m not the maid, for crying out loud. I am the queen.
And this house is my castle.
When was the last time you viewed your home as a prized possession rather than a chore? I honestly can’t remember. Somehow in the daily grind of childcare, cooking, clutter and spills, my castle lost its magic. It became a loud, unceasing mess to maintain, instead of what it should be—my safe haven.
I want my haven back. So I’m claiming a fresh perspective on housework.
Dusting is optional. But loving my family is not, and housework is one of the ways I care for them. From now on, I’ll imagine every swipe of the dust mitt is like blowing a kiss.
Wiping bathrooms is gross. But clean tap water sure is a blessing. And so are piles of dishes and bags of groceries to unload and a thousand other conveniences that millions of people in this world live without.
Laundry is no party. But sorting colors with two little girls can be a rollicking good time—especially when a toddler dances around wearing big sister’s underwear on her head and we all burst into giggles.
Which brings me back to my helpers. Housework might be more challenging with children underfoot. But isn’t that exactly what I love about this life? I have a family sharing my space, praise God. They make this house a home.
A safe haven.
Our castle.
And yes, it’s true—I am the queen.
If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Sticky, Smelly, Dirty, Sandy Grass, and When You Don't Feel Like Doing Your Job.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
The Beauty of a Naked Lion Chase
My daughters have a new game. They call it “naked lion.” It’s a pre-bath ritual in which they strip down to their birthday suits and chase each other through the house, pretending to be farm and zoo animals.
Seriously. I can’t make this stuff up.
“I’m a naked horse!” my five-year-old yells as she whizzes past the bathroom door.
“I be a nay-kee lion!” little sister follows, sputtering trails of laughter in her wake. And off they go, galloping and roar-roar-roaring from room to room until I catch their wiggly bodies and wrangle them into the tub.
It’s all very amusing. In fact, part of me is a tiny bit jealous. My children are so comfortable in their own skin. When did I learn to be ashamed of mine?
Somewhere along the road to growing up, I got it in my head that I have flaws. So I choose clothing and hairstyles and cosmetics designed to hide. I grumble at my reflection in the mirror. I tilt my head a certain way for cameras so nobody snaps a poor feature. I stare at other women and wish for their hair, their complexion, their petite and pedicured feet.
Ridiculous. Right?
Oh. You do it, too.
“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. . . . God saw all that he had made, and it was very good,” (Genesis 1:27, 31a).
God created us. We are his works of art, each one of us—wonderfully made, Psalm 139 says. More than that, he created us in his own image. And declared it was very good!
Do you see where I’m going with this? God thinks we’re beautiful. Who are we to disagree?
“Girls, the tub is ready!” I call from the bathroom as my wild animals zoom down the hall.
“Nay-kee lyyyyyyyyon, roaaaaaar!” My toddler runs toward me, giggling and breathless. I scoop her up— gotcha!—and nuzzle her soft Buddha tummy with my nose. She is so proud of that fat belly.
I send up a silent prayer. Lord, never let her be ashamed of your masterpiece.
Child, the Lord whispers to my heart—you are my masterpiece, too.
If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Spilled Milk, Precious In My Sight, and On Dreams, Contentment, and Spaghetti.
Seriously. I can’t make this stuff up.
“I’m a naked horse!” my five-year-old yells as she whizzes past the bathroom door.
“I be a nay-kee lion!” little sister follows, sputtering trails of laughter in her wake. And off they go, galloping and roar-roar-roaring from room to room until I catch their wiggly bodies and wrangle them into the tub.
It’s all very amusing. In fact, part of me is a tiny bit jealous. My children are so comfortable in their own skin. When did I learn to be ashamed of mine?
Somewhere along the road to growing up, I got it in my head that I have flaws. So I choose clothing and hairstyles and cosmetics designed to hide. I grumble at my reflection in the mirror. I tilt my head a certain way for cameras so nobody snaps a poor feature. I stare at other women and wish for their hair, their complexion, their petite and pedicured feet.
Ridiculous. Right?
Oh. You do it, too.
“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. . . . God saw all that he had made, and it was very good,” (Genesis 1:27, 31a).
God created us. We are his works of art, each one of us—wonderfully made, Psalm 139 says. More than that, he created us in his own image. And declared it was very good!
Do you see where I’m going with this? God thinks we’re beautiful. Who are we to disagree?
“Girls, the tub is ready!” I call from the bathroom as my wild animals zoom down the hall.
“Nay-kee lyyyyyyyyon, roaaaaaar!” My toddler runs toward me, giggling and breathless. I scoop her up— gotcha!—and nuzzle her soft Buddha tummy with my nose. She is so proud of that fat belly.
I send up a silent prayer. Lord, never let her be ashamed of your masterpiece.
Child, the Lord whispers to my heart—you are my masterpiece, too.
If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Spilled Milk, Precious In My Sight, and On Dreams, Contentment, and Spaghetti.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Learning Is Messy
“Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long,” (Psalm 25:4–5).
She smiled through a sticky goatee of melted A&W soft-serve. Sitting bib-clad in the back seat of the minivan, our toddler could hardly contain her joy as she held her own ice cream cone for the first time. She plunged her entire face into the mound of sweet milk, then went straight for the jugular and chomped off a hunk of cone. Leaks dripped down her hands and chin.
“Baby girl, you’re supposed to eat the ice cream on top before you bite the cone,” I instructed, laughing at her eager innocence. As I grabbed a wet wipe from the glove box, it occurred to me, learning is messy business.
I know this firsthand.
I’m still learning—how to be a respectful wife, how to raise children selflessly, how to walk by faith and not by sight. And like my daughter, I’ve encountered plenty of messes along the way—most of them of my own doing. I bite into the cone too soon, so to speak. Sometimes the Christian life just isn’t a tidy affair.
Fortunately, we have an excellent teacher. “Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in his ways. He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way,” (Psalm 25:8–9).
Watching my little one devour her cone, I realized there are no shortcuts to maturity. I can’t spoon-feed her forever, and the only way she’ll discover the most effective way to eat ice cream—or do anything—is by practicing. So with every baby step and accomplishment, I clap my hands and cheer her on.
Do you think God does that for us, too? I like to imagine him flashing a proud papa grin when I choose to trust him with a problem, when I slay my pride in apology to my husband, or when I demonstrate patience toward an unruly child.
I call these “faith skills.” We may spend a lifetime honing them, and the process won’t always be pretty. But it will be worthwhile.
Just ask my daughter. After half an hour, a dozen napkins, and a couple jacket sleeves sacrificed to the cause, she conquered that cone—every last bite.
“How did you like your ice cream, sweetheart?” I asked, capturing the moment in my memory bank.
“Nummy!” she hollered. Her cheeks, fingers and clothes were tacky from syrupy drips, but she didn’t seem to mind. My daughter beamed with delight, and was satisfied.
Good for you, little one. Never let the mess deter you from the goal. What a great lesson for us all.
If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like No Eat Play-Doh, Life Is a Highway, and Love Is Not Easily Angered.
She smiled through a sticky goatee of melted A&W soft-serve. Sitting bib-clad in the back seat of the minivan, our toddler could hardly contain her joy as she held her own ice cream cone for the first time. She plunged her entire face into the mound of sweet milk, then went straight for the jugular and chomped off a hunk of cone. Leaks dripped down her hands and chin.
“Baby girl, you’re supposed to eat the ice cream on top before you bite the cone,” I instructed, laughing at her eager innocence. As I grabbed a wet wipe from the glove box, it occurred to me, learning is messy business.
I know this firsthand.
I’m still learning—how to be a respectful wife, how to raise children selflessly, how to walk by faith and not by sight. And like my daughter, I’ve encountered plenty of messes along the way—most of them of my own doing. I bite into the cone too soon, so to speak. Sometimes the Christian life just isn’t a tidy affair.
Fortunately, we have an excellent teacher. “Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in his ways. He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way,” (Psalm 25:8–9).
Watching my little one devour her cone, I realized there are no shortcuts to maturity. I can’t spoon-feed her forever, and the only way she’ll discover the most effective way to eat ice cream—or do anything—is by practicing. So with every baby step and accomplishment, I clap my hands and cheer her on.
Do you think God does that for us, too? I like to imagine him flashing a proud papa grin when I choose to trust him with a problem, when I slay my pride in apology to my husband, or when I demonstrate patience toward an unruly child.
I call these “faith skills.” We may spend a lifetime honing them, and the process won’t always be pretty. But it will be worthwhile.
Just ask my daughter. After half an hour, a dozen napkins, and a couple jacket sleeves sacrificed to the cause, she conquered that cone—every last bite.
“How did you like your ice cream, sweetheart?” I asked, capturing the moment in my memory bank.
“Nummy!” she hollered. Her cheeks, fingers and clothes were tacky from syrupy drips, but she didn’t seem to mind. My daughter beamed with delight, and was satisfied.
Good for you, little one. Never let the mess deter you from the goal. What a great lesson for us all.
If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like No Eat Play-Doh, Life Is a Highway, and Love Is Not Easily Angered.
Monday, May 7, 2012
How a Wiggles Movie Changed My Life
“Please, Mom? Pleeeease?”
My daughter pleaded as she climbed into her car seat. Since buying our minivan, I’d come to appreciate all its amenities but one—the built-in DVD player. This thing was a thorn in my seatbelt, an object of constant battle with my children. Every time we boarded the van, they asked to watch a movie. And every time I replied, no. Because good parents don’t let their children watch television in the car.
My Perfect Parent Handbook has lots of rules like that.
Good parents don’t buy sugary cereal.
Good parents don’t let their children wear pajamas to the playground.
Good parents have a system for rotating toys.
Good parents tame cowlicks before Sunday school.
Sometimes I get tired. Sometimes whining erodes my resistance. Sometimes I just want to see my children’s faces light up. So I rebel and do crazy things like toss a box of Cocoa Puffs in my shopping cart. But then guilt buzzes in both ears—good parents don’t do that.
You must be a bad mom.
Isn’t it sad? I’ve become a slave to my own rules.
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery,” (Galatians 5:1).
When I found the Lord nine years ago, I embraced the simplicity of his gospel. God’s favor cannot be earned; it is freely given. Grace takes charge, so that the Christian life is not so much a series of do’s and don’ts, but rather a gift to unwrap and enjoy.
Parenting falls under the umbrella of the Christian life, does it not? Why, then, do I build superfluous rules around it, as though motherhood is exempt from God’s grace?
Yikes. If any part of me is in most desperate need of grace, it’s my parenting skills.
“Mom, why can’t we watch a movie? Just this one time, please?” My daughter’s begging persisted, and circumstances caved in around me. The hubby man was gone hunting. It was my second day of mommy overtime, and the girls were full of energy I couldn’t match. We had a 20-minute drive ahead of us. I just needed a little break.
What the heck.
I flipped on the DVD player and let the video roll. Greg, Anthony, Murray and Jeff waved hello to my girls from the 10-inch suspended screen—yes, a Wiggles movie, Santa’s Rockin’, no less—in April! Imagine what my Perfect Parent Handbook says about that.
But then something amazing happened. My daughters settled tranquilly into their cushions. Whining and bickering ceased. There was no tension. Just smiles. Giggles. And singing. “This little baby is born again, been reborn in the hearts of men. Every Christmas, this child is born again. . . .”
My guilt was silent.
Unfamiliar peace washed over me.
God’s grace filled the van.
That day, I discovered my rules don’t make me a good parent. Perhaps, knowing when to bend them does. As I wheeled into our destination parking lot and my daughters hopped out of their seats happier than they’d been all morning, God spoke to my heart.
I never called you a bad mom.
Thanks, Lord. Only you could use a Wiggles video to teach me something lasting. Tomorrow, I just might take my girls on a picnic to the playground—in their pajamas, with Cocoa Puffs.
If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Daddy Can Fix It, The Big Do-Over and Watch Me!
My daughter pleaded as she climbed into her car seat. Since buying our minivan, I’d come to appreciate all its amenities but one—the built-in DVD player. This thing was a thorn in my seatbelt, an object of constant battle with my children. Every time we boarded the van, they asked to watch a movie. And every time I replied, no. Because good parents don’t let their children watch television in the car.
My Perfect Parent Handbook has lots of rules like that.
Good parents don’t buy sugary cereal.
Good parents don’t let their children wear pajamas to the playground.
Good parents have a system for rotating toys.
Good parents tame cowlicks before Sunday school.
Sometimes I get tired. Sometimes whining erodes my resistance. Sometimes I just want to see my children’s faces light up. So I rebel and do crazy things like toss a box of Cocoa Puffs in my shopping cart. But then guilt buzzes in both ears—good parents don’t do that.
You must be a bad mom.
Isn’t it sad? I’ve become a slave to my own rules.
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery,” (Galatians 5:1).
When I found the Lord nine years ago, I embraced the simplicity of his gospel. God’s favor cannot be earned; it is freely given. Grace takes charge, so that the Christian life is not so much a series of do’s and don’ts, but rather a gift to unwrap and enjoy.
Parenting falls under the umbrella of the Christian life, does it not? Why, then, do I build superfluous rules around it, as though motherhood is exempt from God’s grace?
Yikes. If any part of me is in most desperate need of grace, it’s my parenting skills.
“Mom, why can’t we watch a movie? Just this one time, please?” My daughter’s begging persisted, and circumstances caved in around me. The hubby man was gone hunting. It was my second day of mommy overtime, and the girls were full of energy I couldn’t match. We had a 20-minute drive ahead of us. I just needed a little break.
What the heck.
I flipped on the DVD player and let the video roll. Greg, Anthony, Murray and Jeff waved hello to my girls from the 10-inch suspended screen—yes, a Wiggles movie, Santa’s Rockin’, no less—in April! Imagine what my Perfect Parent Handbook says about that.
But then something amazing happened. My daughters settled tranquilly into their cushions. Whining and bickering ceased. There was no tension. Just smiles. Giggles. And singing. “This little baby is born again, been reborn in the hearts of men. Every Christmas, this child is born again. . . .”
My guilt was silent.
Unfamiliar peace washed over me.
God’s grace filled the van.
That day, I discovered my rules don’t make me a good parent. Perhaps, knowing when to bend them does. As I wheeled into our destination parking lot and my daughters hopped out of their seats happier than they’d been all morning, God spoke to my heart.
I never called you a bad mom.
Thanks, Lord. Only you could use a Wiggles video to teach me something lasting. Tomorrow, I just might take my girls on a picnic to the playground—in their pajamas, with Cocoa Puffs.
If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Daddy Can Fix It, The Big Do-Over and Watch Me!
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Linked up with: The Better Mom, Domestically Divine Tuesday, Living Well Wednesdays, Grace at Home and Faithfully Parenting Fridays.
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