Hello, 2016, I shake you warmly by the hand

As the title suggests, I'm at probably Willy Wonka levels in my sugar/sweetness/candy intake (note the subtle salute to this great and creepy movie). The holidays got me, and they got me good. Even though everything is "technically" tummy healthy, you can't eat pints of coconut milk ice cream and almond meal chocolate chip cookies for days on end... they always find you.

So, as I stood in the line at the grocery store, debating between roasted nuts and blackberries, I was largely oblivious to the scraggly haired man staring me down.

"So... Pennsylvania Boilermaker, huh?" He was commenting on my sweatshirt, which I had stolen from my husband. It is blazoned, with gold letters: Pennsylvania Boilermaker. I love it. 

"Oh, yes, it's a salute to my alma mater, Purdue University."

"Eh, I'm a unionized contractor/plumber. I know all about boilermakers. But I'm not doing that work any more."

I tilt my head politely and fake smile. You know the one. The smile that says, "I'm so unbelievably gracious, but I have little to no interest in talking to you." Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.

"Yeah... I had a surgery. Can't be doin' that plumbin' no more. I have a scar..." And he begins to hoist his pant leg.

I back politely away, "Oh, that's too bad." But it's too late, he's hiked his pants up, way past his knees, and he's showing me an eight inch scar up his thigh. Way up his thigh.

He then proceeds to tell me about his 16 year old daughter, his contracting woes, his lawyer's advice (apparently, someone is being sued for the horrible surgery he had to go through).

As I meander slowly down the aisle, occasionally backing away politely, he follows me relentlessly.

I hear about how young he is (the guy looks 60+, but apparently he's in his 40s.), I hear about how finding work is hard, I hear about his views on free handouts (he thinks you should take them even if you don't need them), etc., etc., etc. We probably conversed for 10-15 minutes next to the chips. I don't eat chips. He didn't seem to need chips, but there we stood.

And I started grinning.

Because apparently, God wanted to give me a jump start on my new year's goals.

I love new years. Love them.

I love new notebooks, fresh goals, crisp spreadsheets, and planning. I love dreaming of possibilities, and picturing new successes. I know that most of my counterparts are a little jaded. A little tired. A little weary. New years don't always hold the appeal that they should.

And I'm here to say, "I'm sorry."

It doesn't have to be that way.

In 2015, I entered the year battling massive lies and worries. I made 3 goals. I didn't think I could handle any more. I was right.

My biggest goal was that I would steadfastly cling to the fact that I was "beloved" by God, and that I could peacefully abide in Him. I didn't know what abiding looked like. And I didn't feel very loved.

But I learned something. God likes it when our goals are in pursuit of Him. When it's not a waistline, better life, prosperity goal. He loves it when we picture a deficiency, cry out to Him, and run in truth. Day after day.

You need goals. You need to identify weaknesses. You need to plan to change. Because while the Holy Spirit does tremendous things with our weakness and blind willingness, he can also work so much more powerfully through intentional running, and crying, and clinging, and seeking.

Goals help you do this.

I can say, without the slightest reservation, that God changed my soul this year. My heart is filled with peace, and I am wrapped in the unconditional love of my Savior. I am more aware of what abiding, daily seeking, daily relying on my Savior looks like. I'm not flawless, obviously, but I've grown, and I'm so unbelievably thankful.

Enter 2016.

I started praying two weeks ago about my plan for 2016. And like a typhoon, a lightning bolt, and a tsunami, the truth came crashing in on me. That still small voice whispered in a decimating way, "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near."

I am not gentle. I desperately want to be. But I tend strongly towards sledgehammer, just-do-it, suck-it-up-chump, tendencies. But after a year of experiencing the unconditional grace and love of my Father, I realized that I desperately need to show the same love to others.

Which is probably why God chose to kick off my new year's celebration prep with a lonely, grizzled old(ish) man in a super-market. He needed some grace and gentleness. 

So your new year's party may be a bummer (I don't think I've been to one that wasn't...), but 2016 doesn't have to be. Praying that you find the grace and grit to dig into the new year. I'll be waiting here, ready to listen, because, after all, gentleness does a lot of listening. 

Happy 2016!

When The Most Wonderful Time of The Year... Isn't

I cry in the bathroom almost every Christmas.

Sob.

Quietly. Alone.

Christmas movies and songs with bells in them... they tell me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. And everyone loves that. It's bright, and sparkly, and gift-wrapped. But the truth is, life doesn't go on hold during the month of December.

I cried because I was single. I cried because I was dating. I cried because I was sick. I cried because I didn't feel healthy enough. I cried because I looked ugly in my Christmas outfit. I cried because my grandma wasn't there. I cried because someone else was there. I cried because I had no children. I cried because my child came and was terrifyingly tiny and sick. I cried because I was alone. I cried because there were so many people. I cried because of my sin, because of someone else's sin, because of some unknown longing and gnawing that just wouldn't quit.

Life doesn't pause in December.

And sometimes all the gaiety and merriment just makes your ache that much more profound.

It makes you wonder if this is it. Is this my happiness? Even in the wonderful moments, there's the knowledge, "this won't last forever... crap. I hate packing up ornaments..."

I'm telling you this because my life is idyllic. It's ideal. My family is amazing, my husband is phenomenal, my children are undeserved blessings.

And I still felt this gnawing emptiness.

Let's just be honest. If I have felt it, surrounded by all my earthly peace and blessings... surely I'm not alone.

My kids have several Little People books. The people are fat and chunky, the mountains in the background are flat and a weird color purple. All the buildings and surroundings are symmetrical and pastel colored. While it looks quite cheerful, in reality, it's all a poor, flat representation of life.

That's where we're living. We're chunky Little People. Our surroundings are flat and boring. We don't know any better. This is our world. But someday, we will see true beauty. Just as a person who has only seen purple mountain blobs, would fall down dead in shock at the power of the Rocky Mountains, so will you and I gasp in amazement at the power a beauty of heaven.

This is not the ultimate home coming. This is not the end. All the beautiful decorations, the amazing food, the gifts, the hugs, the family... it's just a cheap, bumbling representation of eternity.

The past several Christmases, I haven't sobbed in the bathroom. Because I know this is only a flat representation of true joy. It's wonderful. But it's not the most wonderful.

When my to do list is too long, when relationships are stressful, when the glitter keeps falling off my Pinterest ornaments and the tape keeps popping off my carefully wrapped presents... I take a deep breath.

"I have calmed and quieted my soul." I breath out David's peace. "I have calmed and quieted my soul." This is not all there is. This is not ultimate happiness. This is not my satisfaction. And I say with the psalmist, "Oh, Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forever more." God, may my hope be in you, in your steadfast love, in your faithfulness to save, in your unchanging goodness. My hope is not in my family, my presents, my traditions, my glitter... It's in my GOD.

So, withdraw to that bathroom. It's okay to feel this way. But take that deep longing, that dissatisfaction, that overwhelmed fatigue, and cry out to God. Ask for a quiet soul. Ask that God would be your hope.

The most wonderful time of the year... isn't actually that wonderful. It's just a sample. Better things are coming. This I can promise you.

Merry Christmas.

He Loved Them To The End

He spent nine months in a uterus.

He grew fingers, toes, a brain, and skin.

He was squeezed through a birth canal.

He sat in poopy diapers.

He learned the walk, talk, run, and play.

The God of the universe who knows chemistry and physics we haven't even discovered.

He had siblings antagonize him.

A faulty father, whose every sin was laid before his Son, was his teacher.

He went to Hebrew school to learn the very Word of God. The Word that He himself had spoken.

He went through puberty.

The God who was, is, and always will be unchanging... had pimples.

He recruited followers. They were blind, stupid, and arrogant. He lived every day with them for three years, and entrusted the spread of the gospel to them despite their ignorance.

He had aching feet.

He got dirty. His hair was greasy.

He experienced damp, uncomfortable clothing, money issues, and lack of food.

The God who perfectly created all food, humans, and animals, joined us in our sin-filled discomfort.

He cast out demons and was accused of being a demon.

He helped people and was driven from their town.

He was abused and hunted down for his willingness to heal.

He was rarely thanked.

He taught constantly. Nobody listened.

He lived perfectly. People still watched for him to fail, laid traps to trick him, and rooted for his down-fall.

He got tired. Bone-wearing, dead-dog, debilitatingly tired.

He was compassionate and gentle to the shy and timid.

He told his followers of the suffering, tragedy, and brutal trial that was coming. He told them again and again. They didn't listen. They just wanted to know which one of them was the most important.

He told them again. They fell asleep, with bellies full of food that he gave them, and he was left alone. With no friends. No prayer warriors. No one listening.

He was blameless. And he was arrested.

In a trial that fell apart because all the witnesses were lying, he alone told the truth. This truth caused the judges to rip their robes and wail and claim that the sham trial was over because he had accused himself. The lie of a trial was over because of the truth. And they claimed it was blasphemy.

He was quiet. People hurled angry, egotistical, jealous accusations.

He was beaten. He had made the muscles and sinews of each arm that beat him. He controlled the life breath of each man who mocked him. He did not stop them.

And then, after all this, he was skewered to beams of wood to die. He who caused trees to grow, who gave men minds to create good things, who designed the human body.

After all this... he was left alone.

The most precious, treasured, nurtured, constant love of his Father. The God he repeatedly withdrew to pray with, who sustained him, who nurtured him, who walked with him through the difficulty and humiliation of being a man and being God... He left.

He was alone. Pierced, throbbing, aching, despised, spit covered, misunderstood, lied about, ignored.

Alone.

"He loved them to the end." (John 13:1) This phrase sprang off the page at me. In the midst of pain, betrayal, discomfort, and sin... Jesus willfully chose to love us. Till the end. The power, the life-saturating force of this love is staggering. That in the moments when he was alone, when his body was ripped wide and throbbing, when his Best Friend and his Father did not look at him: he loved them to the end. When his mind could have filled with self-pity or anger, he chose to plant it firmly in love.

"For His steadfast love endures forever." (Ps. 106:1).

And then with a loud cry, he breathed his last.

"Truly this man was the Son of God!"(Mark 15:39)

Grant Alexander {Happy 3rd Birthday!}

Happy Birthday, Grant!

What a delightful whirlwind this past year has been. You took everyone's shudders and predictions about the "terrible twos" and you toppled them with 12 months of amazing growth, love, and joy. You're our precious gift, and we will never stop thanking God for bringing you into our family. 

Our wonderful first-born. Our precious son. We pray passionate prayers for your salvation, and we delight in seeing your tenderness and sensitivity towards the gospel. We are in awe of the little person that God has created, and we daily lift up the prayer that you will glorify God with the multitude of gifts we already see in your life. Grow strong, little son. Strong in body, strong in mind, but most importantly, strong in love and character. You are our gift. Our defender of the weak. Our Grant Alexander. Happy 3rd Birthday!

Character {at age 3}

Grant continues to amaze us with his willingness to learn and his consistent tenderheartedness. He is incredibly sensitive to the needs of his mother and he enjoys "helping" the kids around him. His playmates are mainly girls, so his awareness of being gentle with "princesses" is growing. He loves to hold doors, wash dishes, and lift heavy loads. He loves to meet needs and delights in fetching and carrying for his little playmates. He has a special place in his heart for weaker people and animals. He carries around the medical toys he got last Christmas and is forever checking people's (and stuffed animals') heart beats and reflexes. 

His strengths include an incredible attention to detail. He notices the tiniest change or alteration. We are very proud of the fact that he has begun to view change as an exciting thing. Fear no longer dominates his detailed observations, and we are incredibly proud of him for his increased flexibility and his new catch phrase/shoulder shrug, "It happens, Mommy."

Grant is consistently peaceful and joyful. His teachers in "school" (the Bible study we go to once a week!) repeatedly remark on his cheerfulness and forever-smiling. 

Milestones {at age 3}

Grant is my super-athlete. He loves running, jumping, climbing, throwing, and pummeling. This past year he's started learning to ride a bike (which he can barely reach the pedals on!), he went through a phase where everything was turned into a basketball hoop, and he loves to push/pull other children around in wagons, tractors, blankets, etc. This boy craves physical activity. We spend a large part of each day outside, and he is in heaven. 

Grant has learned to sing his ABCs and he can identify several letters. He knows his colors, animals, and a surprising number of tractor/construction equipment names. He loves "school," and likes to color, trace, and count (1-12 is solid, after that... the numbers get very creative sounding!). 

Grant is potty trained! Yay! (Sorry, son, if you're reading this as a teenager, but when you have a kid you'll understand.) I'm so thankful for the decrease in diaper spending. Hallelujah.

Favorites {at age 3}

Grant is a very good eater. Recently, he's developed an affinity for salad, and he even tries to filch lettuce from other people's plates when they're not looking. He loves french fries, "sauces" (i.e. salt, pepper, or anything his can sprinkle/dip), crushed ice, cheese sticks, grapes and strawberries. The one food that Grant still doesn't like are eggs. If I disguise them with potatoes, cheese, and veggies, he loves them. But a basic scrambled egg... ah, that he hates. 

Grant loves building things with Duplos, playing outside, and anything artistic. He loves painting, coloring, cutting, and scribbling. He loves playing basketball and football. He enjoys washing dishes, cleaning, and helping "Boo-Boo" (as he calls his little sister). 

His favorite things to watch are "Aristocats," "Mater's Tall Tales" (yes, this infatuation has lasted over a year... **sigh**), and "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood."

His favorite color is orange.

And he likes his bear pajamas. I think this is largely because the bear is brushing his teeth. Grant also really, really, really likes dental hygiene. 

We read for over 30 minutes a day, and we could probably read for several hours. He loves books and analyzing illustrations and "reading" along with Mommy. 

Grant loves his extended family. Videos, pictures, silly stories. He loves it all. We talk about his family often. And he thinks they're just the best people ever.

Grant has begun to learn about adoption. While we have always told him his amazing birth story and we pray almost every night for his birth parents, this past year, he began to understand what it means. He loves the fact that he has an adopted daddy just like Jesus had an adoptive daddy. He understands the concept that he didn't grow in Mommy's tummy, and he is very okay with that. He has even started asking pregnant ladies if they are growing another baby for his mommy! He enjoys the fact that God planned his story such a long time ago. And he loves hearing about how tiny he was, and how he looked like a little tiny raisin, but Mommy still thought he was the most beautiful baby in the world. 

Everyone is so quick to say that adoption exists because the world is broken. But adoption also exists because God brought hope. While walking through this with my son raises many questions for him (and Mommy battles insecurities and fear), I'm delighted in God working in my son's heart, even at this young age, to show him the beauty of his story and the power of true love. Not fluffy feelings-based love... but dying, life-giving, bleeding, forever love.

Dear son, you are our miracle, our blessing, and our joy. We could not be more thrilled at God's writing of your story, and your willingness to listen to it with joy and peace. We pray that you will follow the Savior who died to ransom you. And we pray that the many gifts, passions, strengths, and even weaknesses that God has designed in you would be used to highlight the glory of the God who wrote your story before the foundation of the world. You are our precious gift.

Happy Birthday, Grant! We love you!

Busy Mama, I'm Tired, Too

I'm picking fake pine needles out of my finger nails, and there's something that tried to be pumpkin spice granola congealing on the kitchen counter next to me. The house is decorated. I'm trying to make holiday gift bags, and I've stepped on the same cold lump of sweet potato three times.

This time of year is hard on mamas, ya'll.

Several days ago, after valiantly battling dirt (both figurative and literal) in my children's lives all day, I collapsed. My husband walked in the door, handed me the car keys and a Starbucks gift card, and don't you know, I pealed out of our driveway so fast they could probably hear the tires squealing two towns over.

I was wearing black yoga pants (the stay-at-home mom standard uniform) a brown cashmere sweater (because all my sweatshirts were dirty) and a black and white striped shirt. I was wearing socks with shoes that should never have socks with them. And as I huddled in the corner of Starbucks, I dumped a coconut milk latte down the front of myself as I fumbled for caffeine and my sanity.

Motherhood is hard.

And you know when it gets harder? When you really, really, really try. Anyone can be a mom for a day. Or a week. Or  a month. All it takes is a ready supply of "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood," animal crackers, and coffee. Honestly, some days of motherhood are a breeze. Plop kids down in front of a TV (or an "iPLad" as it is affectionately known in our house.), then enjoy your third cup of coffee, throw some mac'n'cheese their way at lunch time, and try to get everyone in bed and comatose by 7. No biggie.

But when you try... when you discipline, when you try to review Sunday school lessons and they don't listen. When you try story time, craft time, teaching time, meal time... and you enter each activity with a goal, with a purpose, with a direction (that your kids couldn't care less about). THAT'S when it gets tough.

We hear it over and over and over and over, "Disciple your kids. Teach your kids. Invest in your kids."

Guess what.

That's exhausting. It's hard. It's brutal. It's grueling. It's not a pretty Hallmark Card, it's a failed Jackson Pollock.

We think glowing white Instagram perfection.

We get cold sweet potatoes stuck to the bottoms of our feet.

When we expect kids to sit still, when we require immediate obedience, when we dish out consequences for both good and bad behavior, when we faithfully study our children and design environments and tasks to encourage strengths and bolster weaknesses... that's when it's hard. It's exhausting. It's minute by minute faithfulness. It's discipleship.

So, I'm here, as one tired mama to another, wanting to help. If I could, I would pour you a cup of coffee and we could sob and laugh and celebrate and moan over this tricky road of parenting.

I can't really do that... So, I'm offering this: The Busy Mom's Advent Calendar. Here's the deal: there are only 12 days. If you're like me you will forget some days, so this guarantees there's no irreparable falling behind. You could even (almost!) get through it twice before Christmas! It comes with a little teaching paragraph for each day.

Just go up to the top, right-hand corner of this blog and click "Subscribe," and I'll pop this little advent calendar in your mailbox today. Easy-peasy. (Please be aware, emails may not arrive until around 4 p.m. on the date you request this calendar.)

Just print it double sided, cut along the lines, and you're ready to go. No folding, no glueing, no elaborate set-up. Just a basic little tool to help you with your teaching and discipleship during this sticky-peppermint season with your littles.

I laminated mine (because I'm addicted to laminating. Hard core. In love. LAMINATE-ALL-THE-THINGS!), and we used little clothes pins for kicks and giggles (because hello, Target dollar section, you clearly have my number).

The separate daily pictures come together to make one big picture highlighting multiple aspects of Christ's advent. As a kid I always liked uncovering the whole picture. It's how my mom got me to eat oatmeal: she put it in a bowl with a picture at the bottom.

I still don't like oatmeal. But that bunny bowl was pretty amazing.

I love you, tired mama. And I'm with you. And next time you see a mismatched, bleary-eyed, mascara-crumbling, poorly dressed woman huddled in the corner of your Starbucks... just smile understandingly. And maybe buy her a peppermint latte.

Nope. Scratch that. Definitely buy her a peppermint latte.

Motherhood is hard, ya'll. Let's be faithful soldiers together. Happy Advent!