Happy New Year!

          It’s a fresh new year.  Undoubtedly, we’ll hear choruses of “Happy New Year!” ringing through grocery stores, offices and the health club we just joined to work on our recent resolutions.  While the wishes are heartfelt and sincere, we realize the prospect of having a happy year is a long shot for some because of our uncertain economy.  We often wish we could make everyone happy.

          What would truly bring us happiness?  Losing weight, finding a way to finance college tuition, or perhaps getting answers to prayer?  Receiving answers to prayer can reassure us that the God of the universe actually hears and loves us.  But do we ever consider that “no” is also a loving answer to prayer?

  A few years ago when my daughters were six and eight, we were dutifully sweeping out the garage.  My youngest, Faith*, noticed that her older sister was wearing a new bracelet.

  “Where did Caroline* get that?” she asked, glaring at me.

“I picked it up for her when I was shopping the other day.”

Screaming ensued, and you would have thought I was ordering Cinderella to sweep the chimney while her stepsister shopped for the prom.  I could have stopped the tantrum and tears by revealing that I had ordered something very special for her birthday the next month, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise .  I bought Caroline’s simple bracelet the same day I ordered a beautiful, monogrammed bracelet for Faith.  In kindergarten, just learning to spell, Faith was enthralled by anything bearing her hard-to-find initial.

Faith stamped her Barbie sneaker, decreeing that it wasn’t fair.  However, I knew that waiting to let her open a beautiful, carefully chosen gift on her birthday would make her happier than giving it to her right then.  If she had only known.

Suddenly it hit me.  God spoke to me through a sobbing, snaggle-toothed little angel.  How many times have we thrown a tantrum about an opportunity, a lavish vacation or a special relationship someone else has that we don’t?  It’s just not fair.

My daughter didn’t know about the monogrammed bracelet that I had ordered to appeal to her heart alone.  If we only knew the custom-made blessings God is planning for us that eclipse our own imagination, then maybe we wouldn’t throw our 40-year-old tantrums.  Sometimes God’s “no” means “not yet.”  Perhaps He waits so that He can bless us more fully when the time is right.

So what would truly make us happy in the new year?  Probably kids who pick up their clothes, a small gesture of appreciation or simply time to do something we enjoy.  Those things may take a while in coming.  Maybe we should try to appreciate God’s loving “not yet’s” with their promise of increased blessings later on when we’re ready.  Like my six-year-old, we think we’re ready now, but we don’t know what’s around the corner.  Meanwhile, let’s look for the small miracles we see every day—after all, it’s just like God to open up that parking space.  It’s just like God to do something differently or let us fail.  And it’s just like God to suddenly turn a heart around.

Let’s look forward to a happy new year with anticipation and excitement about all God has planned for us.  But the kids picking up their clothes?  Don’t get crazy.

*Names have been changed

Teenagers and Cats

Noticed in my house: Teenagers are like cats. They love to lie on a pile of clean laundry that's not folded. Cats are drawn to it. Kids ignore it.

Enjoy LIfe!

Heard on the street:

"In your forties you try not to be obnoxious or annoying.  In your fifties you kind of enjoy it!

I like that one!  Agree?  Let me hear all the opinions of my friends in their fifties!!!!

Miracles

Miracles occur all around us everyday.  Many times I’m awed by the way God moves in the world, making our lives fall into place.  We may have to exercise patience and wait for a very long time, but in the end God causes all things to work together for our good.  

Sometimes God performs amazing miracles for us by bringing a friend or spouse into our lives.  But he also works everyday miracles that many people call “coincidence” —just little things.  For example, the other day I dropped my car keys in the “black hole” in my car, as our family calls it.  That’s the area between the front seat and the middle console in my SUV.  And what do you know—I found a Visa bill that escaped me when I put my fistful of envelopes in the mailbox.  The payment was late, but thank goodness I found it in that black chasm in which no one bothers to look because it sucks up everything that falls in.  

Often I hesitate to ask God for frivolous concerns because I feel guilty when there are starving people in the world.  But sometimes when I’m desperate, I bow my head, fold my little hands,  and reverently ask God to help me find silver shoes to go with the dress I’m wearing to the Junior Cotillion tomorrow night.  That evening on the news I may see refugees fleeing their war-torn country, and I humbly pray for forgiveness for my shameless materialism. However, a friend opened my eyes today.  She said, “Maybe it’s true that God doesn’t care about your silver shoes—but He cares about YOU.”  

If I stay close to God, I become aware that His guiding hand is closer than I realize.  The other day the Creator of the universe helped me make it to the cleaners in five minutes during rush hour because I forgot to pick up a shirt my husband needed the next day.   Closing time was 6:00, and I was five minutes late, but guess what?  The teenager behind the counter who is usually in her Honda kissing her boyfriend at 5:55 was texting and kept the door open an extra five minutes.  

Look for the “coincidences” throughout your day, and thank God for the trivial things that just seem to work out.  Whether your difficulty is a divorce or waiting in the drive-thru, God meets us right where we are.  He has a thousand ways to open a thousand doors to create exactly the right path for us, however crooked it may be.  The Ruler of time and space can perform the inconsequential or the impossible.  After all, keeping a 16-year-old away from her boyfriend HAS to up there miracle-wise with healing the lepers.

Tired of All the Christmas Brag Letters?

Tired of All the Christmas Brag Letters?

I really admire those people who send out letters with their Christmas cards.  They send perfect pictures of their well-behaved children in the beautiful places they’ve visited this year.  

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First of all, I can’t sit down and watch 5 minutes of Dr. Phil without being plagued by some important task hanging over my head.  It’s too bad I can’t remember what it is.

Second of all, why can’t I go to those beautiful places?  I’m home editing a 5-page paper on why Zeus and Hermione (Her-mine-ee) wound up inside the Trojan Horse or something like that.  Midnight, head spinning.  Later I’m scraping burnt french fries off my rusty cookie sheet, and my friend is over there in Italy telling Edwardo, her hot masseuse, “A little more warm oil, please.”

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Don’t get me wrong.  I love my friends who send letters.  I want to know about their exciting lives.  A part of me wants to slip it down the garbage disposal, but the senders may ask me later what I thought about their Alaskan cruise.  But a part of me is glad that they are thoroughly enjoying their lives.

Why am I jealous sometimes, though?  I have everything I want.  I have plenty of time to ponder my blessings when I’m driving back from a wrestling match in Millington (for those of you living elsewhere, about an hour away) at 9 p.m.  Thank goodness my two other kids have a wonderful beef stew in the crock pot I made this morning—yeah, right.  I also ruminate on my blessings, shivering, at 7 a.m. and again at 7 p.m. at soccer games in a tournament 7 hours away.  Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with thankfulness that I want to get on my knees right there on the sideline but my butt is stuck to the bleachers.

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But the thing is—there’s no where I’d rather be.  I’ll never have these days back, but Turks and Caicos will always be there.  I’d rather watch my daughter play point guard for the very first time than visit some Paradise Point. 

I’d rather see her perfect her rise ball than watch a sunrise in Oahu.  And most of all, seeing my daughter’s embarrassment when I volunteer to have her Bible study at my house is priceless.  

One day I might make it to an exotic location, but right now I’m enjoying watching my beautiful children put their home-made (well, school-made) ornaments on our Christmas tree.    When I do make it to Italy, I wonder if Edwardo will still be there.   

The Frazzled Mom is Looking for Her Inner Diva

In Search of My Inner Domestic Diva

          The frazzled mom made great strides in her defrazzlement the other day.  I passed up undecorated artificial wreaths that were half off at Hobby Lobby.  The bad elf on my left shoulder wheedled, 

     “You could decorate these!  You can use all that left over faux fruit, greenery in the attic, even some fresh berries—”  

     The good elf on my other shoulder screamed, 

“YOU IDIOT!  WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?”

          I’m trying to follow my own advice of simplifying my life.  My goal is to decide on two or three priorities this Christmas and to close my eyes and resist anything that falls outside those priorities. 
          I’m trying to squelch my “I can do it all” tendencies and realize I’m not Martha Stewart sweetly serving her rack of lamb with truffle sauce—or whatever goes with rack of lamb which I’ve never made because I’m a frazzled mom. This Chef Boyardee’s idea of homemade biscuits is whacking a tube on the side of the counter.  And I’ve finally mastered the skill of unrolling crescent rolls without tearing all of them up.  Then there’s my delicious frozen meatballs with Ragu.  I’m overjoyed that I can now make things my children love.  However, I refuse to pick up the  spaghetti sauce-crusted plates they leave in the family room.  The next day they have the nerve to actually sit in front of the crusty plate, completely unfazed, and log in to Facebook.

          If I ever transform into Martha Stewart, even after the kids leave for college, Hell will have frozen over.  However, I’d love to think of myself as Sandra Lee, that incredible domestic diva who writes “Semi-Homemade” magazine, who makes us think she slaves in her kitchen when her beautifully decorated red velvet cake is from Betty Crocker. She’s my idol. But I’ve got to face the fact that even striving to be a semi-domestic goddess is not in my cards right now. 

          You can bet your sweet Easy Mac that Sandra Lee’s not in the car from 3:00 to 9:30.  During those 6 1/2 hours, I may have a few minutes in which I come home and whip out a lovely lasagna from Russo’s pizza which I added  mozzarella to that I’m trying to pass off as homemade.  Sandra would be proud.  I also wager she didn’t have to make a 3-D Santa face on a paper plate in the car during morning carpool that her first-grader forgot was due. It’s pretty sad that I can boast about being able to make a 3-D Santa face out of the contents of my purse.  You know—lifesavers stuck in the bottom of my purse for eyes—ketchup from fast-food packets for rosy cheeks—and Sweet ‘n Low for the beard. First I must glob some of the sticky residue in the bottom of the Sonic cup from August onto the plate, sprinkle generously with Sweet ‘n Low, and Voila!—snow white whiskers.  If the motherhood gods are going to stump ME, they’re going to have to do better than that.

But, alas, in reality Peg Bundy is more my speed. You know, “Married With Children.”  On the ladder of domestic divinity, I’m a rung below her, looking up at her tight capris.  At least she manages to wear nice high heels instead of ratty bunny slippers and uses make-up everyday.  But after deep reflection, I bet Martha Stewart and Sandra Lee, probably having grown kids now, were too busy watching their oven timers to watch their daughter make a three-pointer in her basketball game.  There’s give-and-take, and there are seasons in life.  One day the frantic pace will slow down, and I’ll have all the time in the world to learn how to cook a perfect turkey and maybe giblets—whatever that is.  But right now, though I’m forever frazzled, I wouldn’t take anything for the privilege of tying shoes, typing school papers, and tucking in.  Peg Bundy can keep the high heels, and maybe I’ll use my bunny slippers to sweep away the dust bunnies under the couch.  

UP, UP, AND AWAY IN A MANGER

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This is a poem inspired by a picture of my son, at about 10 months old, sitting on Santa's lap.  He looked up at Santa as if he was wondering, "Who the heck are you?"  Then I started thinking about how very young children are probably confused about the whole Santa and Jesus thing.  Here's my interpretation of their confusion!

UP, UP, AND AWAY IN A MANGER

Mommy brought me in with her

To say hello to you.

But I’m not sure about this , Sir,

“Just what is it you do?”

Mommy said you were born on Christmas day

And you fly with reindeer too,

Bringing gift to girls and boys

Like the Wisemen brought to you.

Daddy said to ask you for things I want

And not be naughty, but nice,

And remember to thank you for all you brought

When I pray and close my eyes.

Sir, I’m not sure what it is you do,

But Mommy always talks to you.

Mom and Dad believe in you 

And they said that I should too.

So, Sir, put in your sleigh some trucks and trains

When from Bethlehem you come.

Dad knows you can do ANYTHING —

‘Cause you brought ME to him and mom.