I, for one, am glad that Black Friday is over. Not that I ever shop on Black Friday. Shopping is NOT my thing, even on a good day. But throw in getting up before I’ve gone to sleep good; pushing, screaming crowds; and lines circled around the store twice…I’m getting nightmares. Every year, though, I am guilted into considering hauling myself out on the day after a major holiday, with extended family still in town, and subjecting myself to the nightmare. I am tempted to do this because I, like most people, love a bargain. I like to feel that I have gotten the “best price all season”.
Once again this year, I started looking through the sale papers before my turkey digested. Would I find something so attractive, a price so alluring, that I would take the jump, make the dive into the cold waters of camping outside a Toys’R Us in the dark, freezing night? I decided to compromise. Most stores were offering online specials, even percent- off coupons if you made your purchases online. This, I figured, could be the best of both worlds (and I wasn’t even buying Hannah Montana merchandise.)
So, come midnight, I am sitting at my computer, fingers poised over the keyboard, credit card at the ready. When midnight strikes, I order fast and furiously, filling my shopping cart with more speed than I could ever have attained in a crowded store with sleep-deprived customers and staff. And then I come to checkout. The page locks up. OHHHH NOOOOO!!! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!!! I wait. I push the enter key 3,192 times. I wonder if I have just charged these things to my credit card that many times. I call customer service and get disconnected from hold four times. I go back and wait some more. Finally, I start over, now typing frantically, sure that my items will already be out of stock. Back to the ordering screen. IT LOCKS UP AGAIN!!! I hurry to log onto facebook, wondering if anyone else is having this problem. I chat with a couple of my friends, who are also frenetically switching from screen to screen., trying to find a site, any site, that will let them check out before it locks up. This gives me an idea, so I switch to another site, armed with another sale paper, and I encounter the same frustrating lock-up. One site had this cutesy message about the elves working to fix the problem…I was not in the mood for cutesy. I post a status about my angst, and one of my diehard friends who is camping out gets my message on her Blackberry and asks me what I am trying to get – she will try and get it in person. I could not reach her after this, however, and after two-and-a-half frustrating hours of lockups, I gave up and went to bed exhausted, turning down the request of another of my facebook friends to just “cowboy up” and meet her at the store at 4 a.m.
When I got up the next morning. I tried again. This time, the site is all up and smiley and friendly, until I get to the point where I click to order and it says “we’re sorry, that item is out of stock.” Everything. Everything. By this time it is me against that store. I put on my coat and head out the door, determined to look someone in the face. I get to the store and head to the back, where the items I want are located. I only have 30 minutes until the “early bird” shopping is over. The shelves are cleaned out. Oh, sure, there is the random microwave that is missing a handle, having fallen victim to an early morning tussle. But nothing…NOTHING…I want. I weave through a line of people, thinking to myself “Well, at least they opened a register in the back to take care of these shoppers back here.” Until I walked, and walked, and realized that “these shoppers back here” were at the back of a line that wound all the way around the store to the front. And this NINE HOURS after the store opened.
I did not have to think twice. I marched myself back up to the front, out to my car, and fought my way out of traffic to head home, having finally learned my lesson. “Peace On Earth” definitely does not start until after Black Friday.

One of the things I am thankful for is the opportunity to volunteer. As a homeschool family, we are particularly blessed because we have the flexibility to participate in volunteer projects as a family. This week my kids and I volunteered at a drop-off center for Operation Christmas Child, a program run by the organization “Samaritan’s Purse.” Organizations or an individual can fill a shoe box with toys, hygiene items, writing utensils, candy and other items, then choose the age and gender of the child they want the box to be sent to, and Samaritan’s Purse will see that it is delivered to a needy child in another country. We have sent boxes for several years, and it is one of my kids’ favorite ways to volunteer, and to celebrate Christmas. They had such a good time picking out gifts, and working on fitting as much as possible into their shoeboxes. We then were able to go to the center and pack shoeboxes that other people had donated, which will be shipped to a distribution center before they are sent overseas.
I think one of the best ways to teach children gratitude for what they have, as well as compassion, it to have them actively volunteer. There are so many opportunities and many areas of need; and as my children get older I would love for them to each choose a volunteer venue that most interests them. During my childhood and teenage years, my mother was the director of nursing for a nursing home, and I spent much time over the course of many years visiting with the patients, talking with them about the lives they had lived, and just getting to know them, or even just holding their hand. I see so many kids, and even adults, who are afraid to go to nursing homes, afraid of the smells, of dying, of patients with physical problems or dementia. I am thankful that, because I grew up around and loved so many older adults, I have never had that fear. My siblings and I have talked many times about how we love the elderly and have a heart to serve them.
I want my kids to have that – not just about elderly people, but about all people in need, who may not look like them or talk like them, or even smell like them, but are nevertheless people worthy of love. They will never get that until they get their hands dirty, until they see the conditions and feel the pain, until they meet a need. So many times I try to shelter my kids from that which is unpleasant, but Jesus spent his life around that which was and those who were unpleasant, either in appearance or in lifestyle or behavior. He had no place to lay His head, he spent time with beggars, with homeless, with prostitutes, with sinners and the downcast and the down-and-out. Life was not warm and pleasant and protected for Him most of the time. At a conference I attended recently, the speaker urged her listeners not to let our comfort keep us from our calling. That really hit home for me – I hold so tightly to my comfort that I let it define and put parameters around my calling. May that challenge my heart as I seek to serve even the least of those among us, not just in this season of Thanksgiving, but in all of life.

One of my favorite times of the year is coming up next week. Not because we get to eat a lot (although that is definitely a plus) and not even because we get to see our extended family (which is also, for the most part :), a plus). No, it is because this holiday is one that is based solely on what we give, rather than on what we get. And what we are giving is our thanks. Doesn’t cost us any money, doesn’t run up our credit card bill., and it always fits and doesn’t have to be returned. And the thanks is, for the most part, not given to another person – it is given to God. And have you noticed, Thanksgiving is one of the lowest-keyed and least commercialized holidays (heck, the stores and even homes around here have skipped right from Halloween to Christmas). To top all that off, in the giving of thanks, we receive some things for ourselves. Joy. Humbleness. Gratitude. Hope.
Several of my friends on facebook have started posting daily until Thanksgiving the things they are thankful for. Even in reading what other people are thankful for, it makes me more thankful. So with that in mind and in no particular order, here goes…
I am thankful for…
- a husband who has been with me through really good and really bad times, who loves our kids like I do, and who is here to stay.
- my closest friends, who know me well and love me anyway, who support and encourage me, and who have my back always.
- $1.50 movies and Redbox
- the freedom to homeschool my children and the people who fought and suffered far more than I have so that I could have this freedom
- my home and my new low fixed rate!
- hair highlights and pedicures – sometimes they just make life worth livin’ :)
- my autistic son’s long-suffering and loving teachers at school, and how they try really hard not to call me
- my mom, whom I did not call a friend until I was married with kids, but who is now one of the closest friends I have
- my various jobs which, while they are hard, enable me to continue staying home with my kids
- my kids at co-op, who make it a joy to teach
- and their parents, who mostly do, too :)
- sports teams of all flavors, which entertain my family, keep them active, and provide lots of healthy competition and conversation
- my son with special needs, without whom I fear I would judge other parents by their kids’ behaviors, and also without whom I would never hear “are you my baby, mommy?” from a precious 10-year-old boy
- my dad who, although he pushes every button I have, taught me the value of education, hard work, and resourcefulness
- paint…it does wonders for your home and your mood for not much money
- potties you can sit on – I have been camping and have visited other countries - - trust me, this is something to be thankful for
- dollar menus. Sometimes you just really, really don’t want to cook
- my church and all the people in it that I love, who inspire me, encourage me, challenge me, take care of and teach my kids, and have been my family for many years
- cell phones. I don’t think I need to say more.
- my children, who bring me immeasurable pride, immeasurable frustration, and unending joy
- a computer which helps me to organize and manage my life, research everything under the sun, and keep up with my friends…all on my own timetable.
- ibuprofen,,the magic bullet
- a dead-end street to raise kids on
- fall in Tennessee
- Jan Karon books
- God, who has never left me or forsaken me, although I have many times been unfaithful
- good curriculum, without which this homeschool mom could not be homeschooling 
- vans that still run, albeit with over 200,000 miles, fluids leaking from everywhere, and more hang-ups and glitches than I can name
….and more that I will share next time…

My girls were baptized tonight. You may remember that the girls are triplets, eight years old. What I have not yet had the chance to share are the circumstances surrounding their birth and my pregnancy with them. You see, my husband and I are infertile. When I tell people this and they look around at my five children, they then look to me for the punch line. But there is not one. My husband and I began “trying” to get pregnant when we had been married just a year and a half. My genecologist had told me that, due to some symptoms I was having, she suspected I might have a hard time getting pregnant. No one ever thinks that getting pregnant will be difficult for them, so it was disturbing news to say the least, and the first “troubled waters” we had been confronted with in our marriage. So, we began the “trying.” A year later, we were still not pregnant. At that point, we were advised to visit a fertility clinic, which we did. We went through a battery of tests, and finally a surgery for me, then treatment with medication and more tests. We then received the devastating news…we would never be able to get pregnant on our own. Our only chance to have a baby would be through the process of in vitro fertilization. After much prayer and several months of preparation – physical, financial, emotional, and spiritual – we decided to move forward.
I won’t go into all the details and medical jargon, but when we were well into the cycle, the doctors discovered that my body had over-reacted to the fertility medication and I was in what was called “hyper-stimulation”; in short, my ovaries were holding 38 eggs, ready to be harvested. Many grave meetings with the doctors ensued. They would be harvesting all the eggs, and they wanted to know how many we wanted to try and fertilize. Throughout the process, we had never felt a comfort level with cryopreserving, or freezing, embryos. This freezing is basically done to “save” embryos (eggs which have already been fertilized) to try and use them to get pregnant in a later cycle, either because you did not get pregnant in the first cycle, or because you want to have more children. We did not necessarily feel that cryopreserving embryos was wrong, it was just difficult to wrap our arms around the idea of “suspending” life, and so we did not feel comfortable with it. And so, when we were told that I was producing so many eggs, the doctors were astounded when we decided that we only wanted to try and fertilize enough for one cycle. One doctor in particular was even angry with us, and insisted that we must not really want to get pregnant, or that somehow we misunderstood. It was our decision, however, and so on the day of the surgery they only tried to fertilize 11 eggs (based on their calculations and testing they had done on us, they felt that only a small percentage of these would actually fertilize and be able to be placed back in my womb.) But God had alternate plans (he usually does!) Nine of eleven of our eggs fertilized, far too many to be placed back in my womb (octuplet mom notwithstanding :) So, we went to plan B – they would put three back and we would “freeze” the others. And that is how it went. Three went into mommy, three did not continue developing (something that is common with a newly fertilized embryo even when you get pregnant “the normal way”) and three were placed into cryopreservation (more about them later.).
Of the three which were put back in mommy, two actually “attached” and started growing, and out of those two only one made it past the sixth week. That one is now my twelve-year-old son.
From the moment our other embryos were placed into cryopreservation, we prayed for them. We agonized over them. We thought of them every day. These were our babies, and they were beyond our reach, sitting waiting in some holding tank. Looking back, I now know that God had his big hand holding them the entire time…I wish I had rested in that – it would have saved me a lot of worrying.
When my son was 13 months old and I was getting ready to wean him, we called the fertility clinic to inquire about beginning the cycle with our frozen embryos – they were weighing on us so heavily and we could not wait any longer. They instructed us to call when I began my next cycle. Trouble was, that cycle would not begin. I was always very regular, so when I was four days late I knew something was wrong. Must be menopause, I told myself. Just great…I’m starting early menopause and now how in the world are we going to try and get pregnant with our embryos? I called my doctor to make an appointment, and then, on a whim, I called the fertility clinic. “Could you look back at our records and tell me again what the chances are of us getting pregnant on our own?” She comes back to the phone, “About a million to one.” “That’s what I thought,” I said, “just checking.” So I waited. My appointment with the doctor was the next day. “Just stop and get me a pregnancy test,” I told my husband, “they’re going to make me take one tomorrow anyway.” So he changed our son’s diaper as I took the test. A blue line – what does that mean? I read the instructions again. It can’t be. PREGNANT????? Without drugs and needles and doctors’ visits and .surgeries? WOW!!! Is this how it is for normal people?? The doctor’s test the next day confirmed it. And eight months later our second son was born.
And we still had our embryos. By this time, the burden of our waiting was growing heavy. I had to wait until I weaned my son to begin the drug protocol, so when he was seventeen months old we visited the fertility clinic again. We received some startling news. “We’re sorry. It has been four years and four months since your embryos were created. Not only are the chances very slim for a successful pregnancy after the first five months (we had never been told this) but in the last four years we have discovered something. Back then we waited six and even seven days after conception to freeze embryos, thinking that gave them a better chance of survival. But since then we have discovered that is too long. You have one six-day and two seven-day embryos. We have never had a successful pregnancy in this clinic with embryos which were frozen that late. We suggest that you spend your fertility dollars elsewhere.”
Shocking news – yes. Cold and clinical way of describing it – certainly. But we weren’t here for a “success rate.” We were here because we had a responsibility to the lives God had given to us, small though they were. The idea that we would abandon that life because the doctors didn’t give us much hope was unthinkable. Thank you, but we will spend our fertility dollars taking care of our babies.
They had warned us that our embryos might not make it even through the thawing procedure, but that we would not know this until we arrived at the hospital the day of the embryo transfer. That morning, as I was getting ready, my mind was tossing this way and that. Would I come home that day with our embryos alive and placed in my womb, or in grief over their loss? As I was casting about fretfully in my mind, I heard God speak to me, almost audibly, “BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.” I stopped in my tracks. Having rarely heard God actually speak, I had no doubt that it was Him. But if I had known how far-reaching, far beyond that day, those words were intended for, I would not have been able to fathom it.
We got to the hospital, where they told us that two of our embryos had made it through the thawing process. It was a strange mix of grief and joy, losing one yet having two that were still alive. The transfer was fairly simple, and I came home to a few days of bedrest. Ten days later I went in for a blood test – the count was 66, I was told, a “good, solid single pregnancy.” Two days later the number should have doubled, at least – it was in the three hundreds. “Could it be twins?” I asked. “No, the first number would have been higher. Just a good strong pregnancy.” Two days later – in the nine hundreds. “Are you sure?” I asked. Only one nurse confided that it *might* be twins. So at six weeks I went in for an ultrasound. My husband and oldest son, who was three at the time, were with me, along with my father-in-law. When the ultrasound screen came up, I immediately saw two sacs. My legs started shaking – I was thrilled that both of the embryos had survived, but now the reality hit me. Already severely sick with nausea , I was pregnant with twins and had a one-year-old and a three-year-old. As I lay trying to absorb this (with my husband and father-in-law slapping each other on the back) , the ultrasound tech leaned in closer to the screen. “What?” I asked, concerned. She asked, “Did anyone ever mention to you the possibility of an embryo splitting and becoming identical twins?” “No,” I answered, squinting at the screen, “is that what happened? How can you tell?” “Well,” she said, “I am seeing two heartbeats in this sac on the right…” “Whaaaa….what do you mean ‘the sac on the right?” A long pause. “It looking like I’m going to have to re-label these babies A, B, and C.” Oh. My. Goodness.
Following a consultation with the doctor (who predictably suggested “selective reduction.” which we not-so-politely declined) we went home in shock. Fast forward through the first few weeks, which were spent alternately throwing up and sitting in disbelief (both me and my husband :). After being told at eight weeks that the identical twins were NOT conjoined (DID WE THINK THEY WERE??? DEAR GOD!), our regular OB had suggested a consultation with a high-risk specialist. At this twelve-week consultation, she gave us some frightening news. Because our identical embryos had split so late, they were not only in the same sac, but there was no membrane between them. Because of this, their umbilical cords could twist together and knot off, cutting the blood supply to one or both twins. In addition, they were at a high risk for twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome, which can happen when babies are sharing the same placenta. One twin can get too much blood and die of heart failure; the other gets too little and it retards growth and causes death. The combined risk of these two things put the risk to our girls so high that they had only about a 30% chance of surviving the pregnancy. We were devastated. How would we live with this knowledge? But I heard the voice again “BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.” I felt no reassurance that those words necessarily meant that our babies would survive, just the simple command to be still and let God be God.
As my pregnancy went into its 24th week, my doctor put me on bed rest as a precaution. A believer, he had prayed with us many times during the pregnancy, and carried the weight of his concern with him always. The high-risk specialist showed guarded optimism, but as the pregnancy progressed she began to be encouraged. By this time we had found out that they were all girls, and though she had said from the beginning that she would be happy to get them to 32 weeks, she began optimistically to think about 34 weeks, or even 36. The twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome had not materialized yet, and as the babies got bigger they were not able to move around as much, and therefore were at a lower risk of their cords knotting. My extreme nausea was finally gone and, except for being on bed-rest, things were looking good. At 32 weeks I went in for my bi-weekly ultrasound, and while the babies were being observed, one of the girl’s heartrate dropped and the doctor could not get it back up. I was immediately admitted to the hospital, where they planned to deliver the babies 48 hours later, after giving me steroid shots. My doctor, who had been praying for wisdom for many months, decided that he did not feel comfortable waiting that long, so the delivery was set for the next day.
The day had arrived. With nineteen people in the delivery room, including a team of doctors and nurses for each baby, our girls were brought into the world. As the two identical girls were delivered, a hush fell on the room. The doctor stopped, then asked for a camera. He then called the entire room of people over to look at the babies’ umbilical cords, which were knotted NINE TIMES. “Divine intervention,” was all he could say.
Our babies were safely here. After three weeks in the hospital, they came home, and today are three happy, healthy little girls who bring us immeasurable joy.
And so tonight they were baptized, making public their commitment to follow this God who has held them in His hands for so long. And I am still…and knowing…that He is God.

My special boy. We all feel that way about our sons, I know. But I have another reason for calling my second son “my special boy.” When he was born, he looked absolutely perfect – big shoulders, dark blue eyes, little balled-up fists, little round tummy. He was our second child and second son, and we were very happy. But he was not happy. He cried up to 15 hours a day inconsolably. Doctors said he was colicky, then that he was lactose-intolerant, and he *was* both of those things. When he stopped crying all the time at about eight months of age, he was a very happy and serene baby, and we thought the worst was behind us. Sure, he sat up late, crawled late, and wasn’t talking or walking. But his doctor said that all kids develop at different rates, so we weren’t worried. At first. But then weeks went into months, and when at fifteen months of age he was still not talking at all, didn’t seem to understand anything we said, and was making no moves toward walking, that sick, aching feeling in my mama-gut just would not go away. I self-referred to early intervention services, where he was indeed diagnosed with global developmental delay and started occupational, physical, and speech therapy. He made some progress, and at the age of 22 months he finally started walking. But he had other issues. He was very aggressive, hitting others, throwing things, injuring himself, as well as odd behaviors – hand-flapping, rocking, slinging his head. And he made no eye-contact and did not turn or respond when you said his name. He qualified and transitioned to public developmental preschool, after having been asked to leave his “typical” preschool at the age of two due to complaints from the other parents over his behavior. As a mom who was very pro-homeschooling, it was difficult to send my baby to a public preschool, but it was the only was he could receive the services and therapies he needed at no cost. And we were very pleased. His teacher, who was as round as she was tall and had the sweetest spirit you can imagine, wrapped her soft arms around him that first day and called him her baby. He was there two years, and received the greatest care and love, but he struggled daily. Many times a day his meltdowns put others and himself in danger. During that time our entire family was in chaos. Living with a child who has special needs is one thing, but living with one who has constant uncontrollable behavior and siblings who are getting hurt is a whole new level of hell. Church, social functions, family gatherings, the grocery store – those things were out of the question for us to do normally. During that time we received a lot of criticism, mostly from strangers but even from church family - they thought we just were not handling his discipline correctly. You see, he looks perfectly normal – blond hair, green eyes, and the most handsome little boy you will ever see. The comments and treatment we received were more than upsetting – they were devastating to a mama and daddy who did not know what was wrong and were trying desperately just to survive each day.
We had tried since he was eighteen months old to get a diagnosis and some answers as to what was wrong, so that we could get some help. We pursued every avenue imaginable (and I have boxes and boxes of testing and paperwork to prove it.) No one had an answer. We have a teaching hospital in our area which is world-renowned for their research and treatment of developmental delays and mental disorders, and they could come up with no better answer than a diagnosis of developmental delay. They could not explain his behavior. If you had ever told us that we would have a child on psychiatric medicines at the age of five, we would have vehemently protested. But we were at the end of ourselves. And so began the long road of medication trials. We found one or two that helped somewhat, but none that made any measurable difference. At the age of six he was diagnosed with autism and ADHD, and we felt that we could finally put a label on what he had and have somewhere to hang our hat. I researched endlessly and we tried many treatments and therapies.
In the past four years, things have ranged from extremely bad to moderately bad, and back. We have seen more doctors than I can name, tried more medications than the doctors at the teaching hospital have ever seen a child try for a behavior disorder, spent a devastating twelve days in a children’s psychiatric hospital, and still we deal daily with the uncertainty of how each day will go. Just a month ago we finally got in to see a doctor whose waiting list we had been on for two years, and she did an extremely thorough work-up, then told us that she does not think that he has autism – she thinks it may be genetic. She referred us to an autism research project and ordered all kinds of genetic testing, and their conclusion was that he does not have autism. In addition, nothing came up on the genetic tests so, other than confirming a cognitive impairment (which we had suspected over the past year), we are back to square one. They admitted that his is a “complex case” (really?) and referred us for intensive behavioral therapy which we are in the process of figuring out how to pay for.
And yet I am at peace. Before you label me hyper-spiritual or just ignorant or oblivious, let me hasten to say that the path to peace has been a long and harshly painful one. I have been through many years of depression, anger with God, and trauma in my marriage and family. No one except my husband knows what it has been like to live our life of the last ten years, and knowing that we could never possibly make someone understand puts us on an island that is oftentimes a very lonely place. My husband has dealt very differently with our difficulty, and is now in a place with it that I have thankfully already passed through. This difference in where we are at with it has also been very painful and stressful in our relationship. But God has changed me. I don’t like that I had and still have to go through it, I don’t know why He had to allow it, and I will never understand why he does not make it easier, but I no longer question it, and I am no longer angry at God. I have slowly over the past two years been making my way back to an intimate relationship with Him. I never left Him, and He certainly never left me, but for a long time after the pain and anger started to subside, I was very wary of God and was okay with me being in my corner and Him in His. I have hope that I am well on my way to recovery.
And so, my son today is who God has made him to be. As I said, he is a beautiful boy, and when he is not in his bad place, he is very affectionate and loving and asks me “Are you my baby, Mommy?” For that I am very grateful. I love him overwhelmingly, yet I hate what his disability does to him and to our family. But it no longer defines my life or my other children’s lives (although my husband could not say the same for himself right now). We are happy, we have fun, we enjoy many things - all while struggling and adjusting and suffering. I would never have chosen for my children to have to grow up with the pain and suffering that they live with. But I see that God can use that suffering, perhaps far greater than He could have used an easy childhood, to develop their character and bring glory to His kingdom. I have accepted that in this life I “see through a glass darkly.” But I hold on to the fact that I will one day see “face-to-face” and no longer know only in part, but know fully, as I am fully known. And so, holding onto that verse in Corinthians 13, I live in hope.

I’m back on the map! Amazing what a good nap will do (and a good reality check from Scripture!)
Today was one of the days that makes me love homeschooling. Daddy took off work last night, and so was up early today and hung out with the kids. The girls got their work done early and without a lot of coaxing, and then they went out to the playhouse and set up a candy store (they called it Candyland) and sold their Halloween candy to Daddy :) This afternoon (while I napped) they played football outside with Dad and big brother, and raked beautiful fall leaves and rolled in them. Then they played on the trampoline until after dark (courtesy of the time change) and came in and we all watched “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” where they learned that “K” is the periodic chart symbol for potassium, and Arizona was the 48th state admitted to the union. Days don’t get any better than this.
I’m learning to let days like this happen when they can. Sure, we had to push our science vocabulary off until tomorrow. And that spelling quiz isn’t going to happen. But it is the days like this that cannot be put on a syllabus or in a lesson planner, and are the ones that often make the greatest and longest-lasting impact.
The girls are asleep all over my room right now, where they nodded off during a Little House book, tired out from playing in the beautiful fall day. One son just went to bed after watching the Saints and the Falcons until halftime. And my other son passed out early after a nice bath. Dad is back at work, I am sure paying for not having slept today. But I am also sure he would not trade this day for anything. And neither would I.

I’m tired. I’m often that way, but tonight I am tired in every way. This week I have cleaned someone’s house; worked at and shopped a consignment sale (and consigned); had two practices for a play I am in; hosted a baby shower and made the cake and all the food; taught two co-op classes and graded papers for 16 kids; made five Halloween costumes and carved a pumpkin; took food to a cookout; made Brownies for my son’s class; patched, sanded, and cleaned walls in my stairwell (and painted trim); hung pictures in my bedroom; planned for and attended a movie party for our co-op middle school kids; hunted all over town for ribbon for a bow order; and of course homeschooled four of my kids, cleaned, cooked, and got groceries (all while nursing four sick kids back to health and getting sick myself). I am not saying this to brag…far from it. I actually had to get this down in writing to realize how insane I have made my life. If you read my previous blog, I talked about what a Martha I am, and how I sensed Jesus holding out deliverance to me. Is it any wonder why? I have a serious problem with over-commitment (which may come as a shock to you) :) I have struggled with this all of my adult life, but it has only gotten worse with more kids and thus more opportunities to over-commit. And now it has begun to take a toll on my health and relationships (okay, this toll did not just start happening). So, I have whined over two blogs about this…what to do?
I attended a conference recently, and the speaker was talking about how to preserve your family – relationships, sanity, moral base, etc. One of the things he talked about was making hard priority decisions, for the entire family. It’s not so hard cutting out things that are plainly harmful or bad. It’s when we come to a bucket of really good, beneficial, desirable things that we have a hard time deciding what to let go of, to miss the benefits of, to deny ourselves. It is those things that have nothing bad to recommend them except that “we can’t do everything” …those are the things that are the hardest to let go of. But at what cost? How many times do you catch yourself screaming at your kids or husband; having that overwhelmed feeling, passing one set of kids and your spouse on the way in the door as you are heading out the door with another set; staying up past all reasonable hours to get everything done, only to find yourself getting up the next morning to start it all over again? Am I the only one who does this? I regret the inordinate time spent “doing” instead of just “being.” In our Bible study this morning, we talked about being still before God. One of the verses we studied was from Psalm 46:10, and it begins “Be still and know that I am God…” One person’s translation especially spoke to me; it said, “Cease striving….” When I googled this verse, I learned that the Hebrew word for “still” means to let go or release. So as God is speaking to me (and He obviously is…I can’t stop blogging about it!) what things is He telling me to cut out? Frankly, He’s asking me to release all of it. Does that mean I am supposed to stop doing all of it? Maybe…maybe not (although I am pretty sure He wants me to stop doing a lot of it.). But I have to release all of it to Him. And then what? I have to know that He is God. How do I know this? I can start with reflecting on what God can do in the face of what I am unable to do. By realizing that he is infinite and I am finite. By remembering that He has said, “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts” and taking comfort in this. By laying back in the arms of my Abba Father and just resting.