Exercise Take 1

My Title: Workoutaholic
His Title: Comfort-addict
The Challenge: To do something she suggests.

The day was Monday.

I had skipped my regular workout routine in the morning in order to make time for my family--weeeellll, I also went to the local gym and caught a cardio class. Aside from that factoid, I decided to forgo my regularly schedule practice to be with the fam.

It was the day after Easter and I was feeling every bite of brown sugar ham, every lick of twice-baked mashed potatoes (what? you don't lick your potatoes?), and every frozen morsel of ice cream I had consumed the day before. Needless to say, my husband thought all was well with his life and felt obligated in no way to exercise, though it apparently had crossed his mind briefly to go on a jog. The day proved too cold to run outside, so, since we were both home due to the holiday, I made a suggestion: let's workout together!

His reaction was far from thrilled--yet, he agreed. My reaction was far from somber--I skipped around the kitchen, kissed him and proceeded to make a right fool of myself out of excitement to pump iron with my man.

I had made it to week 10 in the p90x program and I was due to follow the suggested routine of chest, shoulders and triceps. Lots of push-ups...ugh.

While the older kids watched the younger one, my husband and I threw on our exercise clothes and headed to the basement. Though 'ole Tony had Ab Ripper X as the final hurray for the day of lifting, I tended to put it first. So we began. I demonstrated the move and he began to remember (he had done the program a few years back). Each core/sit-up move is set to 25 reps. I couldn't help but overhear my husband counting to 10-ish, saying, "Yep, that hurts," then lying flat on his back, hands and legs outstretched like roadkill. The time came for Pfifer scissors--a move that really does stink--you lie on your back, raise your left leg about 2 inches off the ground, raise your right leg so it points to the ceiling then straighten your legs as best you can and flex your foot. Hold for 3 secs then switch. This is done 25 times. OUCH!

My husband has the genetics of his father--they are sinewy, inflexible men. He could barely get his legs straighter then 90 degrees and was grumbling and grunting his way through 6 moves. I kindly reminded him to keep his legs straight. When he turned his reddening face toward me and spit out the words, "THEY ARE STRAIGHT!" We both burst out laughing.

That led to several more outbursts and reminiscing.

It was the best time I'd had with him in months.

The Challenge: One

I desperately want to begin writing on a daily basis to hone my skills as one who enjoys the written art. Therefore, I put to myself the task of penning something, if even arduous and boring to my soul. A topic would be wonderful to achieve; a subject or matter I may not be learned in to the core, but would write about from my heart. Hmmm…food. Children. Marriage. How-to-not-get-into-business-with-a-woman-who-runs-the-company-to-the-ground-and-leaves-you-hanging-on-for-dear-life. Or maybe how-to-forgive-the-person-who-did-said-things-above.

The fort my husband built is made of pine lumber and halved power poles from his father. Half-inch bolts with locking nuts maintain the shape of the frame in a manner better than the construction on our own home. Things just aren’t made like they used to be.

Nothing is like it used to be.

My neighbor down the street recently received “The Challenge.” A quaint governmental title for “forced to serve.” No more volunteering. You simply have to wait your turn and sooner or later, they’ll knock on your door and slap a big “You owe us” paper into your hand and poof you’re the property of the US until they decide you have paid back your dues.

See, the President had the foresight, subsequent money and men to amend the term limit law. He is a tyrant. Lovely. And anyone who has used the government in the past, say for disability, medical insurance, unemployment, you name it—the US puts a big star in the books and keeps very close track of the number of dollar signs by your John Hancock.

What has this world come to? Where has it gone or better yet--where is it headed? The sun beats the earth as a boxer for the KO. No mercy. I stretch my legs onto the seat of the patio chair next to me. A small stream of sweat trails down my spine. My newly laundered shirt will have to wait until next Monday when the water ration commissioner says I can have my share.

I questioned even bringing children into this world. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.

“Mom! Look what we found!” Henry bounds toward me, the patio creaks like elder bones. “A flower mom—a genuine flower! What do you think?” From behind his back he pulls a purple thistle. Pretty—for weed.

“It’s beautiful, honey. What a find!”

And some days I can’t imagine life without kids. But it seems the rest of the world can with all the abortions and family capacity laws. Most people, like us, try to live off the grid and hope they just leave us alone—no matter how many kiddos we birth or take under our care.

This little starter blossomed from a story idea I still have percolating in my mind. And since no one really reads my blog, I pray it stays safe from the hands of the plagiarist :)

Wise Advice?

“Big trips often change us for life.”

Such was the wisdom I imparted on a young friend of mine. Her age rings in at around nineteen—I’m in my thirties. I taught her in Bible study while she attended high school. We clicked and began to hang out and share. She confessed I was a mentor of hers and I cried. Now she is older, wiser. Life has confused her and taken her by the hand to a valley unknown. She is no longer a child and I try to find a safe place to befriend her. No longer is she the wee one I instructed and watched grow. She is now a woman. One after the Lord’s heart. I respect her and admire her tenacity. She is my equal. I must treat her as such…over frozen yogurt at Red Mango.

I ruminate over my sage-like quote departed in haste over email. What a load, I think. She’ll think I’m a crazy loon. What teenager would want to hang out and listen to the ‘wise advice’ of a goof like myself? Yet, truth peeks from the cracks, a child chancing a glance of St. Nick on the eve of Christmas day. Has not some of my most inspiring moments come from times of complete abandonment and reliance upon my Lord? And have not those times most often pop out to play during overseas trips to distant lands. Visits to cultures so unlike my stiff, white upbringing. Foreign places with people the likes of which I have never met before that time.

Yes. These tend to be the fertile ground the good Lord plants my soul.

What is it, then, that makes these locations and excursions so life altering? It is not the exotic beauty that captivates my heart and brings my knees to the floor before His throne…not entirely. It is not the people who hate me enough to kill me and others who love me enough to die in my place who usher me into His presence…not solely.

No. For me, the moments of my truest awakening have occurred when I am forced to bend my will to His. When I say “yes” to the mission board who have prayed to send a team to Brazil. When I say “good-bye” to my husband and children for the duration of my departure. When I meet those on the team and recognize not one face and droop heavy under the weight of loneliness. It is when I am utterly lost, broken and being carried in the arms of Christ that I forget my testimony and simply utter His name as my saving grace. Yes, for me the naked truth to my learning curve is subtle and humble; my greatest moments with Christ are when I am away from ME. The times when the Lord tears myself away from the norms, the comforts, the little world I have created. Sure, I may have done so with the good intentions, to be a God-fearing wife and mother, only that is not the real ME.

ME longs for adventure.

ME desires to run full speed towards my Lord.

ME hopes to one day shed these earthly burdens and give my life solely to Him.

ME prays I teach those around me to do better than I am.

And the only thing which stands in the way of accomplishing these goals and many more is: ME.

Guess I know what I must do…

Habitual Habits

Children need to be taught obedience, not sinfulness—the latter develops on its own.

Often times, frustrated parents feel pulled in 1.5 million different directions on a daily basis. Between kids tears, ringing phones, career obligations and household chores, parents can be left with little time for patient discipline and consequently a household of disobedient, ornery kids.

The employment of a few structured changes may go far to order a home, which may result in the relief of parental pressure and stress. Here are a few tips to help overwhelmed parents decompress.

· Write down house rules. Literally take a marker and piece of cardboard, and pen the rules of the house onto the board. This list may begin as extensive and decrease over time or the other way around. If a parent starts with general rules they have the freedom (and should inform the children) that more rules can and will be added as the need arises.

· By each rule should be the coordinating consequence. For children too young to read alone, make a point to explain (on their level of understanding) what each rule is and its consequence. Older children should be informed as well (possible cause of "family meeting"), but they are also able to read and ask questions on their own. Whether you post these on a wall or not, you as the parent, will have them to remind yourself and your children accordingly.

· The punishment should fit the crime. You and/or you and your spouse need to sit down and decide what consequence fits what rule. A minor rule break (whatever that may be in your house) should be followed by a reprimand of the same degree.

· The child is responsible for his/her actions. Make a point to not take blame from a child who breaks a rule and as a result reaps the consequence enforced by you. Be assertive and gentle to show the child he/she is responsible for his/her choices. Use phrases such as, “It’s too bad you decided to disobey…” Such actions will go far to help a child understand they have the power to do right and wrong--and said result are not the random angry outbursts of parent. Be careful to keep from an attitude and voice that may condescend or treat the child as one who is unable to change. We all possess the ability to improve and be taught. Encourage your child in such a way.

· When a child breaks the rules—the parent should not follow suit! The last thing a child needs is a wishy-washy example. Just as we adults dislike weak leaders and blubbery bosses, so children desire in their heart of hearts a soft and strong authority figure in their every day lives. Follow-through with the consequences when a rule has been broken. The hope is after a time of strictly following such a structure, the child will respect the rules and be sufficiently deterred by the punishment and thus be more obedient in the long run.

· As a child grows and changes so should the house rules. A time-out may be out-grown by your once 3-4 year old, and a more appropriate disciplinary action need take its place. Possibly the loss of time with friends, restriction of computer/video games, the revocation of special toys (Legos, etc.), may prove to be a method fit for the crime and the age of the child. Even physical labor, especially for young men, like digging out a tree stump after school everyday for a week, may serve the purpose.

· Give rewards along with consequences. The rules can also contain an incentive program for when a child has shown notable improvement in an area of previous discord. A suitable reward can and should be granted

Parenting is a wonderful privilege and should be taken seriously. Do not leave the primary upbringing of your children in the hands of others—you’ll be sorely disappointed. Empower yourself to take charge of your family and home. Your children will thank you in the long run.

*This post is the result of a discussion with my dear sister. None of us have all the answers, but when the Lord bestows wise advice from those who have done their time, it is prudent to heed and share with others.

A Call

Blogs. I know people read 'em. But do they really care? Random individuals who rant and rave about a subject or life situation that most others have no idea how to respond or whether they should give a rat's behind or not. No real conversation, just the opportunity to speak "at" the general audience lovingly titled "the world."

So here I am. Falling into the pattern of millions of others around the globe. Pitter pattering away on my laptop keyboard knowing no one will read this--it's simply for me. My personal online journal.

The topic of which I will rant: Adoption. Or lack their of. More accurately, a call which is in question.

I begin in the middle, which will more than likely confuse the hay out of anyone that may decide to read this little post. Oh, well. I really don't care...

Note to reader: I will be very sarcastic at times. Read carefully; in no way do I not love and respect the Lord. I'm just a little peeved and when I get that way, inconsiderate and awkward humor can pour forth. You have been warned...

When my heart became convinced (by affirmations received by the Lord) we were to pursue adoption, I couldn't have been more pleased. Afterall, God was finally catching up to me--I had adoption as a good option to expand our family for years and he was just NOW telling me he agreed. About time... or so I thought.

Innocently, 'tis my weakness, or strength, depends on how you roll the dice, I cast my lot in domestic adoption. We have tons of kids here in the USA that need homes. No better place to start. Agency after agency repeated the same phrase, "We aren't accepting any new families, but you're welcome to send in an application and be put on a waiting list." I hate waiting. No thank you. Moving on...

Next, I found a place. No, no I was pretty certain is was the place from where we were to adopt. We begin he process and are about to send in $ when I inadvertently discover the non-profit agency charges differing amounts depending upon the race of the child. What?! Is that even legal? Scratch that place...

Maybe we should look to international adoption. We looked at Ethiopia. Yes! Perfect! We qualified and even found an agency that seemed legit. Great! Here we... What? Ethiopia is significantly decreasing the number of adoptions they will process each year. Ok...what does that mean? We wait? Great. I hate waiting...

China special needs. The program had been brought up more than once, so I proceeded to check it all out to see what it held for us. After working out the fears and finding a little boy with a need that we thought we could handle (our boy was born with the same problem) we were told we didn't qualify financially for the program. Super...

BAM! A door slams in our faces. BAM! BAM-BAM! Three more. I'm starting to become confused. Why do so many others succeed so easily at adoption and here we are, wanting what James 1:27 calls a pure religion, and it's not happening?

Enter reality check.

Over the course of the past 1.5-2 yrs., my husband and I have been on a roller coaster of two miscarriages and many adoption let-downs. Little did I know just how much this all had consumed me. Not until I sat in bed late one night this past week, did I stop to listen. Sad to say, it had been the first time in many days/weeks I had quieted my heart before the Lord. You know what I heard? I heard God whisper, "You've become too focused on the call and have neglected the One who called."

Ouch. Reality bites like a rabid squirrel.

He can't lie. And He's never wrong. Truth is the truth; I had, on further recollection, become so vigilant to adopt and prideful in the way I had told so many we were--how it was God's calling for us--that I had pushed God's heart of love for children aside. And not just that--God's love for all. I feel like one of those psycho women on a TLC made for TV movie who looses her marbles when life doesn't go as she planned.

Oh, Lord! Forgive me! Forgive my pride. Humble me and cleanse my soul from all unrighteousness. I have been sinful. Even in ways not accounted for I have sinned against You and You alone. I love you, Father. And know, without a doubt, You love me. I trust Your will in all things--mainly the addition of children to our quiver. You were, are and always will be, LORD.

Amen.

Mary and Todd...

...Sittin' in a tree.

Huh? No, that's all. What? Oh--I didn't intend to finish. But I can see you... Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of! I know what you were thinking. Right, right. Sure. It's okay if you sensed a strong urge from the child within to finish the song. What? Psh, of course! Even I felt the pull of youthful banter. The tiny tug of a little hand from long ago deep within my soul. Now, the clever rhyme is seared on my brain. And the tiny hand is creeping me out.

We all experience similar sensations at particular moments when jolted to the past by familiar scenes/smells. Like the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Seeing a rope swing lightly off the thick branch of a mighty oak. Watching a newborn kitten, all fluff and no balance, make its first tiny mouse-like squeak for milk. Or finding a fishing rod complete with red and white bobber and Shakespeare spincasting reel filled with 8lb. line. Each evokes a unique blast from the past and thus a unique response.

One of my favorite memories as a child involves my father and fishing. For those of you confused by my name, I am a female and yes, some of my best times were casting a line with my Pop.

My best guess is I had incessantly bothered my father to take me to the local fishing hole. And such is was indeed. A sandpit in the middle of the Great Plains of Nebraska. But a starry eyed little girl who couldn't wait to hang out with her father and catch the monster fabled to live in its depths couldn't be deterred by it's humble appearance.

In those days, Kindergarten ran morning and afternoon sessions. I attended the earlier. Mom and dad must have been in cahoots, for when the noon bell sang clear and long, there stood my father, all 6'3," 250 lbs.--like a massive dream come to life. My mother, a professional homemaker, (she did an awesome job) usually picked me up at the end of my daily educational experience. But not then. With a broad smile and his signature laugh, my father gently took me by the hand after school that day and led me to his pickup.

Rarely did I want to be a princess, or a damsel in distress. Not really, at least. I more desired the position of Robin to Batman. Velma to Fred. Watson to Sherlock. Tanto to the Lone Ranger. More than I wanted to be saved and protected (though each were dire needs deep within), I wanted to be by my dad's side. His mini me. His lil' partner.

A small jump set me firmly on the passenger seat. I buckled in and noticed my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. Giddiness surged. What could be inside? Mommy knew what I liked: a sweetened dehydrated fruit leather, a ham and cheese sandwich, chips and fresh fruit/veggie. Typical American child's noon meal.

"One quick stop at the bank and then on to the fishing spot," said Dad. My father had slowly beat the sticky socio-economic odds so many face. The tenth of thirteen children, he grew up poor but with big dreams and an even bigger heart. He worked hard, yet kept his priorities in line by carving out time for his wife and kids.

Here we go, here we go! The car ride seemed in my mind to match the time it took the Santa Maria to cross the North Atlantic. When we reached the sandpit, a short 20 minutes had passed and I needed to pee. Being a girl of the country, I found a secluded bush, released the build-up and shook. Gross, but true.

Dad revealed my rod from the bed of the truck. There she was--nothing special, but she was mine. A single hook tied down the line at the tip to prevent unwanted snags. My feet flew to the edge of the beach. I unhooked the line and called to my father for bait. He followed close behind with a ball cap on his head and one for me--I'd forgotten how easily my toe-head burned. My dad usually purchased nothing fancy. Only a Styrofoam cup filled with nightcrawlers; the employment of crank baits and plastic minnows did not occur that day. We relied on the simple movement of a live earthworm to attract the young water creature to our grasp.

Cast. Set. Watch the bobber. Simple and sweet.

Per the orders of my father, I set out to find two Y-shaped sticks to prop up our rods. Once each were in place, we unfolded the wooden lawn chairs, ate and talked. Hands-down that was the best. Kickin' back with my old man. Shootin' the breeze. I don't recall our exact exchanges, but I'm sure I learned a lot and he listened a lot. Afterall, I was a 5-year-old girl.

The sun sank low in the warm afternoon sky and after a bit of lunch and the catch of a fish or two, my young body needed a snooze--as did Dad's. Homeward bound. Me with my Pop. What a day.

Childhood. What I wouldn't give to go back to the times of innocence, free-spirit, no responsibility, and complete trust. Yet, can we not have that now? I do believe we can have a healthy, adult-version of each. For "Nothing is impossible with God."

Happy birthday, Dad. I dare say a daughter couldn't love her father more than I love you.

Whoever Welcomes a Little Child...

...like this in My name welcomes Me" Matthew 18:5.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world" James 1:27.

Every adventure needs a theme, right? God has me scrambling with many--and I asked for it.

In March, myself and another 7 individuals from my church will take a two-week trip to Brazil. Our mission: to spread the great, glorious and wonderful good news of salvation through Jesus Christ and encourage the missionaries already at work.

An adventure to say the least.

The other more notable journey the Lord has had me and my husband on the past few years is adoption. Door after door has slammed closed, practically breaking our spiritual noses in the process. Disappointment and almost complete surrender have loomed in the foreground. Last summer, I succumbed to such discouragement my motto became: Abandon plans to God, but not hope. Is that possible?

Typical Sunday school answers came to my mind when I began to question whether I'd misunderstood God in leading our hearts to adopt, "His timing is never late, seldom early and always on time;" "You can't rush God, He's got that special child for you...;" "Trust in the Lord...;" "Those who wait upon the Lord will be strengthened;" etc.

My husband seemed to waver in and out of full-fledged commitment. Admittedly, this marks the first time (other our marriage, I suppose) that I've put consorted effort and perseverance into keeping an idea alive. The good Lord, in His infinite, omiscient wisdom enabled me through His Spirit to keep on keepin' on. Through crooked agencies, closed programs, enormous amounts of money and unaccounted for fear (Satan)--God is.

Last Friday, after a passionate session with a friend on how ready I was to adopt and also how ready I was then to wait on the Lord, He moved. And when God decides to move, nothing on this earth can stop Him. We can either ride the wave or stay on shore. Me? The shore is sadly often my home. In this case only one option remained. Maybe the heat of the sand had burned my spiritual feet, or the vultures were circling above. I don't know. What I did know was, I wanted to surf, to ride the proverbial waves of His great and glorious love. Would I drown? Maybe. Would I have to do something I feared? Probably. Would I be made of fool of? Most certainly. Was I ready? No, but He is and He is with me.

Names have been changed to protect the unaware.

After a children's phys ed class, I overheard another mother speaking with my friend (who had adoped from Ethiopia Dec 2009) about her goal to adopt. Call me nosy or an eavesdrop, I'm fully convinced it's an internal radar for a mother who desires to adopt to pick up on any/all words that have to do with adoption. Anyway, we walked out at the same time and I inquired about her adoption experience. Betty, a friendly gal, opened right up and joyfully shared the adoption agency information (Passionate Corazons) with me topping the conversation off with, "And the lady, Cathy, is super sweet..." Good enough for me. As soon as I got home I called.

Passionate Corazons' target country, at the time of my talk with Betty, was Democratic Republic of the Congo--one of the most dangerous countries in the world. Cathy, who turned out to be just as sweet and knowledgeable as Betty described, informed me their program is not accepting anymore applications. They were a small agency and the Congo was their biggest, well, only adoption country. I thanked her and found myself curiously not disappointed or ready to throw in the towel. Instead, I remained hopeful as I parted and told her I'd be in touch.

"What are you looking for exactly?" Cathy asked just before hit the red button to end call. I explained that we weren't picky on country, but we did prefer an infant girl. Like a revelation which rolls slowly off the prophet's tongue, she explained a trifecta of agencies that she works with in international adoptions. One in particular recently popped up in dire need. Apparently, they had a thriving Ethiopian adoption program and gradually quit promoting and marketing. Pretty soon, they had no new families. Next thing the director knew, he had many small children in his orphange with no potential homes.

"Really?" Could this actually be happening? I mean, how long has it been? I was getting good at waiting...

Rapid palpitations of my vital organs ensued, like a knob had been turned from autopilot to overdrive. For me, tears fall quickly and I before Cathy had finished I began to blubber quietly over the phone. Since that initial contact, less than one week ago, God has opened His endless stores of resources, love and gifts. He has ushered to our disposal money to help with the initial costs: app fee, agency fees, dossier fee. I've printed and will begin penning the needed information onto the required documents. Dotting every "i" and crossing every "t."

Again, is this really happening? After two miscarriages, a heart that burns furnace-like for orphans, is God actually going to bring this about? Yes, I believe so.

We had waited, with learning patience, on the Lord. And then He moved. His presence lacked nothing and brought with it a housewarming of peace; His signature gift. On the flip side, it honestly frightens me!

This wonderfully terrifying experience, which has occurred in such a flurry, has been nothing short of a miracle of God's goodness and greatness. All glory to the Lord!

Enter spiritual warfare.

To be continued...