tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63891844739507445182024-03-14T01:09:55.365-06:00Musin' Mama: Life at the Speed of WonderMountain Mama, spiritual renegade, spin addict, and burgeoning freelancer shares her wonder at the element of Truth in the everyday world around her.Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-33406044454154974942015-06-10T15:31:00.000-06:002015-06-10T15:31:05.505-06:00Ages and StagesMy kiddos are big kids now: seven and nine, on the brink of eight and ten. We are so far removed from the stroller and diaper bag days of the young families around us.<br />
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When I was in those labor-intensive but sweet, snuggly years, I couldn't imagine life at this stage. Big kids seemed so, well, weird. Awkward. Un-charming. Big-toothed and gangly-limbed and scraggly-haired. Too loud at times and too quiet at others.<br />
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But now that we're here, I love this stage the most so far. Sure, they are silly and sometimes spazzy and occasionally a mess and strangely loyal to fads like Minecraft and Pokemon, but they are also thoughtful and enthusiastic and capable and earnest. They cook us pancakes, write us notes, appreciate beauty and kindness, think about the world, and love out of the sincerity of their own hearts.<br />
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Last night after dinner, I mentioned that I wanted to go for a walk later, and Abby said, "I would love to do that with you. Let's go!"<br />
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So as the sun set, turning the sky gorgeous shades of pink and orange, Abby, Merlot, and I made a big loop around our neighborhood, ending at the park. We filled the sidewalk, a trifecta of contentment: me jogging in the middle with Abby propelling her scooter on my right and Merlot trotting happily on my left. Abby chattered the whole way about the beautiful landscaping and how much she enjoyed the nature walk we did on our weekend getaway and which muscles felt sore from balancing so long on her scooter.<br />
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We arrived at the park and did handstands and cartwheels together in the grass.<br />
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"That was good, Mommy!" Abby said when I managed to hold my handstand a few seconds.<br />
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"Mommy, watch this! Did you see that?" she'd ask when she executed a skill particularly well.<br />
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Our "walk" was a half hour of pure joy, created and sustained by her.<br />
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I think I love this stage because our relationships are so reciprocal now. We walked back to the house, and Abby said, "This was fun, Mommy. Let's do it again tomorrow." My sentiments exactly.<br />
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Because I'm appreciating their independence and thoughtfulness at this big-kid stage more than I thought possible a handful of years ago, I'm hopeful that this joy will only increase as the kids enter the hard-to-imagine tween and teen years. Hormones and acne and driving and dating seem overwhelming at the moment, but since those milestones will belong to Ben and Abby, I'm guessing I'll relish those moments, too.<br />
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The more they grow into themselves, the more I just love and enjoy them.Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-56227050071063124452014-12-17T14:29:00.000-07:002014-12-17T14:38:03.722-07:00Waxing Spiritual: "O Holy Night"<i>Truly he taught us to love one another.</i><br />
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I'm grieving the many lives lost at the hands of those who justify their actions with law, ideology, and their knowledge of good and evil.<br />
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I am standing in solidarity with the vulnerable:<br />
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#blacklivesmatter<br />
#icantbreathe<br />
#illridewithyou<br />
Pakistani students<br />
Those in the path of ISIS<br />
Too many caught in the conflicts of their forefathers<br />
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<i>His law is love a</i><i>nd his gospel is peace.</i><br />
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I understand why God says, "Vengeance is mine." When vengeance is left to us, we inflict painful, harmful damage--like a sibling in a rage over some perceived offense. Two wrongs do not make a right. And yet our world continues to hop on the merry-go-round of "eye for an eye" policies and "he had it coming" justifications.<br />
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Meanwhile, parents and children grieve.<br />
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No explanations or justifications assuage those voids.<br />
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<i>Chains will he break for the slave is our brother.</i><br />
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I am grateful that when God saw the mess we made of our world, he did not come with weapons to repay us in kind. Rather, he came in dark skin with lungs that require oxygen as a needy, vulnerable child who would grow up within religious and political systems run by authorities concerned with self-preservation and control.<br />
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And God-as-man would subvert them not with power but with surrender, not with vengeance but with forgiveness, not with violence but with peace.<br />
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<i>And in his name all oppression shall cease.</i><br />
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Jesus is scandalous because his justice is accomplished by self-sacrifice, because his judgement is mercy.<br />
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Jesus is scandalous because he does not dignify the self-righteous and vilify the criminal. Jesus is scandalous because he does not believe one man's sin renders his life less valuable than another.<br />
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His is a methodology that is foolishness to our world and our culture and even our churches. Jesus would never bother over nativity scenes in front of government buildings or cashiers wishing customers a "Happy Holidays" because he's too busy bleeding with victims of actual oppression.<br />
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<i>Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we.</i><br />
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He is nothing like us. His instinct is neither self-defense nor revenge.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>Let all within us praise His holy name.</i></span></i><br />
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This Christmas, I grieve and lament the tragic losses we inflict upon each other.<br />
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But I celebrate <i>Emmanuel</i>, God <i>with</i> us, who lay in the street with Michael Brown and fought for air with Eric Garner and suffered with hostages in Sydney and rode trains with Muslim brothers and sisters afraid of backlash and bled alongside the children in Peshawar and knelt with the victims of ISIS, and who also descended into hell to whisper grace to the men who pulled the trigger, who swung the sword, who tightened their grip on judgement and power.<br />
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<i>Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever.</i></div>
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What we see now is not the end of the story.<br />
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<i>His power and glory evermore proclaim.</i><br />
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Easter is coming.<br />
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<i>O night divine, O night, O night divine. </i><br />
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But for now, Merry Christmas.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-76875663575407300352014-10-14T22:27:00.001-06:002014-10-14T22:40:28.864-06:00Stay the Course<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tonight before bed, Benjamin said, "I'm tired of pretending."<br />
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The statement startled me with its vulnerability, so I said something like, "I know that feeling. Tell me more."<br />
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And he did. About how sometimes, other kids talk about books they've read or movies they've seen or things they've done that he hasn't, often because we haven't let him yet. And since he doesn't want to say his mom and dad won't let him, he sometimes plays along, pretending he knows what they're talking about.<br />
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"But I'm tired of pretending. I don't want to do that anymore."<br />
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I listened hard, restating what I heard him saying, empathizing, asking questions. It's easy to relate, because we all know that feeling of wanting to be in-the-know, of worrying that we're missing out because we lack certain knowledge or experience. We talked about which books or movies come up, with whom he has these conversations, other ways he handles the situation.<br />
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At some point he said, "I have two feelings about this, but they're kind of opposite. One is that I don't want to feel left out, like I don't know things. But also," and here he teared up with sincerity, "I really, really trust you and Daddy. I know you are making these decisions because you think they're best for me, so I don't want to read or see those things."<br />
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I was stunned: first by his ability to articulate the conflict within himself, but most of all by his faith in us.<br />
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I thanked him for his trust and shared how seriously Daddy and I take our decisions, always weighing a variety of factors. We talked and talked about how frustrating and hard it can be to feel left out and about what would happen if he was simply honest.<br />
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Eventually he came to the conclusion that there's primarily one kid around whom he feels he has to pretend. "With other kids, it's like they just want to talk about something they're interested in; it's not to make me feel bad. But with [this kid], it seems like he wants me to know how much he gets to see."<br />
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And so we discussed motives, how sometimes kids show off not to make us feel bad but to impress us, because they respect us. I shared that most often, people aren't doing things "at us" (stealing Glennon Melton's <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2013/06/21/quit-pointing-your-avocado-at-me/" target="_blank">wise words</a>); rather, their actions reflect something inside of themselves.<br />
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We trekked upstairs where he got ready for bed, and then I tucked him in, thanking him for sharing his feelings with me, reminding him that I am always willing to listen or talk.<br />
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Benjamin said, "Sometimes I don't like to talk about stuff, but when I do, it just feels so good after."<br />
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Indeed.<br />
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So here's the thing: aside from how much I enjoyed this conversation with my son, how privileged I feel that he is willing to open up to me, his confession that he really, truly trusts us was a gift of peace. A gift he doesn't even realize he gave me.<br />
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If you've been around my blog for a while, you know that as I've raised my kiddos, I've wrestled insecurity as a mama--wondering at times if I was doing this parenting job all wrong, if I was messing up my kids, if my failures would trump my love and intentions. Because let's be honest: when the kids are in the irrational and sometimes insane stages of the early years where they rail against boundaries like it's their job (because it is), no matter how cute they are, you wonder some days if all is for nought.<br />
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As we move into the relatively stable years of middle childhood, though, I'm getting to watch my kids emerge from the chaos as these truly remarkable people.<br />
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And Benjamin's statement tonight reached down deep in my soul to assure me that, yes--despite the numerous times I've reacted rather than responded, yelled rather than soothed, modeled anger rather than forbearance--my kids see that at my core, I am <i>for</i> them, not against them. They recognize that I love them, that I'm looking out for them, that I'm doing my best to make decisions that will benefit them.<br />
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They see that love so strongly, in fact, that Benjamin can acknowledge it even in the midst of discomfort caused by those very decisions.<br />
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It is the most intoxicating grace.<br />
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And so, parents of littles, I want to offer this encouragement: stay. the. course.<br />
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Keep doing the hard, thankless, tiresome work of loving, which sometimes looks like snuggles and other times looks like consequences; which sometimes speaks tenderly and other times speaks firmly (fiercely, even); which sometimes feels fun and fulfilling and other times feels futile and fruitless; which sometimes offers forgiveness in failure and other times fails and seeks forgiveness.<br />
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A day is coming when that railing child you're certain you've failed will look you in the eyes and say, "I trust you."<br />
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And you will realize that your messy attempts at mothering or fathering have, by grace, been received in the spirit in which they were intended.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-61418918090791554782014-10-10T07:58:00.000-06:002014-10-10T07:58:20.795-06:00Malala, Love, Wins<br />
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<i>(This is a repost from last fall. Malala was just awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, a grand, public reminder that Love wins.)</i></div>
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Most nights before bed, Josh and I watch Jon Stewart's <i>The Daily Show </i>in order to get a chuckle from the otherwise despair-inducing lunacy of the political realm. A couple nights ago, we watched Jon Stewart interview Malala, a sixteen-year-old Pakistani girl who was shot in the head by the Taliban last year in retaliation for advocating for education for girls. Miraculously, she survived, and her platform has exploded. She was even nominated for this year's Nobel Peace Prize.</div>
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If you can <a href="http://www.upworthy.com/watch-this-incredible-young-woman-render-jon-stewart-speechless?g=2" target="_blank">watch the interview</a>, please do (ignoring Upworthy's summary at the top...not quite accurate). About four minutes in, she makes a statement so pure, so beautiful, it stuns Jon Stewart and evokes uproarious applause from the audience. He asks her how she felt when she learned she was being targeted by the Taliban, and she responds with this:</div>
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<i>"...even after the threat, when we saw it, I was not worried about myself that much. I was worried about my father, because we thought that the Taliban are not that much cruel that they would kill a child, because I was fourteen at the time. But then later on, I used to, like, I started thinking about that, and I used to think that the Talib would come and he would just kill me. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i><i>But then I said, 'If he comes, what would you do, Malala?' </i></div>
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<i><br /></i><i>Then I would reply to myself, 'Malala, just take a shoe and hit him' [audience laughter]. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i><i>But then I said, 'If you hit a Talib with your shoe, then there would be no difference between you and the Talib. You must not treat others that much with cruelty and that much harshly. You must fight others but through peace and through dialogue and through education.' </i></div>
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<i><br /></i><i>Then I said, 'I'll tell him how important education is and that I even want education for your children as well,' and then I would tell him, 'That's what I want to tell you. Now do as you want.'"</i></div>
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In the face of imminent death, she wishes to bless her enemy. She decides she will not fight hatred and violence with the same weapons of destruction. She will not be like them. Instead, she will lay down her life for the sake of all children, even his.</div>
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Did you hear it? Did you hear the voice speaking through this precious Muslim girl, through a mouth now lopsided from the Taliban's bullet? She speaks Love. She speaks Mercy. She speaks Grace. She offers body broken and blood shed to the Taliban, to some of the hardest, cruelest of hearts who claim to act in the name of God.</div>
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The audience went wild. Jon Stewart, giving all due respect to her proud father in the wings, asked if he could adopt her. The video has since gone viral on facebook and news outlets. The world does not stand in the presence of such Love unchanged.</div>
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It's an upside down gospel. The crucified conquer, not the powerful. The last and the least become first. </div>
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And ultimately, I believe the "first" will be won by the glorious beauty of grace, too. </div>
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Because one day, I believe the Taliban will stand before Love and Truth. There may be weeping and gnashing of teeth as they recognize the great wounds they've inflicted upon this world. But they will find themselves before one who says, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." And if they will receive the grace, if they will not hide in fear and shame, they will put down their guns, surrendering their religious ideology to a person. Then they, too, will know Love. </div>
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In fact, it's already happening. They've already glimpsed it in Malala.</div>
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It's such good, good news.</div>
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"Beloved, let us love one another. For love is of God and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. He who does not love, does not know God, for God is love" (1 John 4:7-8).</div>
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Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-56188411649471257772014-10-07T14:37:00.001-06:002014-10-08T09:44:51.233-06:00History in Humility<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At dinner, Abigail said, "I don't like Christopher Columbus."<br />
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Josh and I were surprised to hear this kind of declaration from a seven-year-old, so of course we asked, "Why?"<br />
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"Because he came here and took things from the people who were already here and made them sick."<br />
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We have a brief conversation about this harsh reality, about the context of Thanksgiving, about the way fear due to language gaps and cultural differences leads people to make bad decisions.<br />
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Then I pose a question to my kids: "Right now in the area we used to live, people disagree about how history should be taught. Some people think kids should learn both the good and bad parts of our history, but others say only the good parts of history should be taught. What do you think about that?"<br />
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Without hesitation, Benjamin, nine, says, "I think both should be taught so that we can learn from the mistakes."<br />
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Abigail, seven, says, "I think maybe they should just teach the good, because people might get bad ideas from the bad parts."<br />
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I realize this conversation oversimplifies the debate over the revised Advanced Placement U.S. History (APUSH) framework currently finding its stage in Jeffco, the Colorado school district from which we hail (which is actually a <a href="http://media.collegeboard.com/digitalServices/pdf/ap/2013advances/Key-Changes-to-AP-US-History-Oct2013.pdf" target="_blank">misguided</a> and <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/local/wp/2014/10/06/see-the-ap-u-s-history-course-changes-and-take-a-sample-exam/" target="_blank">misinformed</a> debate to begin with), but the kids' responses get to the core of the discussion.<br />
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Should the history curriculum star the U.S. as a noble hero championing freedom and democracy for all? Or as a flawed, complex character influenced at times by justice and honor and other times by prejudice and self-interest?<br />
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Will kids learn to be better citizens from a history that emphasizes the ideal or from a history that acknowledges the full, messy story?<br />
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The majority on the Jeffco school board wants to create a committee--separate from the district's existing curriculum review committee--to examine the new APUSH framework. Board member Julie William's <a href="http://www.boarddocs.com/co/jeffco/Board.nsf/files/9NYRPF6DED70/$file/JW%20PROPOSAL%20Board%20Committee%20for%20Curriculum%20Review.pdf" target="_blank">proposal</a> defines the guidelines by which the curriculum would be assessed:<br />
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<b>Review criteria shall include the following: instructional materials should present the most current factual information accurately and objectively. Theories should be distinguished from fact. Materials should promote citizenship, patriotism, essentials and benefits of the free enterprise system, respect for authority and respect for individual rights. Materials should not encourage or condone civil disorder, social strife or disregard of the law. Instructional materials should present positive aspects of the United States and its heritage. Content pertaining to political and social movements in history should present balanced and factual treatment of the positions.</b></div>
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Leaving aside the conflicting notion that "factual information" presented "accurately and objectively" should also promote a point of view--and the irony that Williams is, herself, affiliated with the Tea Party, a political party named for one of our country's most iconic acts of civil disorder, social strife, and disregard of the law--I confess I don't understand the purpose of presenting only or mostly positive aspects of our heritage.<br />
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What do we have to lose by looking honestly at the travesties committed against others in our construction of a "city on a hill"? What is at stake when we acknowledge that our great democracy was, at times, established and grown at the expense of other people groups?<br />
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My senior year of high school, the year after I took A.P. U.S. History, I had a physics teacher who ranted that he couldn't stand people who talk about the negative parts of our country's history. He insisted that if people didn't like America, they should leave the country and live somewhere else--as though an honest examination of history somehow equates to a hate of country, as though patriotism requires a blind adherence to a belief in our country's infallible goodness.<br />
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Unfortunately, the sins of our forefathers are fact. Glossing over their impact does not make them less true but instead leaves us vulnerable to repeating them.<br />
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Perhaps the cost of our freedom is facing the discomfort of our less-than-blameless heritage.<br />
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Today, our country continues to wrestle issues of racism, immigration, representation in government, economic opportunity, and our role in the world. We have much to learn from the previous generations' successes and failures, but we cannot discern right action from an incomplete, artificially positive perspective.<br />
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I do not love my country less for knowing its ugliness. I love our country less when, despite centuries of toil and sacrifice and the slow slog of righting injustice, those who claim to defend its greatness would actually diminish it through a limited narrative that glorifies one group's experience over all others'.<br />
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Well, after our conversation about Jeffco's debate, Abigail asked, "So was Columbus bad or good?"<br />
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Isn't that how we tend to think? That leaders, or ideas, or countries are only one or the other? Our world view is much simpler when we can neatly categorize people and events, but real life is rarely so accommodating.<br />
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"Well, both," I said, "depending on whose perspective you're looking from. To Spain, Columbus was good. He found new land and resources that helped them. But to the Native Americans who lost their lives and land, he was bad."<br />
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When I consider both views in this APUSH discussion, I see a debate that asks whether our country's history curriculum should be rooted in pride or humility.<br />
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May I gently suggest that we know where pride goeth.<br />
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I would prefer membership in a country that admits wrong-doing, asks forgiveness, and repents of its evils while striving ever more diligently toward the ideal. A truly exceptional country would eschew horn-tooting for the steady, quiet work that accomplishes true freedom for all.<br />
<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-12131797047639879962014-09-16T21:53:00.000-06:002014-09-17T08:17:29.650-06:00Waxing Spiritual: Good News?(Disclaimer: Part of who I am (most of who I am) is someone who loves Jesus deeply. I grew up knowing a certain version of Jesus but realized sometime in early adulthood that the way I'd come to know him was incomplete, empty, impotent. The last twelve years have profoundly changed my understanding of faith, and I believe my understanding will continue to change and evolve as I continue to be transformed by the renewing of my mind. I need a place where I can process my "before and after and now" and work out my faith with "fear and trembling." I'd like to be able to do that here sometimes. I'll preface these posts with the title "Waxing Spiritual" so you know when I'm going there. You can skip them if you want. But if you're interested in the reflections of one who used to think she had all the answers but now finds herself following one who defies answers, I'd love to have you join me. Questions, thoughts, discussion are welcome in the comments. I submit all musings in humility, knowing I cannot possibly understand the beautiful mystery of God this side of death. But I want to love him with my whole mind anyway, so here we go.)<br />
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"It's like this," the pastor says on a Sunday morning a few weeks ago, and I've heard it a thousand times, explained it this way myself in the days before I grasped how wide and deep and long is the love of Jesus.<br />
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"God loves you. But--"<br />
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The deconstruction of the mystery always begins with a "but." Can we pause for a moment to recognize the way this "but" frames God's love as conditional? The way this "but" establishes fear? The way this "but" suggests God's Love is not sufficient?<br />
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"But...we are separated from God by our sin." Here, an explanation ensues in an attempt to convince people they are imperfect.<br />
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Side note: Does anyone really need to be convinced of their own imperfection? It seems to me that most people are generally hyper-aware of their shortcomings and are too busy trying to fix and hide their failures to argue about their existence. I don't know any other mature adult who would claim perfection, or sinlessness, and we patronize the people around us to think otherwise.<br />
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The only time I ever needed convincing of my sinfulness was when I was a teenager saturated in Christian culture, ticking all the boxes of good, clean Christian living. Ironically, I am most ashamed of that season of life due to the hurt I inflicted on others out of pride, insecurity, and judgement.<br />
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Back to the sermon: "Because we are separated from God by our sin, we must suffer the consequence of sin, which is death (or hell, eternal separation from God)." Here, we are given a metaphor of the Grand Canyon, where we are on one side of the chasm and God is on the other, and no amount of jumping, leaping, or wishful thinking will get us across to God's side. Some may jump farther than others, but all fall short.<br />
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If only there were a bridge! Enter Jesus. "But God loved us so much, he sent his son as a perfect sacrifice for our sin so that we could be made right with God. The cross is like a bridge over the Grand Canyon, allowing us to be reconciled with God."A discussion of how Jesus is the only bridge follows: "All roads don't lead to heaven!"<br />
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If a pen and paper were handy, one could draw a cliff on the left with a stick figure standing on it, and a cliff on the right with GOD written on it, and a cross would sit right in the middle, it's horizontal beam bridging the gap: The Bridge Illustration.<br />
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And the closing: "Every person must decide for himself whether he will cross the bridge God has provided. Would you like to make that decision right here, right now? To accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior so you are no longer separated from God?" And so we pray. Sometimes, people are asked to pray along silently in their heart if they want. Other times, there is an invitation to come to the front as a public declaration of faith. In this church on this Sunday, the prayer was silent, and no public declaration was required.<br />
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After hearing this life-altering good news, we sang a song and went to lunch.<br />
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Really.<br />
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Is this the message Jesus came to deliver? Is this the message that will lead terrorists to lay down their weapons, that will set the addict free from her tyrant, that will reconcile family and friends estranged by deep wounds? Is this the good news? I mean, it's nice that there's a way to escape hell, but beyond that, what can be called good?<br />
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Paraphrase of supposed good news: Hey, World, we had a good thing going in the garden until Eve screwed it up and caused every human ever born to be afflicted with sin. Sorry I have to not only banish but torture you forever now (even though I really love you) unless you demonstrate faith in Jesus alone as eternal fire retardant. (I'll know you really have faith in Jesus by the rules you follow and the time you spend reading your Bible and praying and the doctrine you subscribe to regarding evolution, abortion, homosexuality, gender roles, and the nation of Israel.) Hopefully the years of sexual abuse and famine and war and corruption and abandonment and slavery and terrorism and racism and nightly news you've witnessed or survived or perpetrated won't make it too hard for you to find and trust me.<br />
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This version of the gospel falls flat to me. Rings hollow. Smacks of something other than Love.<br />
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Since gaining some distance from this perspective, I've discovered that most of the folks around me are profoundly discouraged by their own sin and deeply wounded by others' sin. Most of the folks I know desperately want to be good parents, friends, neighbors, citizens, but they recognize their love is not perfect, that often they act from fear or insecurity. They find themselves in the paradox of existence that Paul articulates so clearly in Romans: "Sometimes, I don't do the things I know I should. Other times, I do things I know I shouldn't. Why? Help!"<br />
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Here's what I've come to believe is the truly good, subversive, counter-cultural gospel of Jesus: mercy.<br />
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A quick search for a definition of mercy brought this: "compassion or forgiveness shown to someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm."<br />
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So consider: "God consigned all men to disobedience that he might have mercy on all."<br />
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I know this doesn't sound good, but stay with me.<br />
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We could not know mercy if we did not sin. Perhaps we cannot understand God's love completely if we do not experience his mercy. What if sin did not wreck his plan? What if sin and the mess it makes in this world are the vehicle God uses to reveal his love for us? What if, somehow, the riches of mercy are worth the despair of sin?<br />
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It bends my brain, but I can kind of understand when I think of my kids.<br />
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I relish (!) seeing them enjoy each other's company and play together happily as brother and sister. There is love and joy there, certainly, and I rejoice.<br />
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But there is something far more powerful, far more profound when one is distraught or hurt or heartbroken and the other has compassion, hurts alongside, and patiently endures and forgives the anger or crankiness of their aching sibling. That is a Love that reaches deep down in this Mama soul and whispers, "This. This is it." <br />
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Mercy reveals the real love.<br />
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Being loved in perfection is not as meaningful as being loved in our imperfection. This is the reason marriage is such a powerful crucible, why parenting breaks our heart and challenges our spirit. We receive mercy over and over and over, are asked to have mercy over and over and over, and in this act, we learn and reveal the heart of God.<br />
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What if the gospel were this: God loves us. And he loves us so much he doesn't want us to believe for a second that we can do anything to earn it or deserve it. So he made imperfection a condition of humanity and then sent Jesus to model how to love each other in the midst of our imperfections.<br />
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The challenge is that we generally feel deep shame about our imperfection, so we try to hide ourselves in accomplishments or good works or power or numbing activities (fig leaves). We generally run away from anyone who wants to shine a spotlight on our drinking problem, commitment issues, facebook addiction, workaholism, over-committedness, crankiness, or judgmental nature. But this hiding and running away slowly ruins us, leaves us suffering alone.<br />
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Fortunately, Jesus was never really interested in spotlights (anachronysm aside).<br />
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Instead, Jesus drank wine with folks. He hung out with them in their jobs, in their chores, around their tables. He went to their hiding places. And to parties. He enjoyed people. He told stories and asked questions and reserved the preaching for the religious folks who thought they had it all figured out. He was a truth-teller, not because he wanted to make people feel bad about themselves so they would repent but so people could stop hiding their mess and find real life. The truth sets people free.<br />
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God loves us with the kind of Love that suffers hell for those who crucify him. And then he takes care of our sin and shame by hiding us in Jesus, allowing us to be identified by Jesus's perfection rather than our imperfection. So now we're at peace with God. Already. Without doing anything. Thanks to the cross.<br />
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Doesn't that bring relief from the merry-go-round striving we typically subject ourselves to?<br />
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Please look elsewhere for self-help strategies, tidy boxes, and easy answers.<br />
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But please feel free to pick up a cross and follow Jesus away from the folks who know a lot about what's right and wrong in search of the outcasts, the lost sheep, the last and the least.<br />
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Brace yourself for suffering. Because shame leads people to hurt each other in unspeakably cruel and violent ways. And hurting alongside those who are the victims of injustice is part of your work as a member of Christ's body.<br />
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You might want to grab your yoga mat, too, because you'll need to do a lot of deep breathing as you learn to suspend judgement. If you follow Jesus, you'll find yourself at the dinner tables of pedophiles, terrorists, Wall Street tycoons, dictators, racist cops, pimps, producers of cable news, abusive parents, human traffickers, and those who disagree with you about evolution, abortion, homosexuality, gender roles, and the nation of Israel. Because they need him.<br />
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And because this will be impossible for you at times, Jesus will also come to your table for dinner.<br />
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This unreserved mercy is the scandal of the gospel. All roads don't lead to heaven, but all roads may lead to Jesus. Or perhaps more accurately, Jesus may find all roads and take care of the mapping system himself. </div>
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If this kind of God sounds like good news to you, well then, consider yourself dead to sin and alive to Christ, because that's how God sees you. The sooner you believe it, the sooner you'll live it and be transformed in his image in a process that will last your lifetime. That's grace.<br />
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That's gospel.<br />
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Amen.<br />
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"When the [religious leaders] saw this, they said to his disciples, "Why is your Teacher eating with tax collectors and sinners?" But when Jesus heard this, He said, "It is not the healthy who need a physician, but the sick. Go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.' For I have come not to call the righteous, but sinners." Matthew 9:11-13</div>
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-6736713755248531242014-09-09T09:13:00.000-06:002014-09-09T09:13:41.933-06:00Beginning Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday, the kids had their first piano lessons since we moved, and I was nervous for them.<br />
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Benjamin had taken lessons for two years before we moved, and Abigail had only played for six months by the time we had to pull them out. After nearly a year and a half without lessons or regular practice, I knew they had forgotten much.<br />
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I didn't want them to feel discouraged if they sat down to play and found it all unfamiliar and overwhelming. I also didn't want them to feel bored if she had to start them over from the beginning.<br />
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I shouldn't have worried.<br />
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Their teacher led them through the lesson expertly. She started them with an exercise that reinforced basic skills but felt absolutely doable, re-immersing them in language they once knew while building their confidence.<br />
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As they played, she asked them if they remembered certain terms or skills. "'No' is an answer," she'd say, making it perfectly acceptable to admit they had forgotten something.<br />
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My greatest surprise and relief came when she picked a song from the books where they had left off a year and a half ago, and then used that song to re-familiarize them with the basics. The songs she chose would have been too challenging to attempt unsupported, but she guided them back into the music, reorienting their hands to the appropriate keys, giving them clues and language to navigate the keyboard, breaking the song down into manageable pieces.<br />
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She didn't start them over, which would have felt patronizing. She didn't bore them with review, which would have smothered their enthusiasm.<br />
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Instead, she trusted them with a task appropriate to the skills they once had and slowly teased to life their body of knowledge, knowing that in the process of relearning this piece, the terminology and muscle memory would return.<br />
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The time and energy they invested back in Colorado was not lost. She recognized their experience is still buried in their brains, latent. It's simply a matter of time before their little minds fire the synapses enough times to re-connect the neural pathways and resurrect their skills.<br />
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I'm proud of my kids for returning to the piano: it is an act of courage and humility to endure the relearning process, but I know they stand to gain so much more from facing the temporary discomfort of re-entry than they do from avoiding something they once loved.<br />
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And their process encourages me. After a break from the gym or from writing, I am tempted to think the time and work I invested previously is lost. Beginning again can feel like starting over from nothing.<br />
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But it's not.<br />
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The foundations I built are still there, too, and while there may be a short period of reorienting and rebuilding, before long I will be growing from where I left off. <br />
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No effort, no investment of work is ever truly lost--unless you choose not to return.<br />
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May we all be brave enough to begin again.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-75019177059869944352014-09-05T16:56:00.001-06:002014-09-05T16:56:46.419-06:00Less is Not Loss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This was the summer of "Mama, can I go out and play?"<br />
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Of doors opening and closing over and over while kids retrieved toys and rope and balls and paper and any other prop that might enhance their imaginary plots and schemes.<br />
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Of hours of noise while the kids and their neighbor friends invented worlds and dramas upstairs in the air-conditioned game room.<br />
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Of hours of silence while they did the same at someone else's house.<br />
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This was the first summer when they weren't always tucked securely in sight.<br />
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When they were given the freedom to roam the street and sidewalks and a few known houses provided they kept me informed of their general location.<br />
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When they could grab their bike or scooter or skateboard (and helmet) and transport themselves at-will up and down the block.<br />
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This was their first real taste of physical independence, of the responsibility that comes with privilege, of negotiating social dynamics without an ever-present adult to remind and admonish.<br />
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This was a summer characterized by good old-fashioned childhood fun: kid-organized, kid-led, kid-negotiated, kid-fueled.<br />
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They loved every minute. So did I. And not just because I had more time to myself.<br />
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Though I was out of sight much of the time, I kept watch through the windows, I listened from a distance to the tenor and content of conversation, and I heard each of them offer suggestions, clarify ideas, work out conflict, and otherwise participate in this group dynamic as kind and productive members of the community. All of the kids.<br />
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When necessary, I stepped in to help redirect or problem-solve when conflict escalated. There were moments of discord, to be sure, but they were generally short-lived and solved by a brief break and conversation with mom or dad before heading back out to make amends and begin again.<br />
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What I observed filled me with respect and gratitude for my not-so-littles and with the conviction that this kind of summer was far more productive and valuable than any camp or activity I could have signed them up for. Essentially, they received a summer intensive in working with people who differ in personality, age, objective, and skill.<br />
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They learned:<br />
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-how to invent their own fun<br />
-how to establish rules that are fair for everyone<br />
-how to include children ranging in age from three years to thirteen<br />
-how to share ideas, resources, and roles<br />
-how to compromise and reach consensus when people disagree about what to play/how to play/where to play<br />
-how to apologize when someone's feelings are hurt<br />
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But the kids weren't the only ones to benefit.<br />
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I saw Ben and Abby for fewer hours in the day than I would have in previous summers, I had less direct influence, but they continued to learn and hone the values and skills we've spent their lifetimes cultivating.<br />
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And the time we did spend together was enriched by the wonder of observing how absolutely competent and mature and amazing these two little people are. They thrilled me and filled me with thoughts like, <i>I just really like my kids. They're such cool people! </i>My role was smaller, but I learned this reduction is not a loss. Rather, the freedom is pure gift, like getting all the benefits of a home-cooked meal with only half the prep.<br />
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It's been nine years of intense, daily investment, but the time and effort are paying off. And this reality gives me faith and hope that if we stay the course in the coming years, other milestones of freedom and independence like getting a driver's license and going to college will be rewarding in the same way. The quantity of time together will be less, but I have hope that the quality of relationship with these truly wonderful humans will be even greater.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-72402952365184476272014-09-02T11:13:00.001-06:002014-09-02T14:03:24.387-06:00A Year Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We are no longer the new kids.<br />
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It's amazing how quickly this happens. One introduction leads to another, one involvement begets invitations to new involvements, the simple act of showing up on the same corner every school day at 3:15 acquaints me with a host of folks with whom I exchange smiles at school events, at the grocery store, at the library.<br />
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Both kids knew at least half of the children in their classes this year, no small feat considering each grade has nearly two hundred kids. Between class and recess last year, soccer, activities, and neighborhood friends, they walked into classes as members of a community.<br />
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We are established now.<br />
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We carpool. We are asked to volunteer. We are invited to try out for teams. We run into friends around town. We have a pool in our backyard that fills with children in a matter of minutes.<br />
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There is power in the act of showing up a stranger but continuing, day after day, to be available to the possibility of friendship.<br />
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For all the heartache we endured leaving Colorado, I am grateful my kids have experienced the process of starting over: to feel the fear of many firsts and to muster the courage to enter anyway, to understand the loneliness of being an outsider and to witness how time and patience and a willingness to engage transform that isolation to connection, to experience the miracle that more than one place can come to feel like home.<br />
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Rare is the lifetime that does not require us to uproot and begin again. Now they've seen that a new life in a new place, though painful at first, can ultimately be transformed to blessing.<br />
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We went home to Colorado this summer, and when we left to return to Texas, Abby captured the feeling best: "When we're in Texas, I miss our family and house in Colorado, but now when we're in Colorado, I miss our friends and home in Texas."<br />
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This is the reward for facing down the loneliness and loss, for living in the vulnerability of newness, for walking into the unfamiliar over and over: friendship, feeling known.<br />
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Wherever we find ourselves, it is the richness of community that makes a place home.<br />
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Even Texas.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-7625324998228740922014-05-12T21:44:00.003-06:002014-05-12T22:47:50.222-06:00Desperately Seeking Jesus at ChurchI miss church.<br />
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My heart this week has ached for a place to go on Sunday mornings that feels like home, for a community with whom to worship Jesus and study Scripture and love the world.<br />
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Josh and I moved to the land of mega churches in August, and throughout the fall months, we tried church after church after church, kids in hand, looking for a place where we would all fall more in love with Jesus each week, where we could know folks and be known.<br />
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It seems a small request, but it's tricky because ideally we'd like to be honestly known. And that means we need to find a place that can handle all of us (all of me?) with my suspicion of practical application points and my questions about the theology of hell and my desire to read grace into every single passage of scripture I discuss.<br />
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I want to find a church that focuses more on Jesus than on the perceived error of our culture or on a "clever" list of should's and should not's conveniently packaged in acrostics.<br />
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I want to find a church that operates out of faith and hope and love rather than out of fear of the world around us.<br />
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I want to find a church that believes the risen Christ has defeated death and damnation and therefore does not need our small-minded defense.<br />
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I want to find a church that believes we are saved by grace AND transformed by grace--and this not of our own efforts, that none of us should boast.<br />
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I want to find a church that believes the gospel.<br />
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Wow. It sounds like sacrilege to say so, but in my heart of hearts, I believe the gospel is what we've missed from the pulpit each week. There is Scripture, certainly, and plenty of claims to "Biblical" teaching.<br />
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But no gospel.<br />
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No Jesus, and him crucified, for the redemption of the world in a beautiful, mysterious upending of all the power and judgement structures of the world, leaving nothing more to be done because it. is. finished.<br />
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In fact, if you believed the sermons we heard, you'd think the gospel is about prioritizing church activities in our schedules, praying (which itself is presented as a chore) only for the impossible in our lives because we can handle the rest (ha!), and choosing not to be like the Muslims who were offended by the video originally purported to be responsible for the tragedy in Benghazi. If only THEY would learn to be more like Christians, who are never offended! (Tongue <b>firmly</b> in cheek.)<br />
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Kids, this is what our churches are teaching!<br />
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So we are still church home-less. And not sure what to do next.<br />
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I'm guessing we could venture further out of our neighborhood or into other denominations and find the kind of spiritual home we seek, the one that can't be bothered judging those outside (or inside) its walls because it's too consumed with the life-altering good news that sin was crucified with Jesus so that a new, righteous creation could rise with him.<br />
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But we'd really love to find a church nearby, so that the community we develop is within our neighborhood. Plus, Josh and I both hail from the evangelical "tradition," and it's hard to trade the music and structures and customs of this particular culture for one that is more liturgical or formal. It's not that one is better. It's just that one is familiar.<br />
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But perhaps we're being asked to venture out of our neighborhood. And the familiar.<br />
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I don't know.<br />
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But I do know I miss my little tribe of raw, radiant souls in Colorado who became the truest church I've ever known.<br />
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We belonged to an institutional church that loved Jesus and preached gospel, too, but this little tribe was a group that committed to show up week after week with as much honesty and courage and vulnerability as we could muster. We wrestled Scripture and challenged dogma. We wept in heartache and marveled with joy at success. We fought for truth and love in each other's lives and marriages and families, and we prayed as though prayer were the very manna of our souls. We recognized our day-to-day work is as sacred and spiritual as the time we spent reading the Bible and praying.We believed Jesus was truly the answer to every Sunday School question, and we tried to understand what it means that we are his body on this earth.<br />
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I love them, every one. If I told you about them individually, you wouldn't believe me. And then you'd chuckle at God's creativity--and at the beauty of people wholly alive.<br />
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I want to find a church of people who seek God this fully, who trust his grace this completely, who believe the gospel not just for themselves but for every single person they encounter.<br />
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Not perfect. Not "all together." Just honest.<br />
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And more dependent on the living God than shallow self-help strategies.<br />
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Somewhere in this city of churches, there must be folks who believe people are changed by Love incarnate, not acronyms or fear or judgement.<br />
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I've met some individually, and perhaps this is enough for now.<br />
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But I'd love to find a community we can call church.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-33486035275607747682014-04-28T11:27:00.001-06:002014-04-30T09:48:54.011-06:00The Work Matters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There have been moments lately.<br />
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Small moments.<br />
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Imperceptible, perhaps, to those not engaged in the daily toil of child-rearing.<br />
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But monumental to us, who have been daily loving and encouraging and reminding and praying and disciplining and correcting and forgiving and surrendering.<br />
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After both kids argued with me at length, Benjamin approached me on his initiative, teary in his sincerity. "I heard the way Abby was talking to you and didn't want you to think your ideas aren't good," he said. "I'm sorry for talking that way to you."<br />
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When I asked Abby to get going on her shower after finishing dinner, she said, "Okay, Mommy," rather than assailing me with the usual protests and resistance and tears. <br />
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Benjamin, who for months has had his sights set on an electric scooter, saved and worked and saved and worked some more for the money. He earned nearly one hundred dollars and then made a deal with Abby over the weekend to have her contribute the last twenty dollars toward the purchase in exchange for unlimited access to the scooter. She agreed, we bought the scooter, and he has been completely faithful to his end of the bargain, allowing her to ride the scooter and working out equitable turn-taking without any intervention from us.<br />
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At the dinner table, Abigail offered the last bell pepper to the rest of us before taking it for herself. She did this because she's seen her brother extend this same courtesy consistently for the last couple weeks now.<br />
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And there've been many more.<br />
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It's funny because a month ago, we were wondering where we'd gone off course. It seemed we'd spent months and months encouraging certain principles and behaviors without any indication the kids were learning them at all. Then suddenly, in the last couple weeks, we've observed countless displays of maturity and self-discipline and thoughtfulness.<br />
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There are seasons of parenting when it feels as though you are doing hard, steady work--day after day after day--into a void of feedback. And though I should know this by heart by now, I still forget that these seemingly fruitless seasons are always followed by seasons when you get to admire how truly amazing these little humans are.<br />
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Note to self: parenting is like gardening.<br />
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You plant seeds into soil you've diligently prepared and then water and weed and nurture and nourish and protect in exchange for nothing more than sweat and dirty hands and a lot of time on your knees.<br />
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This effort is a wild act of faith, because you must keep doing in the absence of any sign that the labor matters. You have a vision of what you hope the seeds will become, but when the pile of dirt persists in remaining a pile of dirt, you can't help but wonder if all the work was for nought.<br />
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Until one day, a tiny green shoot breaks through the soil, defying gravity in a courageous, audacious display of determination and resilience.<br />
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And you've never seen anything so beautiful as that small but wondrous sign of life, rooted down deep and promising goodness to come. Because you know that once that life has surfaced, the little shoot will continue to grow and flourish and multiply into something lovely, something healthy, something that nourishes, something that gives back.<br />
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The work doesn't stop, of course, but the worry eases and the toil becomes pleasure, because now every effort rewards you with something you can see and feel and enjoy.<br />
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The work matters.<br />
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Even when the soil shows no signs of life, the work matters.<br />
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Something is happening deep down in the dark, messy, hidden places of our kids. Our love, our discipline, our encouragement, our forgiveness is taking root and growing those very same fruits within them. It takes time before we see the evidence--weeks, months, years, perhaps even a lifetime--but their hearts are fertile ground, and invisible miracles are taking place below the surface even now.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-8282929002872420402014-04-17T09:43:00.000-06:002014-04-17T10:25:17.550-06:00The Great Parenting Paradox: My Messy Beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning, Benjamin, my eight-year-old, entered our room at 6:30 and laid on the foot of our bed, chatting with us about whatever. He was content and smiley and gentle and sweet. His guard was down, his spirits were up. It was the very best of who he is, the real Benjamin, the Benjamin who at times amazes us with his maturity and selflessness.<br />
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My husband got up to get ready for work, and Benjamin crawled up closer to me so we were facing each other. I began squeezing his arm playfully, and he giggled, tickled. He flexed his bicep, and I oohed and ahhed and then flexed mine back. He looked at me and grinned, his smile all big kid teeth. And I thought, <i>I love when we're in this place with each other. How do so many mornings get off track?</i></div>
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Twenty minutes later, our happy train derailed.</div>
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He tested a limit, we enforced a consequence. He reacted with drama and sarcasm and blame, I addressed the disrespect. He honored me with his lips though his heart was far from me, I wanted desperately to get us back to the peace we enjoyed on the bed earlier. There were tears, words, anger, hurt. </div>
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And then, as quickly as the cloud appeared with its thunder and lightning, the skies cleared again. He finished his breakfast, grabbed his backpack, hugged us before walking out the door, and proceeded to chat with me on the way to school as though nothing had happened.</div>
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Sometimes I get the impression the kids forget these tantrums as quickly as they start them. I, however, am left reeling, playing the conflict over in my mind to see where I could have diffused the situation rather than escalated it, wondering if something I did incited such a reaction. </div>
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My tendency is to extrapolate these moments into generalizations about how we're doing as parents, how he's doing as a kid. Is he feeling loved enough? Is he getting enough affirmation? Why did he feel the need to make such a lame choice on an otherwise delightful morning? And then, why didn't he just acknowledge the lame choice and move on so we could return to our delightful morning?</div>
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But perhaps these are just the normal, everyday growing pains of childishness. Maybe his attempts to usurp control are actually a necessary exercise of childhood and not a reflection of something we're doing wrong. Perhaps our error is in expecting otherwise. I mean, the kid is winning citizenship awards at school, so he must be taking something worthwhile away from our home, right?</div>
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Some folks say that kids will act out most at home where they know it's safe and secure to do so. In this way, they learn what is acceptable and what's not from those who will love them no matter what. Is it possible our son is actually quite secure? That we should receive his misbehavior as a sign of trust? Some studies even show that kids who push and test their limits, bumping up against firm boundaries, have the best social outcomes, grow up most self-assured.<br />
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I generally regard these statements with some suspicion, the perfectionist in me reluctant to believe that imperfection--his or mine--could be purposeful in his growing up. It feels like the pipe dream of a weary parent.</div>
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And yet, I think there may be some truth there. If the law came in that sin might abound (so let that be a lesson to us: make fewer rules), and if God consigned all men to disobedience so that he might have mercy on all, then disobedience is not a sign of our failure as parents. If it were, God would, by definition, be the worst parent ever. And perfection must not be our goal, since God made disobedience a condition of humanity. </div>
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Despite everything we've been told, despite every voice in my head that says if I were doing my job as a mother right my kids would be all sweetness and light every day, raising ever-compliant children is not the point. It's not even possible.</div>
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The opportunity for us as parents to demonstrate mercy and offer forgiveness and display love unconditional, is. Over and over and over. Day after day after day. Until, by some mystery of grace, mercy and forgiveness and love becomes the very fiber of their being.</div>
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It's a messy, infuriating notion: we get emotionally crucified, they learn love. And isn't love what we're really asking of our kids in all our rules? Benjamin: please think of the people around you before you act on your own desires. </div>
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When we distill misbehavior to its essence, it is simply selfishness at work rather than love.</div>
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The great parenting paradox is that our children learn love by experiencing forgiveness for their un-love. Our children learn obedience by receiving mercy in their disobedience. There is no detour around the frustrating to the delightful.</div>
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Perhaps Benjamin loves well--in selfless displays that at times leave me speechless--because he's disobeyed and been forgiven much.</div>
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I screw up, too. Some days, many days, it is really my unreasonable expectation or grouchiness or need to get out the door right. now. that incites the meltdowns of behavior. My own selfishness spirals us into the tears and anger. Then it's my turn to receive forgiveness, to remember how absolutely hard it is to be human, and in this state, I am drawn to greater compassion for my littles, to greater love for their precious hearts that are doing the best they can in a world that demands so much.</div>
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We find our common ground in our failure--and our common joy in loving each other anyway.</div>
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Well, it would sure be easier if the process were different: I say something reasonable every time, he obeys with a smile every time, and we all live happily ever after. </div>
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But that picture of sanitized family is dimensionless and textureless, devoid of the richness and vibrancy and security found in conflict and resolution. The illusion of perfection is better left in the realm of the merely acquainted.</div>
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Family is made in the gut-wrenching mornings like today. We chat, we giggle, we feel each other's biceps. We rail and argue and bump up against each other's feelings. And then we pack lunches and hug and ask forgiveness and go about our day, stronger for having witnessed, yet again, that nothing will break our love for each other.</div>
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May it be so. </div>
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Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-73756597273493737602014-04-07T21:42:00.000-06:002014-04-08T08:02:47.101-06:00Throw the Ball<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Benjamin's baseball team competed tonight, but I noticed a curious phenomenon.<br />
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For the first few innings, the boys would field the ball and then hold it, arm back as though ready to throw, but frozen in inaction until the runner was safely on base.<br />
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I can only surmise that this paralysis came in response to the game they barely lost Saturday.<br />
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After a close game in which they headed into the bottom of the last inning ahead, they made error after error in the field: throwing over the first baseman's head or into the ground or anywhere but the glove. The mis-throws gave the other team run after run and ultimately the win that could have been ours.<br />
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The loss was painful to watch and disappointing for them to experience.<br />
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And so, I think, they decided to play it safe tonight. Rather than throw the ball away and give up runs, they'd field the ball and hold. This way they wouldn't make errors. This way they wouldn't give up runs.<br />
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But in so doing, they gave up outs.<br />
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After the third inning of incomplete plays, after watching player after player field the ball and freeze, after watching the other team score four runs one inning and five the next because the only outs came from strikeouts (not common in coach pitch), the boys' coach finally yelled (uncharacteristic in itself), "The next person who doesn't throw the ball will sit out the inning!"<br />
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Even our mild-mannered, ever-encouraging coach couldn't take it. Play the game or sit it out!<br />
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So the next time they took the field, the boys began to attempt the plays. Not perfectly. Not to the point of turning the game around. But they made the throws to first. They got the out at second. They tried to throw the runner out at home.<br />
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They were playing the game. And in one inning, their plays got the outs they needed to hold the score and get their at-bat.<br />
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At one point, Benjamin fielded a ball from short stop and threw to first. He didn't beat the runner, but he made the play. He did exactly what he was supposed to do, and the attempt made me prouder than anything else he had done on the field.<br />
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Another boy in the outfield attempted to throw a runner out at second. He overthrew the ball, giving up a base in the process, but I found myself cheering wildly in the stands.<br />
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Sitting in the bleachers under the lights of the little league field, I realized I'd so much rather they throw the ball and miss than be afraid to make the throw.<br />
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At least when they throw the ball, they have a chance at greatness. At least when they throw, they can grow in skill and experience. At least when they throw, they can learn something for next time: stay calm, get your arm back, point your other arm toward the target, step into the throw.<br />
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In the first three innings, it felt like they would never progress because they wouldn't try, wouldn't practice their new skills, wouldn't put the coaching and rehearsing to use. Playing that way, they'd be the same team in three years that they are now.<br />
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They have to attempt the plays in order to make the plays. And they have to attempt the plays to become better players.<br />
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I felt myself convicted because I recognize that sometimes, we lead our lives like those boys played the game. We hold back because we're afraid to fail. We're on the field, and we can say we stopped the ball, but we refuse to take the risk and throw.<br />
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Unfortunately, in our paralysis we beat ourselves.<br />
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When our focus is to not make mistakes, to avoid disappointing those around us, then we ensure we will never contribute to victory. The goal must be the process, regardless of outcome.<br />
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Field the ball, make the throw, get the out.<br />
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Sometimes we'll fail. But we will have learned something, and we will have gone down trying.<br />
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But sometimes we'll nail it. And the joy of that one moment is too sweet to be missed for fear of shame.<br />
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And the cumulative joy of making play after play and having moment after moment? Well, that's pure glory.<br />
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Throw the ball or sit it out.<br />
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Anything less isn't baseball. Or true living.<br />
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/adwriter/136472519/">adwriter</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com/">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>
Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-30764957346854503752014-04-06T21:40:00.000-06:002014-04-06T21:49:22.135-06:0060 Minutes Closer to BedtimeSome days of mothering are uninspired. And uninspiring.<br />
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Everyone's tired. Everyone's cranky.<br />
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And I try to be the bigger person but mostly I'm just the bigger boss who gets to draw the majority of the lines regarding activities or sounds that are too annoying or too loud or too much to deal with on this tired and cranky day.<br />
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We were all up late playing with the neighbors last night, so it's no wonder. The marathon of yesterday's fun was delight from start to finish, but we paid for the hours-too-late bedtime with grumbling and malaise and general snappishness today.<br />
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I don't think one child made a statement today without the other declaring said statement could not possibly be so or insisting the exact opposite was so or asserting the speaker's intentions were to ruin the other's everything.<br />
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I don't know where they get the energy to fight when they can't even lift their eyelids all the way up.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
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Abby was mouth-open asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow tonight.<br />
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Benjamin unfortunately took longer, his earlobe still pained after taking a hit in yesterday's neighborhood Nerf gun war.<br />
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I decided ibuprofen was justified since he's complained about his earlobe three other times since he went to bed last night. And since I had no resistance left in me.<br />
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I assume I needn't worry about a cartilage injury.<br />
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So, dear ones, I humbly accept the super-fun mommy award for yesterday's frivolity and spontaneity and carefree approach to bedtime and dessert and soda consumption and bathing.<br />
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And I likewise accept the mediocre mommy award for expecting the tired and cranky children I produced through yesterday's surrender of responsible parenting to treat me and each other civilly, and to also clean their rooms, and not drive me mad in the process.<br />
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There are some days when every hour is simply sixty minutes closer to bedtime.<br />
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Sleep well, my darlings. Tomorrow is a new day.<br />
<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-62219861318159960692014-04-01T13:54:00.002-06:002014-04-09T20:57:56.087-06:00When You Say YesLast night, Josh and I filled more of our empty walls. We gathered the screws and nails, the screwdriver and hammer, the level and tape measure, and proceeded to hang our modest collection of eye candy.<br />
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Up a little.<br />
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Over just a quarter of an inch.<br />
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No, back a smidge.<br />
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Yes, right there.<br />
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Do you think it's too high?<br />
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Do you think it's high enough?<br />
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Is is too much?<br />
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Is it enough?<br />
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Are we centered?<br />
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It's perfect.<br />
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***<br />
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When you say yes, you don't think about the minutiae-filled moments of a lifetime.<br />
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You don't think about the laundry you'll fold, the toilets you'll clean, the floors you'll sweep, the dishes you'll rinse, load, unload, repeat.<br />
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You don't think about the utilities you'll set up, the bills you'll pay, the contractors you'll manage, the appointments you'll make.<br />
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You don't think about the decisions you'll mull regarding retirement accounts and home mortgages and insurance policies and wills.<br />
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You don't think about the little bathroom floor where you'll spend the wee hours of the morning with your sick child or the nights you'll climb into bed next to a coughing, snuffling, snoring and miserable spouse.<br />
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The pretty house, the weekends away, the snuggly babies, the games of catch in the backyard--those you can imagine when he's down on one knee. Those are the elements of romance you can conceive.<br />
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But the other stuff--the logistics and the finances and the repairs and the kids who confound and the jobs that disappoint/thrill/exhaust and the nights you spend moving pictures up an inch, over a quarter--those are the moments of which a marriage is made. Life shared in all its lovely and crazy-making and snooze-worthy glory.<br />
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When you can smile and tease and chuckle your way through an evening when the most exciting thing on the agenda is organizing the garage or marveling at how your daughter can manage to leave a trail of belongings that reaches every room in the house...<br />
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When you can collapse into bed together at the end of the day, knowing there's nothing left to do but hold each other and pray over your kids, wondering if you've disciplined them too much or not enough, if your words and actions even mattered...<br />
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When you can ride the waves of success, job loss, relocation, and limbo, and watch infinite possibility stretch out before you, knowing everything could change again in a moment, or not...<br />
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And want nothing more than to live each triumph and crisis with the man who kneeled before you once upon a time--<br />
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Then you have a real romance.<br />
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I looked across the room at my husband last night, balancing on the big red armchair with hammer in hand for the love of me, and I realized how naive I was all those years ago.<br />
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And how wise.<br />
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When I said yes, I could never have imagined this moment: hanging pictures at ten-thirty at night in Houston, Texas, with two precious kiddos asleep behind closed doors and a pup curled into a ball on the floor between.<br />
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But when I said yes, deep down I knew I could enjoy anything, anywhere if I were with him.<br />
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And I was right.<br />
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Up a little.</div>
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Over a quarter of an inch.</div>
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Yes, right there.</div>
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Saying yes means you'll spend your days crafting a life together: big decisions, small adjustments, course corrections, questions and doubts, and the labor of making the vision come true.<br />
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So that when you step back, you'll see something beautiful, something that enhances this temporal home on earth not just for us, but also for those who pass through.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-73055892720893551942014-03-28T19:34:00.001-06:002014-04-06T21:57:30.289-06:00One Perfect MomentChildhood defines this moment.<br />
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From my perch on the front porch, I hear Abby chatter and holler and giggle with the neighbor kids. They run from driveway to driveway following the impulse of youth, doing whatever excites their wide-open minds.<br />
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Bikes and scooters dot the street, abandoned to new flashes of inspiration. Chalk drawings climb the driveway. Markers spill over the sidewalk into the planters.<br />
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A breeze tickles the warm spring air. The children do not notice the sun falling slowly back to the horizon.<br />
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They play for no other purpose than to thrill at being alive, together.<br />
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The evening is perfect. In the midst of global crises, politics, and religious scuttle, these children at play remind me that God really loves this world.Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-77897968756947158152014-03-25T11:55:00.001-06:002014-03-25T11:58:03.592-06:00Home Again<div>
On a sunny Friday morning a little over a week ago, Josh and I signed the papers that gave us the keys to our new home here in Texas. </div>
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Over that weekend, we transported our apartment goods--the dishes and clothes and files that came from the "guts" of our house in Colorado, all the things that were tucked away in cupboards and closets that no one walking through our home-for-sale would miss--into the cupboards and closets here. </div>
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That Monday, everything else from Colorado arrived. </div>
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And with those belongings arrived a deep peace that must come from the soul's recognition that we are home again. </div>
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The furniture, the art, the bedding, the decor--it seems they ought to be insignificant, mere material possessions that they are.</div>
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But their presence soothes, comforts. Their years as the backdrop of our lives has imbued them with story, with meaning, with a nostalgia that re-roots our family in its history, placing our new life in Texas in the context of our former life in Colorado.</div>
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Making our bed with the bedding we received at our wedding, arranging the kids' furniture, decorating our family room has been therapeutic, an extended exhale of the underlying tension and stress we've been carrying since moving down in August. I hadn't even recognized that our temporary set-up in the apartment had activated a general sense of alert until the wariness slipped off, leaving a quiet calm.</div>
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I see the weight lifting in the kids, too. Though they enjoyed aspects of sharing a room in the apartment, they are both embracing the respite and solitude of having their own spaces with their own beds and dressers and rockers and toys. </div>
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Abby goes to her room and plays and plays with her dolls and horses. She has made her bed nearly every day that we've been here--a sign, I think, of how happy she is to be surrounded by her lovely things again.</div>
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Benjamin comes home from school and cozies up on his bed with his homework or a book, sinking into restful contentment. His patience is longer, his tolerance for frustration greater. </div>
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They are remembering parts of themselves that went dormant in our transient, make-it-work season. They are stretching their spirits out again after our cramped existence. </div>
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And they are discovering new joys. A yard in which to kick the soccer ball. A cul-de-sac full of kids. A friend on the other side of the fence. </div>
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For however long our time in Texas lasts, we have our own sanctuary to return to each day: a home furnished with the history and memories of our life before, a familiar backdrop for the new living to come.</div>
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Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-21320105329459245412014-02-28T08:38:00.001-07:002014-02-28T08:38:44.208-07:00It's Not *What* You Do...Each morning on our way to school, I watch the crossing guards ensure our children cross the busy roads safely. They blow their whistles and flash their stop signs and gesture with determination to the hundreds of cars that drive through the intersection daily. If a car comes through the intersection too fast, they wave their arms and deliver a stink eye powerful enough to make grown men feel like children caught.<br />
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One crossing guard, a spry old woman as feisty as she is wrinkled, takes her job even further: she stands on the corner where the kids gather on the sidewalk and greets each one as warmly as she would a grandchild.<br />
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With the younger kids, she bends her knees and crouches to eye level, smiling large into faces that radiate joy at being seen, recognized. I watch them hug her and share enthusiastic stories, looking straight into her eyes.<br />
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With the older boys, she exchanges high fives, fist bumps, and all manner of handshakes. There is no sense of stand-offishness, no dismissive eye roll from these boys wrestling independence and identity. The pull of adolescent cool cannot deny the sincerity of her interest in their lives. <br />
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By all definitions, the job of crossing guard is not a glamorous one. Important, yes. Esteemed, no.<br />
<br />
But this woman has elevated her position to something holy, sacred. Her presence has transformed the concrete sidewalk to a sanctuary where, for a moment, children are cherished just for showing up. She has not for a second believed that her job is insignificant. Rather, she has filled it with meaning and purpose through love.<br />
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The what of our days is so much less important than the how. Whether we operate in finance or construction, retail or medicine, engineering or housework, our day-to-day tasks are transformed by our perspective and intention.<br />
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When we believe our work matters to the folks around us, when we believe the people we serve or toil alongside are fellow children of God, then no task is insignificant. And we can no longer believe <i>we</i> are insignificant.<br />
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For we have the power to transform street corners to sanctuaries.Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-66040957121184796062014-02-20T21:49:00.000-07:002014-02-20T22:02:46.214-07:00Rest Without CeasingA few weeks ago, we enjoyed two "snow" days bookending the weekend here in Houston. Freezing rain led to the shut down of schools and businesses across the city and state, which doesn't have the abundance of de-icing equipment found in the northern states. All productivity stopped: work, appointments, school, sports, and extracurricular activities all cancelled.<br />
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As a result, the kids and I spent four gloriously mellow days together, enjoying the freedom to meander from game to puzzle to movie to make-believe. During our forced stay-cation, our apartment was full of quiet music and the sound of little voices giving instruction and encouragement on how best to accomplish their minds' vision.<br />
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The kids completely upended their room, relocating all closet contents to the middle of the bedroom floor so that they could use the closet space to create the setting for their pretend adventures. Strategically-placed chairs suspended blankets above their heads, and they folded their bodies under their forts, discussing plot points in their alternate reality.<br />
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The great lie of our culture is that rest is a luxury, not a necessity; that downtime is wasted time: unproductive, lazy, indulgent.<br />
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In fact, this stillness is our very lifeline to connection, meaning, energy, and--paradoxically--productivity.<br />
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Our bodies are actually built on this principle, wired to thrive on rest. Any fitness expert will tell you that your body does not get stronger during the intense workout. It is in the recovery that the body does the hard work of repairing the damage, building muscle, getting stronger, preparing for the next exertion. </div>
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Even our minds function in this way. We consolidate our memories, storing and hardwiring all we've learned and absorbed in our days, while we sleep. This is why infants, for whom every experience is new, sleep most of the day and night: they require abundant time to process and store their near-continual learning.</div>
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We don't realize we've fallen into the too-much trap until a day with nowhere to go reveals what we're missing in our busyness: the unstructured time to explore the recesses of our creative minds, to re-discover the healing power of togetherness, to remember who we are without the trappings of our achievement-oriented culture. When we break from our responsibilities, we discover ourselves and others.<br />
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Is it coincidence that we experienced so little fighting those few days? That we enjoyed a relative harmony with each other in the slow, quiet pace?<br />
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I doubt it.<br />
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God created us to require Sabbath. He could have made us to run endlessly, tirelessly, but He values the pause, the stillness, the surrender, making it a condition of our very existence.<br />
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Without rest, we break down, growing sick, injured, depressed, unstable. We simply cannot survive in a state of perpetual doing. With rest, we get stronger, we learn, we discover the expressions of creativity that have been stifled by our perpetual motion, we reconnect with those around us.<br />
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We remember what gives us life.<br />
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Is it any surprise, then, that the only "action" we are commanded to do without ceasing is actually a form of inaction? We are told to pray without ceasing, to <i>continuously</i> acknowledge the limitations of our own efforts, to surrender our productivity, to release the dreams of what we hope to accomplish and the burdens of what we should to the hands of the One in whom and through whom all things live and move and have their being.<br />
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Prayer looks like nothing. Like sleep and rest, it appears to be an indulgence, a break from the "real work." But when we enter into this form of Sabbath, we realize that anything worthwhile in this life is produced not by our will but by the mysterious workings of Christ in us.<br />
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Consider this. That which is essential to our very survival is beyond our power to accomplish: the beating of our heart, the steady inhale-exhale of our lungs, the transmission of millions of messages from body to mind and back--autonomic processes that would absolutely overwhelm us if we had to consciously execute them. </div>
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As much as we think we control our lives, our physical existence is sustained outside the boundaries of mere determination.</div>
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So it is with our spirit. When, in prayer, we pause our own attempts to control, fix, manage, or otherwise produce our life and the lives of those around us, we receive everything we need to move mountains. We are invited to lay down our anxieties and questions and uncertainties in exchange for peace and life abundant: front row seats to the redemption being worked in us and those we love every day. Rest without ceasing: what a command.</div>
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The kids and I played during those snow days. We set aside the schoolwork, the responsibilities, the chores, and the ever-present list of to-do's in order to create and commune. We lived life like a prayer of gratitude, resting non-stop. The kids made up grand adventures in the wild frontier of their closet. I wrote in between trips to their room to admire their process. And when the time came to clean up, the kids put their room back together in record time with minimal fuss.<br />
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By the end of our four-day break, we had "accomplished" so much more than we would have in our daily hustle. The apartment was neater, yes. And our enthusiasm for the daily routine was renewed. But most importantly, our relationships with each other--the dimension of life I spend the most time and energy analyzing, trying to get right, and berating myself for doing wrong--grew stronger, more trusting, more intimate. Without effort, our connection grew, our joy abounded, and our energy multiplied. </div>
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Stillness made space for creation. Rest begat productivity. Doing nothing yielded everything that matters.<br />
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We are not foolish or lazy to slow down. In truth, pausing our rush to meet the insistent demands may be the only way to discover the inspiration, wisdom, and clarity that enables us to accomplish anything worthwhile.<br />
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Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-65186790455468390702014-01-29T22:31:00.000-07:002014-01-29T22:38:40.600-07:00The Privilege of Being the One They AskThis afternoon, I watched Benjamin pace the floor of our friends' house on my iPhone. He looked and sounded so utterly proficient from the side of the conversation I could hear.<br />
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"I see," he'd say thoughtfully.<br />
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"So what I hear you saying is...," he'd respond, putting those active listening skills we've practiced to work.<br />
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Benjamin called my dad to gain insight into a problem his team is trying to solve for a tournament in a few weeks. As part of the solution to their challenge, they are creating a small, portable iPhone charger, and in the process, they've learned about energy conversion, generators, electromagnetic energy, and how to build their prototype. But fuzziness on a few of the basic science formulas was stalling their precise calculations.<br />
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It dawned on us that Papa sells generators and might be a good resource for their remaining questions, so Benjamin decided to call him after school during the team's meeting today.<br />
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There were so many things I loved about this exchange:<br />
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My dad's willingness to make time for Benjamin's questions and to patiently lead this third grader through basic physics.<br />
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Benjamin's utter ease in talking with Papa on the phone. There is history, relationship there that makes the exchange comfortable.<br />
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Watching my little boy grow up. He carries himself so maturely sometimes. He looked out the window, listening carefully, occasionally nodding, and I could envision him twenty years from now making a call from his own office.<br />
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I stood there, spirit gushing with affection for Ben, heart overflowing with knowledge of my dad's love for both of us.<br />
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I wished I could squeeze my son to pieces. As I write, I realize I need to tell Benjamin how much I admired his poise on the phone, how much I respect the young man he's becoming.<br />
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I also wished I could give my dad a hug for being so present. And I realize I need to tell him how very grateful I am for the time he made for me and Benjamin today.<br />
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Because even after Benjamin got off the phone with my dad, I ended up calling back to put my dad on speaker phone with four of the other kids so they could ask follow-up questions. Without hesitation, my dad greeted these four little strangers warmly, congratulated and affirmed the work they were investing in this project, and then clarified all of their questions and concerns with great skill and patience.<br />
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And it didn't surprise me, for my dad has always graciously made room in his life to show up for me.<br />
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My dad's availability to me--and now to my family--is one of his purest demonstrations of love. When I see the way he happily takes time from his work and full life to invest in this project simply because I ask, he communicates that I am important to him, that I am not a headache or a burden.<br />
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He inspires me to respond to my kids' requests for help with enthusiasm and tenderness, to readily support them in whatever they undertake, no matter their age or ability. Though the demands are great some days, I want them to know, deep down, that being invited into their lives is my great joy.<br />
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Because I want them to keep asking as they grow up.<br />
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My parents--and Josh's, too--have communicated over and over that they are happy to help us in any way they can. Not in a helicopter-parent kind of way, but in the way that good parents genuinely support and show up for their kids.<br />
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Generally, Josh and I are pretty self-sufficient and appropriately independent and all grown-up and such, but there is comfort in knowing we can call them up when a need arises, and the answer is not only yes, but a generous and enthusiastic yes at that.<br />
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I want my kids to feel that same value and freedom. When the babies come or the house needs to be packed or the money's tight or the day has reduced them to tears, I want them to call, confident the response from my end will be respect, compassion, and great joy at the invitation to participate in their lives.<br />
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And it begins now, in the dozens of small, daily moments when my littles come to me wearing vulnerability on their sleeve: not yet big enough or coordinated enough or sophisticated enough to navigate their world entirely on their own.<br />
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May I view each request not as an inconvenience but as an opportunity to send a powerful message of love to my precious kiddos. May I discipline myself to pause what I'm doing, look them in they eye, and smile at the privilege of being the one they ask.<br />
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Even if it's the twenty-fourth time in as many hours.<br />
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Even if it's the twenty-fourth time in as many minutes. Especially then.<br />
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For that is how we build trust to last a lifetime.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-10959157579391962772014-01-25T20:32:00.002-07:002014-01-26T09:13:33.470-07:00The Advice I Should TakeWhat would I tell Abby?<br />
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I couldn't shake this question when I finished reading Brene Brown's latest book <i>Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead</i>.<br />
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Her book is titled after Theodore Roosevelt's speech, "The Man in the Arena":<br />
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"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.</blockquote>
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The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again,</blockquote>
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because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;</blockquote>
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who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..." </blockquote>
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What would I tell Abby about getting in the arena?<br />
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When I look at my sweet girl, when I see all the gifts she's been given, when I see her spirit, her dreams, her determination, and her compassion, I want to do everything in my power to make sure no one in her life thwarts her goals, to let her know it's okay to undertake new endeavors, to try something she hasn't yet mastered, to take risks that others may criticize.<br />
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I don't ever want her to hold back for fear of what others may think.<br />
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I don't ever want her to withhold herself from the world because she may not succeed.<br />
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I want to support her as she walks bravely through this life, sharing herself and her ideas and her creativity with those around her.<br />
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I know she will experience heartache. I know there will be times when the risk pays off in pain. But I know her life will be fuller for having stepped out in courage, for having "dared greatly."<br />
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Whatever the outcome, I will cheer wildly. I will be so breathlessly proud of her willingness to simply show up in the fullness of who she is.<br />
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<i>And isn't this how God feels about me?</i><br />
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It's easy to tell someone else to take the risk, to attempt the seemingly impossible for the sake of living fully, to ignore the critics and naysayers.<br />
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But what about me? Can I take my own advice? Can I find the courage to act on the seeds of inspiration planted deep within?<br />
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In her chapter about parenting, Brown says this:<br />
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"Who we are and how we engage with the world are much stronger predictors of how our children will do than what we know about parenting."</blockquote>
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So what would I tell Abby if she were in my shoes? How would I encourage her to engage this world?<br />
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I would tell her to be brave. To lean into the uncomfortable. To silence the voice that says, <i>Who do you think you are?</i> To do the things that make her feel most alive, even if they make her most afraid. To accept error and shortcoming as a necessary byproduct of effort, not a sign that she should give up. To be willing to fail for the opportunity to succeed.<br />
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And if that's how I hope she will live, if those are values I hope she'll embrace, then that's how I need to live, how I want to live--as a mother, as a writer, as a fellow sojourner on this earth.<br />
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For my daughter's sake.<br />
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And for mine.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-66481987497715733262014-01-23T11:50:00.001-07:002014-01-24T09:17:25.022-07:00Perfect TimingIt felt naive, at times, to believe that the timing of our house selling or renting was God at work. To trust that the many months of our home sitting on the market in Colorado while we established our new life in a little Texas apartment was part of a larger plan.<br />
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And the longer I had to believe it--the more weeks that passed without change--the more naive I felt.<br />
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I could hope in the ultimate benevolence of the situation when I kept my focus off of what other people must think of us and our circumstances. But as soon as I transitioned back to feeling I had to justify our situation to onlookers, to feeling responsible for the fact that our beautiful home, which received rave feedback showing after showing, hadn't sold, <a href="http://musinmama.blogspot.com/2013/10/redefining-home.html" target="_blank">my thoughts became crazy-making</a>. I felt great chagrin, to be honest: for trusting and proclaiming so strongly that God had led us to Texas but then feeling stuck with this huge hassle and yet still trying to believe that there was a purpose for this timing.<br />
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How do you explain that deep down, beyond the frustration of inconvenience and financial burden, you believe that what looks like a curse will become a blessing? </div>
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Sometimes, we confuse God's leading with a smooth path, and so when circumstances grow challenging, we assume that perhaps we've done something wrong, misread the signs, chosen poorly.<br />
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When I read the Bible, however, I see journeys full of hardship far, far greater than a house not selling, all of which were transformed to blessing. One need only look to Jesus to see that the greatest suffering becomes the greatest good.
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I've thought often of the Israelites after their exodus from Egypt: wandering around the desert for forty years eating <i>manna:</i> literally, <i>what is it</i>? Forty years!<br />
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I feel great compassion for the Israelites--and for Moses, the deliverer, who was confronted with declarations that it would be better to return to Egypt, to <i>slavery</i>, than to continue without direction, without a home, indefinitely. What's the point of following God if a generation of desert-dwelling is the reward? If their daily bread is something they can't even name?</div>
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I've grown to recognize this longing for permanence. We've spent only eight months "wandering," asking "What is this?", and even that season has felt too long. How would I respond if I were asked to continue in this state (and by state, I mean both Texas and the condition of living in transience) for forty years?<br />
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What is it within us that so strongly desires establishment? Why is the notion of "home," of being "settled," so compelling to our human nature that we are tempted to return to slavery rather than live uprooted so we can inhabit the Promised Land. I don't know the answer to these questions. I simply witness this truth: we are internally driven to find our home, our place, our belonging now. Wandering blindly, dependently, is a profound struggle for our independent souls.</div>
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But I'm learning that the invitation to follow God is not an invitation to a life free of struggle. Rather, it's an invitation to believe God's goodness, to believe his promises, in the the midst of struggle. Though we grieve, lament, and rail against circumstance, we can surrender our self-doubt and self-criticism and the crushing weight of feeling responsible for our suffering, resting instead in the inscrutable ways of our Maker, waiting patiently upon his redemption.<br />
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When we believe that God's goodness, God's love for us, God's perception of us never changes, cannot change, is unchangeable; when we recognize that it is only our own fickle perceptions that change, we can say, "The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Because we realize our circumstances are not a reflection of God's feelings toward us.<br />
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Well, to my great relief, we are not being asked to wander for forty years like the Israelites.<br />
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We found renters for our house in late December, and their lease will start in February. The fact that the house rented rather than sold means we don't have our equity from the sale, so we've had to change the price point of the homes we're looking at down here.<br />
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The first day we went out casually looking at houses a couple weeks ago, we stumbled onto an opportunity not listed on the MLS or any of the realty websites, a home that meets all of our needs and many of the wants we had thought impossible at this price.<br />
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And had we begun looking even one day sooner, we would have missed it.<br />
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Timing.<br />
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It is a brand new home falling out of contract due to a job transfer. We signed the contract in time to pick 90% of the finishes, and the house is scheduled to be completed within the time frame necessary to move our belongings from Colorado straight into the house without paying extra storage or moving fees.<br />
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The timing, in fact, could not have worked out more perfectly.<br />
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We are in the area we hoped to live, in a neighborhood we really like, and remarkably, though we don't know a lot of people down here yet, we do know (and like!) the neighbors right next door.<br />
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Though we couldn't see the master plan for months and months, the picture is becoming clearer. And as is usually the case with God, the outcome is even better than we had thought.<br />
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Time and again, we worry that our hope in God is naive, silly, a pipe dream. That He has bigger problems to solve and less whiney children to care for. But time and again, God teaches us that we are wise to believe His goodness, that we are significant to Him, even in our foibles. We are not foolish to abdicate responsibility for circumstances beyond our control to the benevolence of the One who spoke heaven and earth into existence.<br />
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This particular story becomes yet another monument in our life to remind us of how God provides, of how He meets us in ways far superior to what we would construct if we were in charge. And we're only glimpsing the beginning of what's to come. In response, our hearts swell with gratitude and with the desire to use the blessings we've been given to bless those around us.<br />
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This is the dance of faith. God initiates, we respond. God provides, we give thanks. God blesses, and we bless out of our blessing. God proves his trustworthiness time after time, and so the next time our circumstances confound us, we have a little more history, a little more experience, a little more confidence in God's plan to transform the worst of times into the best of times.<br />
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We receive our manna, and it is enough to sustain us until we reach the land overflowing with milk and honey.<br />
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We have yet to know what the full plan for Josh's career and our time in Texas will be. But kindly, dependably, God shows us with each circumstance that He is for us, that His plan is not to harm us. He simply asks that we follow, with as much patience as a child can muster, in faith that the Father is good--really, truly good.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-53924665116873103542014-01-22T13:41:00.000-07:002014-01-25T19:20:26.587-07:00When Nostalgia WhispersDespite our best attempts to plan around the weather, we found ourselves caught in a winter snow storm on our drive from Texas to Colorado at Christmas. Though the storm wasn't forecasted to roll in until the evening of our second day driving, by lunchtime, the snow fell in steady white flakes, covering the roads, the rural towns, and the rest of the empty landscape in pristine powder.<br />
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We pulled into a restaurant for lunch, the parking lot frosted thickly white. Before we opened the car doors, we readied ourselves for the cold, wet trek to the warmth inside.<br />
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I climbed out of the car quickly and turned to extend my hand to Abby so we could race in together. But as soon as Abby stepped out of the car, she stopped.<br />
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She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sky, and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue.<br />
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Her response to the snow was reflexive, without thought, as natural as squinting into the sun. It was as though something deep within her recognized the snow as a return to home, and her little body knew its role by heart.<br />
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I stood there watching my girl, silent snowflakes collecting all around us, and marveled at how deep the roots of a place burrow inside us, how readily our spirit responds to the memories of where we come from.<br />
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She giggled and ran to grab my hand, her cheeks now pink. "It tastes good, Mama!" she shouted as we hurried inside together, kicking up puffs of ivory with each step.<br />
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Yes, Baby. Nothing tastes sweeter than home. And we are wise to listen when nostalgia whispers, inviting us to stop, close our eyes, and remember. <br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-11077470666480808952013-12-06T13:40:00.000-07:002014-01-25T19:23:40.000-07:00Joining the Fellowship of Saint Nicholas<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We knew it was coming. We knew it wouldn't be long before Benjamin discovered the truth about Santa. But watching his devotion to writing Santa almost daily through our <a href="http://musinmama.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-elf-on-shelf-santa-claus-and-spirit.html" target="_blank">Elf on the Shelf, Sparkle</a>--with the purity and innocence of a boy enchanted--we thought we might just enjoy one more season with the magic intact.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, the chapter of childhood where reindeer fly and elves become North Pole pen pals and Santa defies time and space to visit all the children of the world in a single, jolly night has closed for Benjamin.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Last night, we took the children to see Santa at the Town Square's annual Christmas tree lighting. On our way, I mentioned that this Santa might look different than the Santa we saw in Evergreen. Abby wanted to know why. I fumbled for words when Benjamin jumped in with an explanation about how there are fake Santas who help the real Santa, one in each state, but the real Santa is the one who delivers the toys on Christmas Eve. He said it with the conviction of one who knows, and Abby was convinced.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We continued driving, listening to Christmas music, but a few minutes later, Benjamin said, "Mommy, tell me the truth. Do you and Daddy put the presents in our stockings?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I hesitated. Josh and I had talked about how we would answer questions about Santa if the kids really wanted to know. We agreed that we would answer them honestly rather than continue with vague and cryptic evasions, but I was in a predicament with Abby in the car. I couldn't ask my clarifying question, "Do you want the magical answer or the real answer?" without raising her suspicions.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Instead, I hedged with, "Can we talk about this later when we're in private, Bug?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Why?" he asked, curious. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Always with the "why's"! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In hindsight, I'm sure he was thinking, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">why talk about it later if you're going to tell me Santa fills our stockings.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In hindsight, when he said, "Tell me the truth," I don't think he was really interested in the truth.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In hindsight, I should have just asked, "What do you think?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Hindsight, hindsight. It's always 20/20.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, he dropped the question, and we arrived at Town Square to find the main street filled with vendors, activities, and holiday cheer. Josh, who arrived before us from work, was already in line to see Santa. Once we joined him, the kids wanted to walk over and see this Texas Santa, so the three of us wandered down and peeked at him from behind the photographer. Santa saw Ben and Abby looking and waved to them, smiling. Their faces lit up. I exhaled. All was well.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When their turn came, the kids climbed onto Santa's lap together, smiled for the camera, and then were ushered off as quickly as they had settled.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Once we had reconvened, Benjamin said with some indignation, "He didn't ask what we wanted for Christmas."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I echoed his surprise. "Really? That's strange. Maybe this year we can write our requests and mail them instead."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Abby then launched into an explanation of how she had </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">already</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> written her Christmas list for Santa in her </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">very</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> best handwriting at school that morning, so she wouldn't need to write again. She skipped down the street at my side toward the restaurant for dinner. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Benjamin, however, didn't move. There in the middle of main street, the realization dawned on him. He folded into himself and began to cry.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Josh picked him up in his strong Daddy arms and held him with great tenderness. When Abby and I walked back over to see what was wrong, Josh walked with him the other way. I took the hint and ushered Abby back down the street.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When they joined us a few minutes later, Benjamin's eyes were teary, but he was smiling. Abby offered him part of her candy cane, her little-sister attempt to comfort.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">While they opened their candy, Josh quietly told me, "He knows. Someone at school told him."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My heart sank.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"But he's okay," Josh continued. In his wisdom, Josh had begun sharing with Ben our escapades to make their Santa requests come true."He's kind of enjoying being in-the-know."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Once settled at the restaurant, Josh and Abby left the table to use the restroom. Benjamin came around to my chair and said, "Mommy, I know about Santa. Daddy was telling me stories about finding Santa gifts for us. Can you tell me, too?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So with as much drama and suspense as I could create, I began telling him the story of the Santa suit we put together for him when he was five. We laughed together, and there was new joy in sharing the back story of Christmas with the newly initiated. He even seemed to glow a bit in his new status.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After dinner, Abby rode home with Josh, and Benjamin rode home with me. We talked the whole way, piecing together the mystery for him. We talked about some of the gifts that were more challenging to come by. We talked about the fun and beauty of this tradition, where folks from around the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">whole world</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> work together to create this magic for children. We talked about </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Nicholas" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Saint Nicholas</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, the real story on which Santa Claus is based. When I mentioned him, Benjamin did the story-telling, having read a book called </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Santa Claus as a Kid</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. His summary started with, "Well, there was this boy who wanted to be like Jesus..." And so we talked about how Jesus, the main Story of Christmas, is absolutely true.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes, Christmas is Jesus's birthday, and Santa Claus is one of our holiday traditions," he confirmed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Exactly.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And of course we talked about the importance of not telling other children who still believe. "It wasn't right of your friend to tell you before you wanted to know." He nodded, understanding completely.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"I'll keep writing notes to Sparkle so Abby doesn't find out!" he suggested.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The conversation was sweet, sweet. There was no sense of betrayal or anger. Just disappointment. "I still wanted to believe," he said, looking out the window. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When we got home, he began getting ready for bed. He pulled on his pajamas and said, "There's just one thing I don't know yet. Who wrote the notes from Santa?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Each year, next to the empty plate of cookies on the hearth, Santa leaves a hand-written thank you with a few personal notes and encouragements for the kids. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Papa writes them," I said.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Benjamin's eyes twinkled. "Papa?" I could see him turning this information over in his head. "And does he eat the cookies?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"We all eat the cookies," I admitted, smiling. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He smiled. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Josh and I tucked the kids into bed and retired to the couch to debrief the evening. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Several minutes later, we heard Benjamin crying in the bathroom. Josh went to check on him and learned he didn't want to cry in his bed in front of Abby, so Josh invited him out to talk with us, and Benjamin grieved a little more. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"This morning when I went to school, I believed. But at recess I didn't anymore." He told us the full story of how he was told. When he had shared everything, he went back to bed and fell asleep.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Though he is enjoying his new role as an insider to the tradition, there is loss. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In truth, I was surprised by the ache in my own heart last night. It feels, somehow, that we've lost a dimension of Christmas. Not in a sacrilegious way: of course, the truest, deepest meaning of Christmas will never change. But in the realization that Benjamin had to grow up a little last night, that we had to usher him from the fellowship of childhood to the fellowship of Saint Nicholas. His focus was shifted from his own delight to that of Abby and the other children who still believe. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It's healthy, and it's good, and I know this process will repeat itself over and over as he matures, because the biggest milestones of growing up require us to turn our focus away from ourselves and towards someone else: working a job, getting married, having children... </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But I would have been okay prolonging this particular joy a bit longer. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There is beauty in the way a child asks in faith and receives with open-handed delight. Perhaps this ability to receive everything as grace, as gift without strings, is why Jesus asks us to come to him like little children. There is value in beholding the world with eyes of wonder and mystery and delight and faith that someone benevolent and kind loves to give us good gifts.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, before I climbed in bed last night, I wrote Sparkle's response to the note Benjamin had written yesterday morning, wishing he didn't know I was the author. I tried to incorporate a little humor for his sake, an insider's wink to keep the process fun for the child who </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">knows</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> while we continue to create the mystery for Abby.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And this morning, Benjamin came out to find Sparkle and read her new note to Abby as he has every morning this week. Then he sat down at the table to write another letter, doing his grown-up part to maintain the wonder for his little sister. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was so, so proud.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">For the rest of his life, now, he participates in the Santa tradition from the perspective of Saint Nicholas. He joins us and the world in a conspiracy of generosity, inspired by a babe in a manger: God incarnate, who first walked this earth as a child, marveling at the wonders with the same open-handed delight of Benjamin and Abigail and all children, before growing into a man whose joy it became to give everything. </span></div>
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Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6389184473950744518.post-63024190713939432752013-12-02T11:12:00.000-07:002013-12-02T11:12:18.775-07:00The Elf on the Shelf, Santa Claus, and the Spirit of Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1pVIvEJgfx_FrEojrY_ojggBhh4-9NcELBbnjcjscmOxthZFOqajsAjTl_UvbQXKEHR-FUlfXn9eWoeeBXNF1DNV2WfSTiV_j8ztBmppwLODTKGEcrmkN3Xm5z7KT_MfvlFEadhPF_M1/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1pVIvEJgfx_FrEojrY_ojggBhh4-9NcELBbnjcjscmOxthZFOqajsAjTl_UvbQXKEHR-FUlfXn9eWoeeBXNF1DNV2WfSTiV_j8ztBmppwLODTKGEcrmkN3Xm5z7KT_MfvlFEadhPF_M1/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
Sparkle, our <a href="http://www.elfontheshelf.com/content/about-us" target="_blank">Elf on the Shelf</a>, arrived overnight. Benjamin noticed her sitting above the microwave this morning when he turned from his oatmeal to look at me in the kitchen.<br />
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"There's our Elf on the Shelf!" he said, and after I read him her note, "Welcome home! Love, Sparkle," he promptly scooted off to tell Abby. She came to the kitchen and saw for herself, smiling her coy half-smile, the one she can't contain when she's truly delighted.<br />
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"It's really magical," Benjamin observed. "How did Santa get in here to drop her off when all the doors and windows were locked?" A lively conversation about all the possibilities ensued.<br />
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Josh and I had thought this might be the year Santa would be found out. We've talked about how to deliver "the truth." They've begun asking questions, even wondering at the Thanksgiving table, "Is Santa really real?" Grandma, in her infinite wisdom, answered with a question: "What do you think?" Which led them into explanations of the real Santa versus Santa helpers before the conversation changed subject.<br />
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I'm not naive enough to think the kids won't hear something at school or question more earnestly, but as of this morning, it appears Benjamin is happy to suspend disbelief a little longer, reveling in the wonder of miracle still.<br />
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He asked me when they would get to see Santa this year.<br />
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I answered him honestly, "I'm not sure."<br />
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In Evergreen, we saw the same Santa and Mrs. Claus every year at the Lake House. This particular Santa and Mrs. Claus embody the Spirit of Christmas so purely, I nearly believe in them myself: they are warm and kind, gently soothing babies who are uncertain, patiently drawing out the more reserved children. They encourage children to be kind to their parents, to look for ways to give during the season in addition to receiving. They seem to remember many of the little ones they see each year, and a certain glimmer of recognition in their eyes leaves each visitor to their velvety red laps feeling as though they are known.<br />
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We don't know Houston well enough yet to have figured out where to see Santa. I'd prefer to avoid malls with their long lines and barely-plausible imitation Santas. The kids do understand that not every person in a Santa suit is the "real" Santa, so perhaps this solution will suffice. But to be honest, I guess I had assumed we wouldn't see Santa this year, not wanting to cheapen the experience with a visit that is "less than" what we had in Evergreen.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlsBRQXPTSDleSUooVLdzB3CcwsZFHmcdlZwWPgHiE16TUYUHhkf4A-Ga3qDqSghZLPCUpy-EHP2_qihkzuE_P5Zlpi6SzbQdv60pRaIj3TdA-6HP-xeBrEP4jci3yTrBoJjUzjupGVeK/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlsBRQXPTSDleSUooVLdzB3CcwsZFHmcdlZwWPgHiE16TUYUHhkf4A-Ga3qDqSghZLPCUpy-EHP2_qihkzuE_P5Zlpi6SzbQdv60pRaIj3TdA-6HP-xeBrEP4jci3yTrBoJjUzjupGVeK/s1600/photo+5.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a>Benjamin, however, decided to take this issue into his own capable hands. He sat down at our coffee table and penned a note to Santa:<br />
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"Dear Santa,<br />
thank you for being so kind to us each year. we're still very new so we don't know w[h]ere to go so we can see you in person. Please write back to me if you know w[h]ere, or if we should make Christmas Lists.<br />
Sincerely Benjamin."<br />
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Then he drew a quick picture of Santa on the front and said, "Mommy, read this!"<br />
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When I read, "We are still very new so we don't know where to go," I confess I had to fight a welling-up of emotion. There is an honesty, a deep vulnerability in his phrase that strikes the chord of unfamiliarity and foreignness I feel deep down here. Indeed, though we've settled into school and activities and much of life in Texas, there is no denying that we still feel fragile and vulnerable away from all the people and places we depended upon for so many years. His note reaches out of this fragility to ask one whose kindness has led him to trust, "Please help. We don't know our way yet." <br />
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He taped the note next to Sparkle so she could deliver it to Santa this evening when she returns to him.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PtxK4D6Go6hdNKw2AxZbCB2Ali4C5cir-HWFwN8kc6nu5BI_Ev3OuPTX1s3gcPuKwwzYbx5FRgfJAabCQvbId5SifR5-0txPq-Q7c_t0sUcIO6hjV-O9RuMRcfbmPAdwp0_DawyS-usO/s1600/Sparkle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PtxK4D6Go6hdNKw2AxZbCB2Ali4C5cir-HWFwN8kc6nu5BI_Ev3OuPTX1s3gcPuKwwzYbx5FRgfJAabCQvbId5SifR5-0txPq-Q7c_t0sUcIO6hjV-O9RuMRcfbmPAdwp0_DawyS-usO/s1600/Sparkle.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a>As an afterthought, he wrote "Welcome to Texas" on a post-it and stuck it on the piece of tape holding up his note. Eight-year-old hospitality.<br />
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It should be noted that Josh and I were drug into this whole Elf on the Shelf gig reluctantly. Kicking and screaming, really. We had said we'd never buy one, both because we didn't like the premise of Santa having a "spy" to report to him the naughty and nice behaviors of our household, but largely because, frankly, Christmas gives us plenty to do already.<br />
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We maintained that conviction firmly. Until Abigail set her heart on having one last Christmas. She heard about the escapades of the elves from friends at school. So when she climbed into Mrs. Claus's lap last year, she asked for an Elf on the Shelf.<br />
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We were doomed.<br />
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Because we love our little girl to pieces, because we desire to keep the magic alive as long as we can, Abby came downstairs to her stocking Christmas morning to find a little elf peeking out from behind her stocking holder, from Santa. She named her elf Sparkle, and here we are, a year later, making this story come true, too.<br />
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After this morning, though, I see that the additional effort (which, in reality, is pretty minimal) is so very, very worthwhile. This glimpse of Benjamin's gratitude, of his earnestness and sincerity, filled my heart to overflowing this morning. Indeed, when I dropped the kids off at school, all our spirits hummed with the Spirit of Christmas.<br />
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Buying this elf, and now plotting her adventures for the next few weeks, is a small sacrifice of time and energy on our parts. But as we undertake this new element of Christmas out of love for our kids, as we witness their wonder in response, what felt like sacrifice becomes joy.<br />
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I've been reading through <i>Herself</i>, a collection of Madeleine L'Engle's thoughts on writing. L'Engle has authored many books for a variety of audiences, but her most famous is probably <i>A Wrinkle in Time</i>, a now-classic children's fantasy that won the prestigious Newberry Award. In section IV of <i>Herself</i>, "Faith Foundations: Writing from Truth,' she writes:<br />
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"If we want a God we can prove, or an Incarnation we can prove, aren't we making an idol, rather than falling on our knees in awe of the wonderful mystery? It's a lot easier, a lot safer (in finite terms) to worship an idol than to expose ourselves to the fire of the eternal God--not the flames of hell, but the flames of love. Perhaps that's why some of the best theology is found in story--Jesus' stories, the stories of Daniel or Gideon or Esther or Jael; the novels of Dostoyevsky, the plays of Shakespeare, the stories of O. Henry; and--yes--stories written for children."<br />
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Then in section V<i>, "</i>An Accepted Wonder: The Wisdom of Children," she writes:<br />
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"Children are far better believers than adults; they are aware of what most adults have forgotten. They know that the daily time-bound world of limited facts is a secondary world. And stories, paintings, or songs--though they are not themselves the primary world--give us glimpses of the wider world of our whole selves, the selves which are real enough to accept the world's darkness as well as its light...A story where myth, fantasy, fairy tale, or science fiction explore and ask questions moves beyond fragmatic dailiness to wonder. Rather than taking the child away from the real world, such stories are preparation for living in the real world with courage and expectancy."<br />
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I am reminded this morning that what we do is far less important than the Love behind it. Whether we do Santa or not, whether we buy an Elf on the Shelf or not, the Spirit of Christmas, the Truth of Christmas--Love incarnate--is what shines through. This Love motivated Saint Nicholas's generosity once upon a time. This Love leads an elderly couple in Evergreen to bring the saint's story to life for hundreds of children. This same Love moves us to create magic for our littles.<br />
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In the seemingly silly exercise of placing Sparkle above the microwave, the kids feel this Love, receive it, believe it. They act on it by writing letters to Santa with "courage and expectancy," an expression of the faith and hope they are learning. And so all these other tales of Christmas are brought into harmony with the miraculous story of a baby God, lying in a manger, for love of the whole, wide world.<br />
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<br />Shaundrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11674536759985628013noreply@blogger.com0