Joining the Fellowship of Saint Nicholas

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 Elf on the Shelf, Sparkle--with the purity and innocence of a boy enchanted--we thought we might just enjoy one more season with the magic intact.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

Instead, I hedged with, "Can we talk about this later when we're in private, Bug?"

"Why?" he asked, curious. 

Always with the "why's"! In hindsight, I'm sure he was thinking, why talk about it later if you're going to tell me Santa fills our stockings.

In hindsight, when he said, "Tell me the truth," I don't think he was really interested in the truth.

In hindsight, I should have just asked, "What do you think?"

Hindsight, hindsight. It's always 20/20.

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.

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.

Once we had reconvened, Benjamin said with some indignation, "He didn't ask what we wanted for Christmas."

I echoed his surprise. "Really? That's strange. Maybe this year we can write our requests and mail them instead."

Abby then launched into an explanation of how she had already written her Christmas list for Santa in her very 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. 

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.

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.

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.

While they opened their candy, Josh quietly told me, "He knows. Someone at school told him."

My heart sank.

"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."

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?"

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.

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 whole world work together to create this magic for children. We talked about Saint Nicholas, the real story on which Santa Claus is based. When I mentioned him, Benjamin did the story-telling, having read a book called Santa Claus as a Kid. 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.

"Yes, Christmas is Jesus's birthday, and Santa Claus is one of our holiday traditions," he confirmed.

Exactly.

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.

"I'll keep writing notes to Sparkle so Abby doesn't find out!" he suggested.

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. 

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?"

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. 

"Papa writes them," I said.

Benjamin's eyes twinkled. "Papa?" I could see him turning this information over in his head. "And does he eat the cookies?"

"We all eat the cookies," I admitted, smiling. 

He smiled. 

Josh and I tucked the kids into bed and retired to the couch to debrief the evening. 

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. 

"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.

Though he is enjoying his new role as an insider to the tradition, there is loss. 

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. 

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... 

But I would have been okay prolonging this particular joy a bit longer. 

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.

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 knows while we continue to create the mystery for Abby.

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. 

I was so, so proud.

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.  

The Elf on the Shelf, Santa Claus, and the Spirit of Christmas

Sparkle, our Elf on the Shelf, arrived overnight. Benjamin noticed her sitting above the microwave this morning when he turned from his oatmeal to look at me in the kitchen.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

He asked me when they would get to see Santa this year.

I answered him honestly, "I'm not sure."

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.

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.

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:

"Dear Santa,
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.
Sincerely Benjamin."

Then he drew a quick picture of Santa on the front and said, "Mommy, read this!"

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."

He taped the note next to Sparkle so she could deliver it to Santa this evening when she returns to him.

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.

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.

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.

We were doomed.

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.

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.

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.

I've been reading through Herself, 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 A Wrinkle in Time, a now-classic children's fantasy that won the prestigious Newberry Award. In section IV of Herself, "Faith Foundations: Writing from Truth,' she writes:

"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."

Then in section V, "An Accepted Wonder: The Wisdom of Children," she writes:

"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."

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.

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.

When the Leaves Drop

On Thursday, we will gather around the same table we gave thanks at last year. We will join hands with Josh's parents in their beautiful home surrounded by valleys of pine and oak and gypsy deer and hummingbird illusionists and resourceful squirrels burying food for hard times, and we will say, "Thank you, Lord."

As we did last year.

As we have every other year of our lives together, whether we were at this table or ours or others'.

But Thanksgiving will require something different of us this year.

Because this year, the blessings have been less shiny. This year, the easy, obvious objects of our gratitude--cozy home and mountain grandeur and precious community and family near--have been loosed from our grateful grip. This year, we find ourselves in circumstances that have been the antithesis of what we had asked and hoped and prayed: a forced relocation thanks to a layoff, living in an aparment in suburban Texas while we pay the mortgage on a house that hasn't sold, all the while coming to grips with the reality that the dream job is less than dreamy.

Our gratitude in years past didn't cost us anything. It was the gratitude of abundance. Of stability. Of clarity. We recognized the blessing and we appreciated the goodness and we were truly, sincerely grateful for every gift. The thanks poured out of us, out of our cup running over.

But this year, as we grieve what we've left, as we long for answers to what's around the corner of time, we are asked to find the gratitude of want. Of uncertainty. Of confusion. Of disappointment.

We will gather around the table, remembering how this year we've wiped tears from our cheeks and heaved prayers like sobs and asked why and said, "Please, Lord, please..."

This year, though we wish we could return to the life we led last year, we learn to say, "Not my will but yours."

Like children, we are learning patience, faith, obedience. We are inhaling grace so that we do not tantrum like petulant children who didn't get their way.

This year, we discipline ourselves to say thank you for the heartsickness of missing family and friends and infant nephew milestones, for the months of stress and wondering and frustration and sadness, for the sheer exhaustion of whittling a new life out of question marks.

This year, we raise our hands to our Maker in praise, like the near-empty branches of the tree outside my window, whose leaves--once their splendor and beauty and life--fall one-by-one to the ground. Though we perceive lack, we know, deep down, that we are stripped only for a season. There is beauty in the process, in the surrender.

In the golden remnant of fall, we give thanks that the Lord is good. We give thanks that His love endures forever. And that truth is sufficient. More than enough, really, to sustain us in any circumstance.

Because miracles are found in the messy, grief-stricken disappointments of this world: in a manger, on a cross, in a winter that turns into spring. So surely they can appear in Texas. And as we look for the incarnation, we remember that our true home is each other's arms. We are awoken from our default routines and invited to a life full of infinite choices, possibilities, adventures. We purpose not to ride out the rest of our lives as idle passengers of complacency.

This year, we remember that thanks is something we give, not something we receive. One leaf at a time.

An offering that leaves us with the illusion of emptiness.

Until we find that our emptiness becomes a cornucopia...of faith and hope and love.

We believe. Lord, help our unbelief.

The Great Parenting Paradox

This morning, Benjamin came into 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.

Josh 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 love when we're in this place with each other. How do so many mornings get off track?

Twenty minutes later, our happy train derailed.

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 but 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. 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.

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 escalate it, wondering if something I did incited such a reaction. 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?

But perhaps these are just the normal, everyday products 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?

Some books 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? 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.

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. 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.

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.

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, Abigail: please think of the people around you before you act on your own desires. When we distill misbehavior to its essence, it is simply selfishness at work rather than love.

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.

Perhaps Benjamin loves well--in selfless displays that at times leave me speechless--because he's disobeyed and been forgiven much.

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. But then I have the opportunity to receive forgiveness, to remember how absolutely hard it is to be a 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.

We find our common ground in our failure--and our common joy in loving each other anyway.

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. 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.

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, theoretically stronger for having witnessed, yet again, that nothing will break our love for each other.

May it be so.

Failure is Not an Option

Watching Abby ice skate yesterday was an exercise in breathing. I had to discipline myself to exhale, to let the visions of cracked skulls and ER visits exit my anxious mind through deep breaths out. At times, I had to make myself watch her, because everything inside me wanted to cringe and look away.

The thing is, Abby has no fear of falling. Or pain. Or injury. We put her on skates yesterday, stepped onto the rink, and then watched her feet move those skates as quickly as they could without regard for the balance or stability of her upper body. There was no easy-does-it. No starting slow and working up speed proportional to skill. She entered the rink like Bambi on the frozen lake: all runaway limbs slipping and sliding out from under her.

At first, Josh held onto her, coaching her while keeping her vertical when she began to topple. But it wasn't long before she began pushing his hands away, fiercely determined to master the ice by herself. Eventually, she found her center of gravity and kept herself upright without our help. But her method of learning involved skating as fast as she could until she a) fell, b) ran into the wall of the rink, or c) was caught by her vigilant mommy or daddy.

Several times, we watched her legs and arms flail wildly, searching desperately for equilibrium. Occasionally, she found it. "Nice spin, Abby!" Josh would joke with a smile. Abby's eyes would twinkle.

Most of the time, she went down.

Remarkably, she'd right herself and skate on each and every time she fell, often back on her blades within a matter of seconds. Down, up, down, up, down, up. I could practically hear her quads groan as she pushed herself to standing again. And again. Though her clothes were soaked through and her body battered, she smiled with pride each time I caught her eye. Abby paid no attention to fatigue. Only once did she agree to a break, and even that was short-lived. Tenacity ruled.

We've seen her apply this same persistence to gymnastics. Anytime we find ourselves in a park or yard with enough space, we watch her do cartwheel after cartwheel, hand stand after hand stand, determined to master the skill no matter how many times she lands on her shoulder or back or head, no matter how tired her weary arms are.

In class, we see her practice whatever skill they give her with an absolute commitment to mastery. She probably completes twice as many reps as the other kids, because she begins the task again the moment she finishes the first attempt. No matter what they have her doing--hopping across the balance beam, swinging on the bar, flipping into the foam pit, kicking into handstands against the wall--she executes her move over and over with the work ethic of a true athlete.

And her persistence has paid off. Her cartwheels look like actual cartwheels now. When she kicks her legs up into a handstand, she gets her whole body straight and stiff, even holding it for a second on her best attempts.

This girl was born with discipline: disregard pain, disregard failure, disregard everything but mastery. 

When we climbed back into the car two hours after beginning our icecapades, Abby's nerve endings finally caught up to her. "My body hurts," she told us, not whining so much as observing a now overwhelming fact. 

We gladly spent the rest of the evening snuggled up on the couch in our pajamas, watching a movie. Before bed, I read to her while she soaked in a warm bath to ease the soreness in her muscles.

She inspires me. She's conquering ice and gravity. What's next?

Whatever it is, Josh and I will be there cheering her on...and drawing a warm bath after.

Scripture: Portraits of Love

Last night, after we finished our chapter of Narnia, Benjamin said, "Mommy, where's that verse about a harsh word and a gentle word?"

"The one that says, 'A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger'?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I think it's on your door, your bedroom door."

"No, that's the one about the honeycomb," he corrected ("Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the bones").

"Oh, yeah." I thought a moment. "Maybe that one's on the refrigerator door. Why?" I asked, wondering what had triggered this sudden interest.

"I've found myself thinking about it a lot in my head lately," he said, all thoughtfulness and sincerity.

"Mmm. That happens to me sometimes. Do you understand what it means?" I asked.

"Not really..." he said, his words trailing like an invitation.

So we defined "wrath" and talked about what happens in a conversation when someone is angry. We discussed why a gentle response helps a person settle down inside while a harsh word makes him even more angry. After, I prayed and sang with him and tucked him in bed, marveling that the verses are finding their way into his heart.

Several weeks ago, I had been thinking about how often I return to the Scripture I have memorized, how utterly valuable those words have proven in my life. One of the greatest gifts my dad gave me as a child was that he quoted Scripture consistently enough that the words became engraved in my mind. Years of Sunday School and Bible studies and sermons and reading added to the well of verses from which I draw. They serve as a kind of compass in my life, pointing me true north to what is unshakeable, unchangeable, even as the sand shifts beneath my feet.

Always, they return me to faith, hope, love. Ultimately, they renew my mind, transforming my perspective, and, in turn, my actions.

I long for my kids to have this same reserve of truth to turn to when they're frightened or confused or despairing or tempted to believe a lie. I want them to have these words buried deep in their hearts, not as some kind of prescriptive that meters out rules and regulations and shoulds and should nots for them and those around them, but as a source of strength and comfort and steadiness to rest upon when the vertigo of life sets in. I want them to know the Scriptures for themselves so that when they hear someone else twisting them and turning them into weapons of fear and hate and judgement, they will remember this is what matters: to act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with your God.

So one morning while the kids were at school, I hung about a dozen Bible verses up around our apartment: in the kids' room, on my bathroom mirror, on the refrigerator. I chose verses that reflected promises or wisdom relevant to our family's daily life and wrote them in black sharpie on funky notecards I bought at Target for lunchbox notes.

The kids came home that afternoon and immediately ran around reading them all. Abby asked me to read the longer verses with harder words. As I anticipated, they paid attention to them for about twenty-four hours, and then the notecards faded into the background of sleeping, waking, eating, playing, arguing, laughing, crying, loving.

Last night was the first evidence that the words are taking residence within them. I love that Benjamin has found himself pondering that verse. Indeed, as the verbal round and rounds escalate here, I find myself thinking about what kind of response helps and what kind hurts.

Does a sharp response ever help my little people recover from their spiraling emotions? Does raising my voice ever improve the attitude of an incensed eight-year-old? Harshness may temporarily win outward compliance, but it leaves a wake of anger in our relationship.

In truth, I've held on to the premises and promises of Scripture more tightly than ever before as I've navigated the failure-fraught waters of motherhood. No other life experience has magnified my short-comings as clearly as parenthood. No other endeavor has required as much faith in God's ability to redeem me and my messes, my kids and their messes. Daily, I return to verses like these:

"He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it."
"Perfect love casts out fear."
"Love is patient, love is kind...it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...it always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
"He who is forgiven much, loves much."
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge him, and He shall make your path straight."

Which means daily, I am returned to God, who IS perfect Love and casts out fear of failure and evil and forsakenness. Through Scripture, I am pointed to Jesus, through whom we've been forgiven everything so that we will love without limit. I am reminded that I am not required to keep a record of wrongs for anybody, including myself.

Scripture shows me what Love looks like in a fallen world, and the more I ponder those glimpses, the more I love and forgive. And the more my kids are loved and forgiven, the more they will love and forgive. Through these verbal portraits of our Maker, we come to see the character of God as gentle, kind, forbearing. We learn that he hopes all things, endures all things, and believes all things for us. And we come to know in the depths of our souls how wide and long and high and deep is His love for us and this world.

We've Got Spirit, Yes We Do!

We took the kids to a professional soccer game Sunday afternoon, an opportunity provided by the kids' soccer league for teams to enjoy each other outside of practice while watching the way the pros play. None of us had been to a pro soccer game before. In fact, the kids and I didn't even know the name of the team until Josh informed us: The Dynamo!

Nevertheless, we undertook this endeavor with gusto, wearing our boldest orange and cheering from our seats in the very last row of the stadium under the relentless glare of the afternoon sun.

About three quarters of the way through the game, after the other team scored its third goal and our team continued to shoot miss after miss on the other end of the field and the huge strawberry lemonade we bought for a small fortune was empty and the sun just would.not.quit, Abby, whose body had long since given up on sitting still, announced in her poutiest voice, "I'm bored. I did NOT come to watch the other team score."

And I, who was amazed she'd lasted this long, did NOT hold back a chuckle.

Fortunately Josh, wise sage that he is, found words to calm her frustration. "That's probably how the teams you play feel when your team keeps scoring," he said with a smile and a trace of jesting detectable only to me.

And with that unarguable dose of perspective, Abby settled back in to watch the Dynamos finish the game scoreless without another complaint.