caroline holzberger

B.s.

Brussels sprouts.

Just the sound of it makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth shudder. That particular vegetable was the bane of my existence as a child. I have vivid nightmares memories of that vegetable from my obviously scarred childhood. I can literally still envision them on my plate at dinner. And after dinner. At bedtime. And yes, the next morning for breakfast, too. Maybe that’s why I can still picture them so clearly on my plate, is because they stayed there for a very looong time.

I hated them.

I often tell my kids not to use the word hate because it is such a strong word. But, I’m a grown up, dangit. So I can look you square in the eye and say confidently, that I super-duper, royally, 110%, with every fiber of my being, hated them. And because I was somewhat (ahem.) of a strong-willed child, I often tried to call my parents’ bluff with their whole “Ok, the brussels sprouts be waiting for you for breakfast” warning.

There’s one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty about my parents…they weren’t the bluffin’ kind.

The only thing worse than Brussels sprouts for dinner, my friend, was Brussels sprouts for breakfast. I don’t care what time of day though, I mean, seriously, what child actually likes Brussels sprouts?

Oh ya, my perfect big brother.

He liked spinach and reading too. Kiss up.

And while I’m not convinced sure my mother made him eat vegetables he didn’t like, I sure don’t remember him choking them down for breakfast.

Before I was in even in kindergarten, I made a vow to myself – I will never, I repeat, never force my children to eat anything they don’t like.

Rule # 1 in parenting: Never say never.

‘Cause you will dine on those words quicker than you did your supper on joyful spaghetti nights.

Obviously, I’ve gone back on that promise. In fact, there have been many, many times I’ve forced my children to eat something they didn’t want to. Usually because they asked for it and then changed their minds. I despise wastefulness. They asked for Cheerios, they can eat Cheerios. Yes, even if they discover a box of Fruit Loops they didn’t know we had. Don’t be wasteful. Period. The way I see it, I did the birthing, so I make the rules. And my husband can make a few too, of course. Fair is fair.

So. I had to cut myself a little slack with my inner vow. Actually, I just revamped it. I will never, and I really do mean never, force my children to eat Brussels sprouts, ever!

What was that parenting rule #1 again? Shoot! My kids sucked all my brain power from me…how am I supposed to remember that kind of stuff.

Well, now I remember, dangit.

And this moment has a familiar bitter taste. Like…um…oh ya, Brussels sprouts.

The thing is…I joined a co-op recently. No, not a convent. Not a commune. But a co-op. As in ‘co-op’-eration with each other in selling food. Ok, so I just made that up. But it makes sense. Anyway. I joined this fruit and vegetable co-op in my area, and seriously, it rocks my world. For only $16.50, I get to go pick up a huge basket F-U-L-L of fruit and veggies. Super neighbor told me about it and it really did sound fun. Each week is different, so you never know what you’ll get. I gotta tell ya, this was my favorite part. I love-love-love a good surprise. Birthdays. Christmas. Engagements. And now, apparently fruit and veggies.

I used to think only weirdoes joined co-ops. Now I’m convinced only weirdoes don’t.

Seriously. I was so excited to check out my first basket of goodies. Super neighbor and I were giddy about planning our family’s meals for the weeks around these healthy foods. The cost is so small, and just look at all I got my first week.

That’s right… 6 tangeloes, 12 apples, 5 kiwi, 4 lemons, 3 summer squash, 4 zucchini, 2 pints of Brussels sprouts, 2 sweet onions, 9 bananas, 2 heads romaine lettuce, 4 green bell peppers, 6 red pears and a partridge in a pear treeeee.

ALL for $16.50! I mean, c’mon, people. You have to admit that’s pretty impressive.

But, did you notice anything familiar in on that list?

That’s right, friend. My very first week in the fun co-op world…and there’s not one, but two stinkin’ bags full of Brussels sprouts. I swear my Mom called those people.

So, I pitched a fit calmly voiced my dislike for them to Super neighbor. She was able to calm me down and bit, assuring me she would find a way to prepare them in a way I could tolerate.

God bless her. She tried.

She added butter and bacon and other things to make me feel better. And yes, I can say that I pretty much tolerated them. Sort of. Ok, I swallowed the serving on my plate before it was breakfast time, which I count as a win for me. (Me: 1, Brussels sprouts: 342)

I tried to pick the pieces of bacon out in huge bites and then just tell myself, It’s just itty bitty lettuce. It’s just itty bitty lettuce. It’s just itty bitty lettuce. – quickly followed by a huge gulp of milk. I did ok, all things considered.

Week two.

This time, Super neighbor and I went to pick up the baskets ourselves instead of sending the husbandfolk.

We arrived.

Anxiously waited in line, like we were nutso Black Friday people ready to get the newest version of Elmo doing something ridiculous.

We waited patiently. Well, Super neighbor waited patiently. I just waited. It was early on a Saturday morning and I was standing in a line for flippin’ fruit and veggies, y’all. I had my basket on my head just for fun. Those people should be happy I wasn’t snoring and drooling on them.

So, we eventually got to the front of the line…where they pointed us to the direction of our baskets…

Ooooh, our baskets!?! The anticipation was building…

We got to our baskets…began to unload them…and low and behold…another-freaking-bag-of-Brussels-sprouts was waiting right there on top.

I may or may not have exclaimed “Noooo! Not stinkin’ Brussels sprouts again!’ out loud for all to hear. And people around me may or may not have looked around, expecting to see a five-year-old, only to find a sloppy, sleepy, thirty-vnxoalish year old woman pitching a fit.

These people were pretty much all wearing “Life is good.” t-shirts and Tevas made out of wheat-grass germ or something.

I looked like a fool.

Then a delusional sweet woman offered some support, “Oh no, honey! Honestly, if you just roast them, sprinkle on some salt, pepper and a little olive oil, they really are soooo much better.”

What I said – “Oh thank you, ma’am! It’s worth a try!”

What I thought – Ya, uh- huh, lady. And then I’ll ride my unicorn to the end of the rainbow and eat cotton candy all day with the Easter Bunny. Sure.

I needed an ally. Super neighbor was way too upbeat about another stinking helping of Brussels sprouts. I was all alone.

So, I reached out to Snarky friend, who I used to trust and I’ll be darned if she didn’t say the exact same thing.  “No really, just roast them with a little salt and pepper and olive oil. I promise, they aren’t bad.”

She promised. She loves Jesus. And she knows that I know she loves Jesus. She has to keep her promise to me.

(No she doesn’t. Promise, my foot. She was a big, fat liar. I should have known. She uses agave to sweeten her coffee and she snacks on pomegranates, for goodness sakes. Traitor.)

Deep breaths. Regroup. Ok, I can do this.

My sweet Mom was visiting for the weekend, so I got the great idea to recruit her in this endeavor. I figured, if there was anyone on the planet who’d be invested in my conversion to Brussels sprout lover, it’d be her.

She even volunteered to do the roasting. Such a nice Mom, that one.

So, two days later, after she’d left and we were back into the swing of things in our normal weekly routine, I saw the bag o’ B.s (I’m tired of typing those words, Brussels sprouts. But do take note of the acronym. Coincidence? I think not.) in the far back of my fridge.

I began to pump myself up.

I can do this. I am a grown up now. I can do hard things! I am bigger than this B.s.

I was still on some type of high that came from making The-Best-Squash-Casserole-Ever. (which my kids devoured by the way) Voted on by me who’s never had it before, but it still convinced this recipe is the best. I can’t help it if my maiden voyage rocked it. Don’t hate.

That, along with my new love for grilled asparagus combined with my new addiction no kidding, I’m hooked! to The-Best-Zucchini-Bread-On-The-Planet …I was kind of on a healthy food high.

I had all I needed to rock this B.s. once and for all.

I served up some ‘red chicken’ as my kids call it. Their absolute favorite. Yes, I planned this. Give them the meat they love and it will help the B.s. go down easier.

B.s.

I plated it all up…took a deep breath…and turned on my ‘happy-go-lucky’ Mama voice, ready to sing the praises of B.s.

I even had a moment of brilliance as I remembered what yet another delusional sweet woman at the co-op place called out to me as we walked away, baskets full o’ B.s. – “Oh, and if you sprinkle some parmesan cheese on at the last minute of roasting, it’ll be even better!”

I didn’t sprinkle the parmesan cheese, my friend. I dumped it. See? I do love my children.

Then, I braced myself for what I knew was coming.

“Mama, what is that?”

“Do I have to eat that?”

“I no like that thing, Mama!”

They get their whining from their father. (Ahem.) Moving on.

Then, I gave what may be the finest mother-speech of my entire life. It went a little something like this…

“Kids, you know Mama loves you. Because I love you, I try my best to take good care of you. I do all I can to keep your sweet bodies fed with good growin’ food and not junk, because I want you to be healthy and grow up big and strong. (I can always capture the boys interest by alluding to their potential big and strong-ness. Abigail was picking her nose.) I understand why you may not want to eat this. In fact, did you know that when Mama was a little girl, she really didn’t like Brussels sprouts at all? They were my very last favorite veggie. Even, now, as a grown-up, I don’t love them. But, I know they are good for me and yes, even grown-ups have to do things sometimes they don’t want to do. And I know God wants me to take care of my body (ya. I went there) so I am going to eat them. We are going to eat them together. We can do it! Remember, we can do hard things!”

We were all so pumped up, I think I could have served them veal and shrimp ka-bobs and been ok.

We all counted down 5-4-3-2-1…take a bite!

And we all did.

It was at that very moment, my mind flashed back to my childhood. I could see the shag carpet, the 1984 Tv trays, the look on my mother’s face as I sat defiant in front of my B.s.

That taste in my mouth was back with such force, I literally had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from spitting the B.s. out and nailing my middle child in the head.

Oh no! What do I do?! I can’t spit it out. Not after that speech.

Maybe I can sneak it into the trash when they aren’t looking. How!?! They are staring at me with disgusted looks on their faces.

Why the heck did I put five of them on my plate? Five? What was I thinking!?! Abigail only has to eat two. That’s not fair.

Oh no! Benjamin’s gagging!

What do I do!?! I’ll be a horrible mother if I go back on my word to them.

But there is no way I can swallow this.

Oh God! Benjamin’s gonna hurl!

Abort! Abort! Abort!

(Muffled through a full mouth of B.s.) “Nevermind kids, hurry! Get to the trash can!

With a swiftness I’ve never seen, they all obeyed. And there, as a family, we all spit out our B.s.

My kids looked longingly at me like I was their hero. I can relate. I was my hero right then too.

Thank the Lord above that my health-nut husband was not home. He would have tried to make me stick to my guns and set a good example. Darn his integrity. But, I would have thrown up. Guaranteed.

I did not set a good example for my kids that day, my friend.

I told them one thing and then did another. I blew it.

That was not my finest Mama moment, that’s for sure. And the more I thought about it, the more I stressed out about ‘passing down’ this hatred for Brussels sprouts.

It is going to be my fault these kids don’t like Brussels sprouts! And fish! And Chinese food! Oh no!

That didn’t last too long, because seriously, if that’s the worst baggage I give them, they’ll be fine.

But, it did get me thinking…what else am I passing down to them?

What baggage am I heaping onto them because I haven’t let God deal with it?

I would imagine (this may be a stretch) that if I’d been cooking Brussels sprouts all their lives in various ways with various flavors, they’d have no problem with them at all.

But, because I hated them and never fixed them, they too now hate them and won’t eat them.

Because I live fearfully and not faithfully, they too live in fear and doubt their faith.

Because I choose worldliness over holiness, they too choose to befriend this world and its ways.

Because I judge a person by their skin, they too will carry predispositions about people they’ve never met.

Because I don’t submit well to my husband, my boys may get walked all over by their wives and my daughter may never understand the blessing of serving her husband.

Because I act in anger and impatience, they too can’t control their anger and feel entitled.

The parent’s list could go on and on.

But, the bitter taste in my mouth stays the same.

Being a parent is the hardest job ever. I take that back. Being a good parent is the hardest job ever. You are a teacher every single minute of every single day, like it or not. Those little eyes are watching every move you make. Every TV show you record. Every snide remark you say in traffic. Every obsession you make about the way you look, or the way others look. They are soaking it up and forming habits that help shape how they see this world – and themselves.

(Gee, Caroline, no pressure.)

Friend, I can’t help it where God speaks to me.

Trust me, I’d just assume He’d leave Brussels sprouts alone. But, He didn’t. Since that night, I’ve been thinking a lot about the baggage I am giving my kids. And this goes much deeper than a distain for Brussels sprouts.

I’m talking about –

Fear.

Lack of discipline.

Insecurity.

Pleasing others.

Complacency.

Legalism.

Pride.

Envy.

Those alone would fill a baggage cart and cost a fortune when priced per carry on.

That’s just the thing. I’ve been visualizing all of this baggage and it’s making me more sick to my stomach that Brussels sprouts. And that’s saying a lot.

Thankfully, my precious friend, we can throw that junk down at the foot of the cross. Jesus died for our baggage. He wants to carry our baggage. He can transform our baggage. Believe it or not, He can use our baggage for our good and His glory.

But, friend, we gotta lay it down. We’ve gotta be aware of it – be resolved against it – and be strengthened by the only One who can handle carrying it in the first place.

So, let’s release this B.s. Let’s be humble and admit we can’t do this thing on our own. Let’s let Jesus take charge and lead us to raise up a generation that shines brighter than any before. A generation with less baggage and a more firm foundation.

I know if I let God truly deal with the baggage I have, then I won’t feel nearly as bad keeping our home a ‘Brussels sprout free’ zone…forever.

Besides, I’m fairly convinced they won’t be serving Brussels sprouts in heaven. Well, maybe they will. But, there…they must be good!

And I leave you with the happiest  not clean plates I’ve ever seen. 🙂

Hello, My Name Is:

Do you know my name?

No, really.

I am wondering what your answer is.

Could it be, Caroline?

Carrie?

Pele?

Mrs. H?

Coach H?

Crazy woman?

It all depends on how long we’ve known each other and in what capacity our paths crossed.

Did we dance to ‘Lean On Me’ or share s’mores over a camp fire? If so, you are awesome and an absolute treasure to me! Love, Pele

Did I try to teach you algebra or volleyball? If so, you too are a treasure to me and I hope you remember ‘You Are Special! You are the only YOU the world will know, ever!’ Love, Mrs. (Coach) H

Did we share good times over NKOTB or Green Day? If so, please don’t post old pics of me. Ages seven to seventeen were my awkward years. Not. Cool. Love, Carrie

Or maybe we’ve spent time digging into God’s word together, or swapping Mama-woes amidst the screams of the McDonald’s play place. If so, I truly thank you. I can’t do this life without you. Love, Caroline

When I first discovered planet earth, in 1979, my parents purposely named me Caroline, without any intention of ever actually using the name. They liked the name Carrie. And despite the random warnings from strangers that I would be cursed and never asked to prom, they stuck to their guns and called me Carrie. (I did go to prom solo though, just for the record. Coincidence? Maybe.)

This was the name I went by for the majority of my life thus far. Until college graduation. I was now officially a grown up with a fancy piece of paper stating I was capable of molding young minds in the classroom. I had interviews to schedule, resumes to create, and a career to begin. I was tired of correcting people every time I handed them my resume. “Oh ya, sorry, I actually go by Carrie. Sorry.”

This often threw people off. “Carrie? How did you get Carrie from Caroline?” “Well”, I’d respond, “I didn’t get Carrie from Caroline, I just got born.” Sometimes people would even give me a back-handed compliment, “Oh, you don’t go by Caroline? That’s such a beautiful name. I really like the name Caroline.” Ok, obviously Carrie is a crappy name, thank you very much.

So, in interviews, I just stopped correcting people. But, then I was actually hired by one of them. And since I failed to correct my principal prior to her introducing me as Caroline to the entire faculty, that sealed the deal.

So, here I am…that person who decided to go to their grown up name once they were…well, a grown up. And, although I’ve been pleased with my decision, I think this club I joined is looked down upon by others. There’s some sort of assumption that those of us with ‘big girl names’ are conceited and ostentatious. I have received looks before from people who I know are thinking, “Oh wow. Aren’t you special with your big girl name? I guess you’re somethin’ else then, aren’t you?”

No, Tristyn, I’m not. And to be honest, Kylie, I’m kind of a fan of both my names. I love that my family along with my oldest and dearest friends still call me Carrie. But, I am happy to be Caroline from here on out. You call me when you’re seventy and look silly.

The Bible is chock-full of people who know the importance of a name.

Just ask Saul, I mean, Paul.

Or Abram and his wife Sarai.

Don’t forget Simon, who became Peter.

Or Jacob, renamed Israel. From ‘deceiver’ to ‘God prevails’ – talk about a name change to celebrate.

That’s how I feel…like celebrating!

I believe your name matters.

It is an important thing.

Warning: Soapbox moment – We all have pet peeves, this just happens to be mine. I am fairly annoyed with the new trend of naming your child that is sweeping the nation. People choose some sort of funky spelled version of Matthew (Math-you, Mathyew, or Mathu for Pete’s sake… Or should I say Peet’s sake) or they name their child after some sort of inanimate object or office supply. I mean, seriously!?! Can’t you people take up water colors or something to express your creativity? Find a different outlet, for the love of everything pure and holy, and let your poor child have a hopeful future, not an embarrassing one.

Ok, I’m back.

Because I understand how important a name change is, it is with great prayer and consideration that I have decided to change the name of my blog.

Almost exactly two years ago, I began this blog. I can’t believe it’s been two years. What a ride. Not one I would have chosen on my own, but God sure allowed it. I chose the name “Praising God From My Couch” because that was my life. That was what I had to wake up every day and do to survive. Just to get through the day, the week, the month, the year. I still feel passionately about praising God from my couch, but lately TO HIS GLORY, I haven’t been on my couch much. I have been praising Him a lot more from my stove, my minivan, my backyard, my lane in Wal-Mart. Praise GOD! And since that would be a very long name…”Praising God From My Minivan/Backyard/Sideline/Toilet” I’ve decided to move on in joy.

I still love my couch. It’s stained, warped and lumpy. It’s been through a lot of extra stuff than a normal couch should expect. We have a lot in common that way. But, friend, I want you to know God met me on this couch. My best friend wisely reminded me “Take care and look fondly on the couch groove… it’s where God made you more like Himself.”

Amen, Linds, amen.

So. It is with great joy and tear-filled-eyes that I change the name of my blog to “My Nutsy Faith”. No, it’s not a typo. Nutsy. Not gutsy, but nutsy. Although one letter different, still very close to each other. I have had to have a gutsy faith over these last few years and it has almost sent me to the nutso looney bin. But, I believe God gave me this name for a few reasons.

First, I had a profound experience with an acorn this last fall. I bet you didn’t know someone could be so moved by a nut. But, I will never forget it. Ever. And now I can’t see an acorn without being reminded of His abounding faithfulness.

Second, if you know me at all, then you know I am an absolute nut. Like, seriously. And, I’m not the only one. You have to be nuts to be my friend. My closest nuts can attest to that for sure.

Lastly, I love where I live. My home is my haven. My safe place. My refuge. Our humble abode is surrounded by about a hundred and fifty towering oak trees. I really love my trees. Because of this, our land is covered with acorns. Cov-ered. It has afforded me the opportunity to often remind my kids of how big God is. “Can you believe that all God needs to make one of these huge oak trees is already all-wrapped up inside this little bitty acorn?” Abigail couldn’t believe it. “No way, Mama!” “It’s true baby girl. This could be a mighty oak tree someday!” She still can’t wrap her head around it.

After all, she is her mother’s child.

Four years ago, if you would have taken me out for ice cream I’d be your best friend and laid out for me, month by month, what my world was going to look like for the next few years, I would have said the same thing. “No way, Lord!” To which God would have faithfully replied “It’s true, my child. You could be mighty for me someday!”

I probably would have run screaming in the other direction been scared. Thankfully, God didn’t give me the choice. Thankfully, He knows I’m nuts and that without Him, I’d have no future at all.”

So, my precious friend, thanks for being here. Thanks for reading what God says to me and through me.

For the last two years, I have been blessed to invite you onto my couch. And now, God willing, I invite you to many other areas of my world, as well.

So, welcome, my fellow nuts.

I’d offer you a seat on my couch to chat…but how ‘bout we go for a walk together instead? In Jesus’ Name!

And all God’s children said…

The Tale of Happy Wetpants

Once upon a time, in a land on my street not that far away, there lived a young-ish girl, named Happy.

Charming, friendly and jovial…Happy loved life.

God blessed Happy with the ability to see sunshine in the rain. To exchange a half empty glass of milk for a half full one, and add chocolate syrup as well.

Happy loved her God. She loved her prince. She loved her three baby happys.

She loved her small, special world.

But, as God would allow —

Down came the rain on Happy’s small, special world.

Followed by gale force winds, tornadoes and earthquakes.

Time floated on and Happy remained weak. But her God remained strong.

After years of what felt like constant rain, sleet, and plagues of locusts snow…the sun made every effort to peek through the dark clouds.

Happy rubbed her eyes, squinting as she turned her head towards the clouds – and she grinned.

Her sunshine was back.

She was back.

In her pre-locust plague life, Happy spent her days as active as can be. If the sport had an inflatable ball, Happy played it joyfully. Then time floated on, and Happy discovered decade number three. She’d heard rumors of it, and now it was here. And it was real.

Happy also had three sweet babies — Smartypants, Sillypants and Sassypants. They loved Happy and her prince and she loved them. Although her heart was full, her mind could not deny now her body felt more like a deflated balloon than a well-oiled machine.

Her muffin topped.

Her top dropped.

Her faucet leaked.

But, still she was Happy.

She desired to keep her name through the good and the bad and thank God for them both.

Some days were easier than others.

Today was one of those days.

As a step forward in faith, Happy went about her day like any happy mom would.

A trip to Wal-Mart is a must. Clipping coupons, price matching ads and three kids in school made for a normalcy day Happy spent years craving. Five new friends were made before aisle four, and Happy just kept getting happier.

Thank you God for strangers and the opportunity to scatter some of your sunshine.

Then, it happened.

Soccer practice.

Long before wrinkles arrived in Happy’s world and paper mache ankles proved weak, this was the pastime she held most dear. Most of decade one and two were spent proudly with shin guards on and grass stains abounding.

That little black and white ball made Happy…well, happy.

It was part of who she was.

Was.

But she hasn’t been for so long.

After all, this was the decade number three…the one that changed everything.

This decade slammed into Happy with fierce intensity.

Rain. Sleet. Snow. A hurricane or two.

She’d almost forgotten about this fun way to run, with the ball at her feet and the wind in her hair.

But her precious Sillypants reminded her…of the smell of the grass, the sound of the cleats, the sight of the net whipped backward by her beloved ball.

Happy was happy.

In a moment, Happy ran like she used to, or at least somewhere close. Closer than she’d been since decade two. Kicking felt like breathing…something she was meant to do.

So, this is what running feels like?

Her body had all but forgotten, but her heart smiled at the rebirth of her speed.

As her smile stretched clear across her face and the wind whipped her hair, a prayer offered up her heart’s sincerity.

Thank you dear God, for this moment of freedom. Thank you for soccer. Thank you for allowing my sweet Sillypants to watch me run.

He stared at his HappyMama as if he’d never seen her move that way before. Well, he hadn’t. The tornadoes and hurricanes have beat against his happy home since he was a baby.

“Wow Mama, I’m proud of you! You did great at your running!” her precious Sillypants cheered.

Her heart overflowed.

Happy knew she was back. Or at least a part of her was. A part that felt young. A part that felt healthy.

Happy rubbed her eyes, squinting as she turned her head up towards the clouds — she grinned again.

But in that moment of thanks, Happy came back to today; the day of reality, sometimes harsh, sometimes brutal, sometimes sudden.

Other times, hilarious.

Because it was in that brief moment of freedom, Happy’s body felt the limitations of its reality.

Her muffin topped.

Her top bottomed out.

Her faucet leaked.

That’s right, her faucet leaked.

Now? She thought.

Not now! her heart begged as she gazed at her surroundings, filled with joy, laughter and people she knew well, but not that well.

“Yes, now” was the reply of her body. Right. Now. And again two minutes from now and four minutes from now. In fact, with every step of your run, and every laugh from your soul,

“Leak, I will”, said the faucet.

With no one around in which Happy could rely on…she was left to have this moment by herself.

And laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

Where were her friends now? The ones who’d bought galoshes for their feet and storm doors for their hearts so they could ride out the bad weather of these past few years by her side.

Where were they now, to share in this joy? To celebrate this moment? To point and laugh at their ridiculous friend, Happy Wetpants?

Happy was left to celebrate this moment with the only One who really had been there every moment of the storms. Every dark cloud, He knew by name.

And, yes, God giggled.

Because Happy’s God is a God of joy.

He is a God who desires praise whether your skies are blue or black. Whether your pants are dry or wet.

“Give thank in all circumstances”, says Happy’s God.

All circumstances?

Yes.

Even this one?

All.

So, today, for sunny days and rainy days, for soccer, and even for leaky faucets and for the humor to soak it all up…I thank you God.

Er, I mean…Happy thanks You.

The end.

My Wet Hiney

Boys will be boys.

This phrase is so very true.

The other day we had a play date. A major play date.

My kiddos are now 7,5, and 3. Two boys first, and then sister friend.

Our best friends live across the street. Huge blessing. They have three small kids too, ages 5,3 and 1 ½. All boys.

Today, one of my very favorite friends came over. Her kids followed her. They’re 7,5,3,2, and 6 months. Yep, that’s right – five kids in seven years. Five children of her very own, here people. Four boys and then baby sister friend.

So, is anyone keeping track here?

I know I am.

That’s eleven children under the age of eight. Eleven little rascals running around like crazy monkeys.

Now you know why I called it a major playdate.

Technically, her baby sister friend isn’t mobile – yet. But, still. Even ten kids under the age of eight is nutso. See!? This was just a simple race. We started with ten competitors…

 

 

 

 

 

 

And within four seconds, we lost two. Sheesh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve known my Super Neighbor since I was nineteen. Gosh, that’s been juxznclf-ish years! And my Fav Friend and I go back at least four years. I actually can’t remember exactly when we met. I had two kids and she was pregnant with her third. You do the math. I’ve always loved hanging out with each of them. But then I introduced them to each other and now they’re great friends too. You’re welcome. Hmmm, maybe they should buy me a thank you gift.

So, when we all get together, we do our very best to have at least one full conversation before we part ways. About parenting, about Jesus, about stinkin’ stretch marks – maybe not in that order. But, even though we mean well, it generally ends up being a little like this…

Me: “Oh my goodness gracious, did I tell y’all about…”

Super neighbor: “Buddy, you cannot pee-pee in the wagon!”

Fav friend: “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10…ok, they’re all there.”

Me: “Anyway…so it’s the funniest thing…”

Fav friend: “No sir. You know you cannot drag your brother around with the jump rope.”

Me: “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9…10…ok, good, I thought we lost one.”

Super neighbor: “Ya, that would be bad. Wait, who was talking?”

Me: “I don’t know.”

Super neighbor: “Was it me?”

Me: “Maybe.”

Fav friend: “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…wait…1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8…..uh-oh…which ones are missing?”

Me: (looking frantically) “Shoot! Why can’t it ever be one of the oldest, responsible ones we lose track of? Why does it always have to be the little ones who eat lawn fertilizer?”

The kids play. We count to ten. Everyone gets dirty. We count to ten some more. And we each go home thinking, “My husband is getting fixed.” “Didn’t I have something I wanted to tell them??”

It’s pretty awesome.

This day was no different as we sat outside and enjoyed the glorious weather.

It was loud peaceful. The view was stressful beautiful. The conversation was non-existent meaningful.

This joyful bliss was only interrupted by the occasional pee-pee dance. You know the dance. Boy starts bouncing a little…grabs his crotch…bounces a little more…now two hands holding tightly as he screams to whomever is in earshot…”I gotta go peeeeee.”

Whichever Mama wasn’t nursing baby sister friend (For the record, we don’t help her with that, we ain’t ‘that kind of friends’), bandaging a knee, or giving a lecture to a time-out victim, automatically had potty duty. As luck would have it, that was most often me.

I took two of my kids, ten or twelve of their kids and even myself inside a few times to go potty. My sister friend is potty trained but never seemed to have to go that day, so these trips were all boys, all the time.

Do you know what I found every single time I went into the bathroom? Mothers of boys do!

That’s right…the toilet seat was up.

Every. Single. Time.

You would think I’d know to look for this, since I live with two little boys and one man-boy myself. But, to be honest, my man-boy is a very faithful seat-putter-downer, and he is teaching our boys well. For the most part, they remember. And for the most part, I remember to look before I leap.

That day, I didn’t.

That lack of knowledge cost me two wet hineys. Not one. Two.

As I recovered from the second dunk, I wondered how many times a day us three Mamas say “Put the seat down!!” all added up together. Ten? Twenty? A thousand?

Every time I got in there, I was reminded of the fundamental truth of our jobs of being a stay-at-home Moms — very few things we get done, stay done.

Bang!

No that wasn’t the sound of the toilet seat going down…remember, I forgot to do that.

That was the sound of God’s loving 2×4 to my head.

I can’t speak for my friends’ sin, actually I can, but I won’t, hehehe but I know the junk in the deep, dark closet of my heart. I can’t even estimate how many times God has worked on a thing in me, and then three minutes later I’ve forgotten it altogether.

Don’t envy your friends. I know, Lord, I won’t.

Bang! The toilet seat goes back up.

Nothing good you say or write is of you. Yes, Lord, I know.

Bang! The toilet seat flies back up.

True submission is not only by action but by thought. Yes, Lord, I know.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The toilet seat shoots up quickly and repeatedly on that one.

Sheesh.

Nothing God does ever seems to stay done with me, either.

Can you relate at all? Please say yes.

I used to think that these two friends in particular couldn’t relate at all.

Super neighbor, I saw as the direct descendant of Martha Stewart, Emily Post and Rachael Ray all in one. Her cooking was glorious. Her gatherings were heart-warming and memorable. Her home was directly from Southern Living. Darn her.

My fav friend has five kids under seven and she home schools…like, on purpose. I told her if she started sewing their clothes, we couldn’t be friends anymore. Her parenting is consistent. Her children can quote their weekly Bible verses. And she takes them to the zoo, the aquarium and the museum all in the same week, without needing seven additional adults anyone to help, like I would. Darn her.

They seemed to be Super-Moms and I wasn’t even sidekick material.

Fortunately, I have gotten to know them better. The more I got to know them, the more chock-full of sin I’ve discovered they are. They are cracking up right now!

My point is this: We all have things in life that God does, and re-does, and re-does again because we can’t seem to keep His Work done.

Pride.

Jealousy.

Gossip.

Worldliness.

Selfishness.

God puts that seat down, and we flip it up and leave it up…again!

Romans 7:21 “So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me.”

But, thankfully, if we repent to God, He doesn’t give up on us.

1 John 1:9 “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

And we don’t give up on His Work.

James 1:4 “Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

We read His Word. We behave accordingly.

James 1:22 “Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.”

We fight against the ways of the world.

James 4:4 “You adulterous people, don’t you know that friendship with the world is hatred toward God? Anyone who chooses to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God.”

We humbly accept His grace.

James 4:6 “But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says: “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.”

We begin another day, toilet seat down, hiney dry, heart pure.

Friend, we can do this!

I can’t wait for God to walk into my heart-bathroom, labeled ‘pride’ and see that seat down.

Never thought I’d type that sentence, but it’s true.

Strive for it with me, will you?

Say it to yourself, over and over if necessary –  “Seat down! Hiney dry! Heart pure!”

But, not out loud…people will think you’ve lost your ever-loving mind.

Honk the Horn!

I love to honk the horn in my precious minivan.

It’s fun.

The only flaw is that most people see my horn honking as a bad thing. Personally, I think each vehicle needs to be supplied with a friendly horn and a frustrated horn. They can have a happy face and a sad face on them.

Someone cuts you off and races around you, causing you to slam your brakes on. Frustrated horn. Honk the sad face.

Someone has a precious blue vintage beetle that makes you smile. Friendly horn. Honk the happy face.

I also think there should be a honk odometer keeping track of your weekly honks.

Friendly honks – twelve.

Frustrated honks – seven hundred thirty nine.

Time for some Jesus time, friend.

Yesterday when I was in the drive thru line at the bank, I got in the inevitable slow lane. We sat, I put the van in park and the kids and I kinda rocked out to some music. Five or six minutes later, we were still rockin’. Still in park.

During that time, at least five cars pulled up into the other two lanes, done their money business and moved on about their day.

I thought about changing lanes, but I already had my flip flops off and was sitting Indian style in my seat. I was comfy. We were in no hurry, so I waited.

Another five or six minutes go by and the kiddos start getting restless.

Then I hear, “Mama! Why is this taking so long!? How come the other lines are going faster and that car in front of us is soooo slow? Mama, honk your horn!”

I was speechless.

Did those words just come from my precious five-year-old Benjamin? Surely not my Benben.

Now, I love each of my children dearly. I celebrate their differences, praise their good qualities and pray for the negative traits they were bound to inherit from their Mama. They each have different qualities that are simply God-given, not nurtured by me…that I adore. My eldest, Jacob, is steadfast. Honest. Dependable. His trustworthiness and strong conviction of right and wrong, challenges me to be a better person. Abigail, the baby of our party of five, has spunk. She busts my chaps every single most days but I kind of love that about her. She is independent, strong-willed and strong-minded. I admire her ability to lead, to hold to her truth and to be loyal. I pray the Holy Spirit ropes that girl in, because she could do some serious damage to the enemy’s plans. Then there’s Benjamin. Our middle child. He is caring, loving, self-less and has the most tender, precious heart ever. He is my darling and  faithful cuddle-bug. He feels big. If he’s sad, he’s devastated. If he’s happy, he’s elated – and usually it’s in your honor, not his own.

So, to hear those selfish, impatient words come from his mouth, of any of my kids, it stunned me.

Shock turned quickly into deep disappointment.

Not in Benjamin. He’s five.

But in the world he’s living in.

Friend, raising kids in this generation is going to be a fight. You better be putting on that armor (LINK) and training every day, cause this thing ain’t gonna be easy.

I heard somewhere that our kids, right now, are being raised in Generation E.

E stands for Entitlement.

E stands for Excess.

Can somebody say amen?

My father grew up very poor. Like, one pair of shoes to only wear to school, his Mama made his underwear from flour sacks and he didn’t have indoor plumbing ‘til junior high kind of poor. This is not my grandparents, this is my Dad. Someday when I’m able to move all the words I have in my head and my heart about this around in a way that honors him, my aunts and uncle and the memory of my grandparents, I’ll write about it.

Until then, I just go look in the playroom of our house. Not only do my kids have toys, but we have a whole room devoted to them. A whole room of our meager-sized house, just for toys. We are not wealthy. My husband is in public school education and I am a homemaker. We live by a very strict budget of cash each month that barely gets us from one thirtieth to the next.

Yet, there sits our playroom. Full.

After the shock of Benjamin’s statement wore off, I was able to find some words to say to him.

“Ya know what buddy. That lady in front of us is very important. We are not more important, more special, or better than she is. She deserves to have as much time at the bank window as we do. Jesus wants us to love other people first and biggest. Not ourselves. Other people. He wants us to serve other people and put what they want up higher than what we want. That doesn’t mean you don’t ever get to be first, or biggest or best. You bet we can! But, in our home, because we love Jesus…we won’t think we always deserve it. The moment you start thinking you deserve it, is the moment we are going to sit down and pray for our hearts to be more kind and more loving.”

Congratulations Caroline, you are such a wonderful mother. Blah, blah, blah.

This is not a “be-like-me” blog, people. I wish you could know how many times a day I blow it big time. I’m happy to tell you all of them if you want to sit down and chat with me for a few weeks hours. This is a “come-with-me-as-I-desperately-try-to-be-like-Jesus” blog. That’s all.

But, this particular moment hit me so hard, because it was such a jolt into the reality of our culture. If my precious Benjamin can want to honk the Sad face horn, then anybody can. I know I sure can.

So friend, as I write this, I just want you to stop, take a look around and see if you are actively fighting this war against Generation E, or if you are feeding the beast.

Do your kids have chores? Like real ones that aren’t fun and easy. Character building chores that they do for the simple reason that they are a part of your family, not because you’re going to pay then ten bucks.

Do they ever fail? Get picked last? Not make it on a team? Forget a homework assignment at home? Not get invited to a birthday party? Leave a store with no treat? No toy? Just a simple – NO as the answer?

I pray, for your kid’s sake, you had at least a couple Yes answers in there. Hopefully more than a couple.

C’mon Caroline, don’t get all up in my grill about this.

Sorry. Too late. The Holy Spirit got all up in my grill about it…I’m just sharing the love.

I care much more about my kid’s holiness than their happiness.

In fact, as weird as this may sound, I am glad for their unhappiness sometimes. As my man always says, “This is a character building moment…whatcha gonna do, Buddy?” I love that man.

Kids who are raised in a home that professes to be a “Christian home” should look different. They should be servants. They should be humble. They should be forgiving, and honest, and hard-working.

Because life is hard. And leading a God-honoring Christian life is ever harder. Sin feels easier sometimes. So often it’s way easier to be the bad parent. To give in to their whining. To buy the toy just to shut them up. To run their homework up to school for them so, God-forbid, they don’t face a consequence. The older my kids get, the more and more I realize that raising good kids is hard.

But, I stole a phrase from my precious friend, that has sunk down deep into my soul and changed me.

You ready for it??

“I can do hard things.”

I think my buddy Paul said something like that too.

So, honk your horn or not?

Fight against this Generation E or coast along with it?

“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” (Joshua 24:15)

And we will serve our neighbor.

And we will serve a stranger.

And we will serve each other.

We. Will. Serve.

We will not honk, unless it’s the happy face honk. We’ll do that all day long…cause let’s face it, honking is fun!

Joshua 24:15 “But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your forefathers served beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.”

Mark 10:45 “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

Philippians 2:3-8 “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death–even death on a cross!”

Silence Ain’t Always Golden

Strep throat sucks.

Have you ever taken a few glass bottles, put them in the blender, and then swallowed those shards of glass, every five minutes for three solid days?

No? Well, me neither. But, I sure know how it would feel if I did.

My precious middle child is a magnet for everything. If there is some illness out there to catch, Benjamin will catch it. And, I love all over that kid often because he’s my only cuddle-bug. Hence, the Shards of Glass Swallowing of 2012.

Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as a stomach bug. Nothing beats a stomach bug. Been there done that. But still, strep is So. Not. Cool.

I went to the doctor immediately to avoid another wicked inner ear infection like I had a couple months ago. They gagged me with a Q-tip to check for strep. Then, they proceeded to tell me it would take three days to “grow”. I’m fairly sure this nurse was using my gunk for her kid’s science fair project. Because I knew at this very moment, Benjamin was at the pediatrician’s office down the road and they get results in six minutes flat. Literally. I’m pretty friendly with our pediatrician and he bragged about his quick test once, so I counted down for him “Ok show off…3-2-1..Go!”, just for fun. Sure enough- six minutes. Done. Three days my foot.

Strep or no strep, I desperately needed my doc to give me some sort of high pressured numbing foam to spray in the back of my throat like they spray insulation on all those home improvement shows. Like, now. Chloreseptic was a joke at this point. Worthless, except in giving me cherry flavored breath. It was time to call in the big guns.

I got an antibiotic in the form of a pill – not a big gun.

The next day I felt like I’d have to die to get to feeling better. So, they shot me in the hiney with a new antibiotic and sent me to the ENT for further expertise, because yes, it really was that bad. Like, almost-emergency-tonsillectomy-kind-of-bad. Awesome. ‘Cause that’s what I need in my life is more medical drama than I already have.

It actually only hurt when I tried to breathe, swallow, talk, or move. So, as long as I avoided any of those things, I was golden. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to make it without breathing, swallowing, talking or moving for very long – but, it is fairly impossible.

That is when it began.

Silence.

I never lack for words. Understatement of the millennium. In fact, I think God gave me a double-dose of words each day, as a gift to those around me. My husband isn’t so sure about that. I’m pretty sure I stole half of his daily words too. He has like twelve. He says to me, “Baby, it’s not like I’m shy. I just don’t feel the need to have to talk to everybody I see all the time.” Well I do. Hmm…was that an insult? Moving on,

This particular time wasn’t a chosen vow of silence to sit back and reflect, ponder, appreciate.  It was forced upon me as cruel and unusual punishment. It was annoying. It was painful. It was inconvenient. And it came with a 101 fever.

I did however, learn a lot as a Mom this week.

First, you can still yell at your kids in a whisper. It actually sounds pretty movie-monster-scary. You should try it. 🙂

Second, whistling loudly should be a required course taught to all new mothers before they leave the hospital with their newborn. Snapping and clapping just don’t cut it. Plus, you look like an idiot.

Lastly, kids are hilarious. It literally took days for mine to realize that Mama couldn’t talk, not just that she wouldn’t talk. Of course then, two things happened; they thought because I couldn’t talk that I also couldn’t see, so they tried to get away with murder. Wrong. Even funnier was how they thought they had to whisper at me too. As if their talking loud would hurt my throat. This was hilarious, because my middle child, aka ‘the strep-giver’ doesn’t grasp how to whisper. His idea of whispering is quickly mouthing the words while making wild hand gestures.“Buddy, I can still hear you just fine. Speak! I  have no clue what you’re trying to ‘whisper’ to me!” That kid’s gonna rock charades someday.

But most importantly, I realized silence is not always golden.

In fact, sometimes, I think silence is red. Like when the man you love all of a sudden gets down one knee, and in that instant you know your life will never be the same. Or the first time you hear the infant cry of your newborn baby. One part melody, one part velociraptor equals love at first sight. In a heartbeat, you realize that your heart is now traveling around on the outside of your body. Those moments take your very breath away. Red silence is precious. Red silence is priceless. Red silence is love.

Other times, though, silence is black. That was my reality this week.

When I was right out of college I taught Math and coached middle school volleyball. I absolutely loved it!! I adored one particular group of girls and we all became very close! But, this week I received a phone call from one of those precious girls, now a young woman, “Coach H, I don’t know how to say this. I have terrible news.” Then she unleashed the truth into my world that the one girl we all loved and admired on that team, committed suicide the day before.

She was sunshine. She was creativity. She was brilliance. She was joy. She was twenty-two years old.

That is black silence.

The kind of silence where you have no words, no breath, only unrelenting tears. Black silence at the realization that I now have to speak in the past tense when I talk about Jordan. Black silence as I watch her nineteen-year-old brother grip the hand of his seveneen-year-old sister as he gives a eulogy I’m sure he never thought he’d give. Depression sucked Jordan down into a deep, black hole that she was unable to escape from. Her brother begged us all to remember Jo for how she lived, not for how she died. That boy had to become a man that day, as he is now the oldest child, without his even wanting to be.

That silence is the deepest black I know.

No, friend, silence is by no means always golden.

During my week of silence, the truth I learned, and had to live out, is that silence is only golden when it is given to the One who created heavenly streets of gold.

Matthew 11:28 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Ahhh, rest. Sounds good, doesn’t it? That Greek word for rest is anapauo, meaning “to cause or permit one to cease from any movement or labour in order to recover and collect his strength”

That silence is golden.

That silence is purposeful. Its purpose? so that you may recover. So that you may gather up all the strength you spent and reclaim it again. The rest of the verse goes on to describe the benefit we receive from resting in Him –  “and you will find rest for your souls.”

This week of silence, friend…my soul desperately needed that kind of rest.

And you know what, it found it.

Every single time I took my silence to Him, He blessed it.

He renewed my strength, just like He said He would. (Isaiah 40:31)

He gave my heart peace, just like He said he would. (John 14:27)

He gave rest to my soul, just like He said He would. (Matthew 11:28)

If we are willing, God will take the very thing Satan intended for evil and He will use it for good. (Genesis 50:20) But, my precious friend, that is a big if.

Silence can be deceiving. It can seem quiet on the outside as you close your eyes to relax your soul…but it’s really raging on the inside. Grocery lists. Things to do. Can’t forget this. I’d better remember that. Noise. Noise. Noise.

I challenge you to true silence. Inside and out.

Seek Him. Give Him time of complete devotion and utter silence.

If you have to hide in your closet at 11pm to attain this – do it!

Psalm 19:14 “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

Silence is golden.

But, only by the reflection off the crown of the King of Kings.

Otherwise, friend, it’s just a lack of noise.

I love you, Jesus.

And, I love you, Jo.

Amen.

The Spider in My Closet

Right now, my friend, I am haunted by two things.

One is a phrase I heard at a Christian writer’s conference. They suggested that if you have a blog, your entries should be no more than 300-500 words.

I laughed out loud.

(Crickets chirping.)

Then I realized he wasn’t teasing. Can you say, awkward?

“You should be able to be interesting in 300 words or less.”

Are you stinkin’ kidding me? That. Is. Not. Possible.

My opening sentence alone could very well  be 300 words. In fact, friend, with very little effort, I am quite certain I could blow through 300 words simply telling you all about how I simply cannot be interesting in 300 words. The only reason I am telling you this is because I truly have tried to start making my blog posts shorter. But, 300 words? Seriously!?! Ain’t gonna happen. But, you’ll still keep reading, right? Huh? Please still like me.

Whew. Deep breaths.

The other thing haunting me right now is the reason for the title of this post.

The spider in my closet.

I just got home from Worship Wednesday at my amazing church. Before that I had a women’s leadership council meeting. Before that I switched my kids’ closets from winter to spring. Before that I had Bible study with my girls. I’m tired just typing about  it. So, after a very long day, I am flat out beat. But, friend, my heart is full.

Anyway, after kissing my man and taking a picture of our daughter who had fallen asleep on his lap…

… I went to my sweet little chaotic closet. As I began to throw off my constricting clothes I hate bras and joyfully embrace my comfy pajamas, ahh, hello sports bra But, then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move.

I jumped. Like, literally jumped up into the sky!

The poor, but not at all little, spider had plenty, and I do mean plenty of places to hide on the floor of my closet. This, my friend, is the understatement of the century.

So, I knew something moved, but I didn’t know where or how I would find him.

But, I knew I had to find him, like now.

A very small part of me thought Forget about it, you’re tired. Go to bed. He won’t stay in there.

But, that’s just it. He wouldn’t stay there. And immediately I started imagining all the places he would go.

My purse.

My bath tub.

Abigail’s ear. (Yes, I’m ridiculous)

Shudder.

I couldn’t just ‘forget’ that he was in there, acting all spider-like in my closet. No way. No how. I almost woke up Ryan to help me with this daring hunt. But, he was already asleep. How the man could sleep with such a vicious beast in lovely wife’s closet, I have no idea.

So, I prepared myself with the best kid-meal toy we have ever received – a bug-catcher. This little plastic device has caught hundreds upon hundreds of bugs at our house. No, we aren’t filthy people. We live amongst hundreds of trees and my sweet hubby doesn’t believe in pesticides. God love him. Alas, we have a well-used bug-catcher instead.

I was now armed and I thought I was pretty dangerous.

I had to find this thing. I wasn’t going to let it go.

Not wanting to squat down, for fear that he would crawl into my pants leg. I stood tall because I figured this would intimidate him much more once I found him. At 5’5”, a spider is the only one intimidated by my height, that’s for darn sure. So, I chunked my shoes out and froze in anticipation. Nothing.

I kicked aside the pile of can’t-quite-fit-in-these-yet-clothes. Froze. Nothing,

Lightning fast, I grabbed the pile o’ purses in the corner and jiggled them in a scary, very intimidating type way. Froze. Nothing.

I kicked aside a basket, rolled my laundry hamper out onto the tile, growled and jiggled the plasctic stacked “organizing” drawers (ha!). Froze each time. Still nothing. Which surprised me, because if I was a spider, I would have been terrified at that growling noise!

Then I saw my boots.

My precious new rain boots. Friend, I’ve wanted fun rain boots for years. I’ve desired so badly to be ‘that girl’ who skipped along in the rain, trendy and happy, completely unaffected by the puddles surrounding her, instead of the flustered, disheveled girl with four inches of wet denim at the bottom of her jeans. I’ve never been able to justify in my head spending thirty bucks on them, though, so my wonderful parents got me a pair for my birthday. How fun are they?

(I am so praying for rain now, friend!)

So I wasn’t mad until now. Now the stinkin’ spider had crossed the line. He better not have crawled into my brand new, never-been-worn, precious rain boots.

I carefully peered down into them, shook them a bit and nothing. No movement. So far, so good. Then, in a Charlie’s Angels type karate move, I kicked them over and froze in a position I can only describe as a thirty-something mom-of-three’s version of the Karate kid crane move that won him the trophy. Ya, like that, but not.

Nothing crawled out. Whew. Good.

Then I saw it.

On the bottom of my new precious boots were the remains of a dead, crushed cockroach.

Yuck!

But then it hit me I was scared of something that didn’t exist.

All this time I wasted hunting down a fierce spider that I had convinced myself was a rare breed from East Africa that somehow made it over to Keller, Texas in an overseas shipment. One bite and you’re a goner.

I couldn’t go to bed and rest until I got this vicious spider out of my closet. But, friend, there wasn’t a spider in my closet after all. All that time wasted on a measly little cockroach. Talk about a waste of my time and energy. Look at the mess I made, all for nothing.

Friend, do you have a spider?

Something in the deepest, darkest closets of your heart, that you are scared of? Affected by? Changed by?

Is something keeping you up at night because you are scared that it is creeping around your life where you don’t want it? We all have some sort of fear.

Failure?

Losing a loved one?

Financial distress?

Never becoming a wife? A Mom? A person of worth?

Jesus is the ultimate bug catcher. He wants desperately to catch everything in your heart that keeps you quiet and feeling afraid and alone. The enemy of our souls would love nothing more than for you to stay quiet, scared and losing sleep over this thing.

I want to tell you that you don’t have a spider in your closet after all. You have an enemy named Satan. And while he is real, he is not as scary as you thought.

Scripture tells us that God didn’t give us a spirit of fear. It also tells us that Satan is the father of lies. When you are losing sleep, or wasting awake time fearing this thing, Satan wins. Trust me. I hate to admit it, but Satan has gotten quite a few tally marks in his win column on my behalf.

No more.

Join with me and realize that this big, scary, poisonous spider, is nothing more than a silly cockroach in Jesus’ eyes. To us, we see fear. To Jesus, He sees victory.

Beth Moore made a fabulous point in her ah-mazing Bible study on the book of James, that I just finished…

“Scripture by no means presents God and Satan as equal opponents. One is Creator. The other is creature. God could exhale the next breath and blow Satan to oblivion like a million shards of glass. The Father lest Satan exist and exert power and influence until Kingdom purposes are served. Satan is smart, vicious, and sly, but spiritually speaking, he also has a collar on his neck and a leash on his back, held tightly and rightly by the sovereign hand of God.”

Amen and amen!

So, let’s call it what it is – fear – lso known as an attack from the enemy. Join me, friend, because as of today, we won’t stand for it anymore. Constantly give it over to Jesus, every minute, every hour, every day. Shower Jesus with praise and thanksgiving. Keep your mind focused on the good He is bringing and not the junk the enemy brings.

We can do this, with God’s help alone.

He will clean out our hearts, and God-willing, my closet floor. 🙂

Ps. It rained today. Thank you, Jesus.

Word Count: 1,422 🙂

I Caught it From…

This time of year is infectious lovely.

As long as you don’t have kids or ever touch anything, anywhere in public – ever.

The flowers are blooming and the viruses are spreading, friend. It is what it is.

Pink eye. Gotta love that gunky one.

Sinus infections. That ‘snot’ fun. 🙂

Upper respiratory infection. Oh great, now the thing has traveled. Awesome.

Stomach virus. Whether it’s throwing up or throwing down, either way, it ain’t fun.

Bronchitis. This one sounds awful all night long. Literally. All. Night. Long.

Pneumonia. It’s like bronchitis’ wicked step-sister. Brutal.

The flu. I ache just thinking about it. And of course now a days it’s not just the flu. There’s all types of weird strains that don’t just knock you out for a week, they knock you out forever. Whoa.

Between the months of November and March, there is nowhere that is safe. Nowhere.

You see a friend post on facebook that all three of their kids got strep throat all in the same week um, that would be me and so you make a mental note to avoid that family for at least two months weeks.

You pick your kids up from the church preschool and immediately rush them to the minivan, which you have turned into a homemade fumigation center. Then, you burn their clothes.

You go to the school party and sit next to “that Mom” who casually mentions that her kiddo was throwing up yesterday, but “sure seems fine now.” Daggars from my eyes.

Aside from hunkering down to do a little homeschooling, and living off your garden for a few months, there’s no way to avoid it. You are bound to catch something from someone.

But, isn’t it funny how none of us want the blame. We hear of a kid with pink eye and immediately say “Oh that’s awful! We have been clear for months, though, he didn’t get it from us!” There’s something about us that doesn’t want to be the one responsible for spreading the junk around.

This was my thought process just yesterday. I received an email informing me that there was yet another case of pink eye at my son’s school. He had pink eye about three weeks ago. I read the email and my very first thought was “They didn’t get it from us! We’ve been clear for weeks!” Of course somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that my kid probably gave it to a kid who gave it to two more kids and then they gave it to this kid. But still, I didn’t want to admit that they caught it from us.

Thud.

That wasn’t the sound of the toilet lid slamming open ready to be ‘filled’. That was the sound of God’s sovereign 2×4 to my head.

As I sat there in my “they didn’t catch it from me” mentality, God basically said – Ok, so what are they catching from you?

Ouch. Sometimes conviction really does sting. As well it should!

Friend, we are all spreading something around. We can say that we aren’t, but we are. Some if it isn’t as pretty as the rest. But, we can’t go one single day without being contagious. So, I guess my question is, what are people catching from you?

Joy.

Bitterness.

Wisdom.

Materialism.

Pessimism.

Optimism.

Peace.

Fear.

You are spreading something to every single person you meet, and I just would like to challenge you, like God challenged me, to figure out what it is.

Maybe you, like me, need a good self-evaluation to lead you toward a more healthy life. If you ask me, there are far too many of us who claim the Name of Jesus who are in desperate need of a big ol’ shot of Him from our great Physician.

Luke 6:43-45 “No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks.”

Take a minute and read that one again.

No, really. Do it.

What kind of tree are you, friend? You can claim to be an apple tree ‘til you’re red in the face, but if your trunk and roots are surrounded by fallen pears, then I hate to be the one to break it to you no, I don’t, but you-ain’t-an-apple-tree! Also, is your answer consistent with the answer given by your spouse, your kids, your housekeeper, or the single Mom who waits on you at the restaurant that you tip 8% to?

If you have a relationship with Jesus, it is supposed to show. People out there are supposed to be able to look at your life and tell that there is something different about you. Something that just doesn’t fit with this world we live in. And that something, is Jesus.

Do you give freely?

Do you love openly?

Do you care genuinely?

Or are your loyalties based on whether or not someone votes Republican or contributes to social security?

What are you spreading around?

Because, friend, if it isn’t Jesus…it’s worthless.

Galatians 5:22-23 “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

This is what we should be spreading! We are called to take the bad from within and allow the Holy Spirit to replace it with the good from above, so we can share it with the world all around.

But, how, you ask, can I do that? Like this –

John 15:4-5 “Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. [5] “I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”

Stick tight with Jesus. I mean, like, right up in His grill, kind of tight. Wash your hands from the filth of this world and share a cup with Him. You will catch what He has – I promise!

1 Thess. 5:11 “Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.”

Phil. 2:1-2 “If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.”

1 Cor. 13:1 “If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”

James 1:21 “Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.”

Romans 15:13 ” May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

May you start overflowing all over everyone you see! Friend, this time of year, especially, as we approach the celebration of an empty tomb…let the world around you say they ‘caught’ Jesus. And give Him glory when they say they caught it from YOU! Then, you watch how He spreads from them, to their friend, and then their neighbor, their teenager and Mother. You just wait. He will spread!

Ps. I do, however, feel the need at this point to give a few healthy reminders to “that Mom” out there.

1. If your kid has thrown up, or thrown down, DON’T GO ANYWHERE for at least 24 hours after the last episode. Not the first episode. The last. Wait a FULL day at least!
2. Pink eye must be symptom free for 24 hours to be ok. Not “His eye was gunky this morning, went to the doc at 8:00am and did drops all day. Nope. Wait another day.
3. Green snot is not “ok snot”. Please stay home.
4. Just because your kid doesn’t have a fever and is “acting like himself” while he is on Motrin, doesn’t mean he is ok. That’s just the medicine doing its job. The kid is not well until they need NO meds to feel better. Than wait 24 more hours.
5. “We can’t miss church” is not a good enough excuse to bring a sick kid there. The temple has been torn down. Jesus is with you at home. Listen to a podcast. Watch a TV church. Play some praise and worship music and study the Bible yourself! Just don’t bring the sick kid to church. Please.

Please follow these ‘sick-kid’ guidelines. Even if they have to miss Western Day or a class party. I am sure that Moms around the world will agree when I say that I will gladly dress my kid up in cowboy boots again and bring the while class party favors if it means your kid doesn’t get my kid sick…again! In Jesus’ Name 🙂