She opens her eyes slowly, taking in the angle of the light hitting the walls, listening for the sounds of her offspring, wondering if she has slept late. She collects her thoughts, separating the real from the fantasy of her dreams, making mental lists of what must be done and deciding what should be done first. Does she have time for a walk? Will her husband be able to talk for a minute before he leaves for work?
Often, she busies herself before her mind wanders too far. All too familiar is the path toward discontent, beginning with a scream or the sound of something hitting the floor, ending with tears and sobs getting closer to the bedroom door.
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You should have seen my to-do lists from a few months ago. So long. So many ambitious tasks to do. What? Did I think it would be fun to write “wash the windows” down on my list every day for a year? Did I really need to write “get husband to clean the garage” again and again? Hyperbole, you know. But there’s a big huge morsel of truth here, folks. And I had to stop doing one thing to discover what was missing in my life.
I stopped writing these long, ridiculous to-do lists for myself.
I had justified it by saying — it’s a brain dump.
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The message I am getting every which way I turn these days is that God is the One in charge. That it’s seriously not all about me.
See, we all come pre-programmed to be independent, to seek affirmation, to do something great, to be right, to succeed, to somehow take this flesh-wrapped humanness and make something amazing out of it that will be applauded and made an example to others. We have dreams for what we can achieve, hopes for our future, plans for how we are going to take this one life and live it to the fullest.
I am.
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I stood outside their bedroom door tonight after tucking them in, leaning on the frame, listening. Curious if they would fall asleep quickly or if there might be some cute dialogue between the two of them. Usually I break away for the computer or a book — some place to decompress after a mentally-draining day, but tonight I lingered, wanting to soak in a motherhood moment.
“Did mommy leave?” asks the younger. “Yes.”
“Didshee come in dust to top?” he says in his usual not-so-easy-to-understand 3-year-old-ese. “What?”
“DID she come in dust to talK?” he enunciated the k better this time.
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This summer proves to be an exciting one for our family with multiple camping trips planned to destinations around the western United States. The thought is that we’ll catch campsites along the way, not often staying more than one night, and we’ll get a really broad experience — a big picture view of what there is to see.
Our first tour will be Utah’s National Parks. We’re hoping to see Zion, Arches, Moab, Mesa Verde and all points in between. Great fun, right? Hiking and exploring opportunities, photos to be taken, camping out under big starry skies — I imagine such bonding memories for the family.
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Life has been very hard for me lately. It’s still hard to admit that, but getting easier as I realize that my vulnerability = grace for others. But harder even than admitting depression and exhaustion is the task of writing something encouraging for others.
I don’t have a faith-filled testimony about God carrying me through a difficult time. I’ve been neglecting time with God and turning instead to chocolate and ice cream and reality TV.
I don’t have ever-loving words to say about my children. They’ve been driving me near the brink of insanity.
I don’t have marriage counsel. We’re as opposite as ever and struggling every day to figure out how to live in the same house.
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Our pastor gave an illustration a couple weeks ago that made me smile and write some notes on my bulletin. He painted the picture of parents who finally get some time to themselves — a weekend away or just an afternoon date. The first few hours are glorious with great conversation and laughter and then she glances into the backseat of the car to check on them and he takes the Disney CD out of the player and they exchange that look that says, “yeah, we kinda miss them.”
They drive us NUTS, but yet, we do begin to miss them when they’re not around.
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My three year old struggled tonight.
Tired, but full of excuses why he couldn’t get into bed yet. He kicked and screamed, back arched, yelling “don’t talk to me!” He didn’t want me to hold him. Didn’t want me to sing. Didn’t want me to do anything.
I sat on the bathroom floor next to him while he flailed, wailing. And I waited.
He eventually calmed down and climbed into my lap, resting his head on my shoulder. I said, “do you want me to sing to you?”
His whispered “yes” put a lump in my throat. I sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children”, “God is so Good”, “My God Loves Me” and “Amazing Grace”.
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