What Do You Do with Fifteen "Free Minutes?"

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The other night I was waiting for dinner to finish cooking and realized I had fifteen unspoken-for minutes to do with as I chose.

How Do I "Do it All?"

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I've spent a lot of time pondering why many of us are too busy. I devoted two chapters in my book listing the reasons we do so much. But lately I've come to realize some of my assessment of people's hyperactivity has been uninformed and unfair; there's another, more noble reason some of us over-commit and over-do: there is simply no one else willing to do what needs to be done. At least, not in plain view.

Even though I'm presently trying to juggle being a wife, mother, homeschooler, housekeeper, minister, speaker and writer, I am also extremely tempted to take someone into our home for the simple reason that she has no place to go. Even though my husband and children are 100% on board with it, I know for a fact this would raise some eyebrows, shake some heads and wag some tongues. I can hardly blame anyone for feeling I need to have my brain extracted and rewired.

The Eggnog Disaster and How it Saved My Daughter's Life

Recently a friend was describing to me one of her saddest childhood memories. Every day she’d come home from school to an empty house and relax on the couch in front of the TV for a while. Inevitably she’d hear the unmistakable sound of her dad’s footsteps approaching the front door. She’d jump up, turn off the TV, and try to look busy as he greeted her with the same three questions every day:

Have a New Teenager in Five Minutes

Thanks, Dr. Leman, but sometimes I don't feel I can wait until Friday to put an end to the cold distance and eye-rolling of a fifteen-year-old (but I do recommend your books!).

If you parent a teenager, you know how a cold shoulder from your own flesh and blood can cloud the brightest of days and weigh your spirit down with feelings of sadness, guilt and downright misery. And you'll do anything to bring it to an end.

Or will you?

I Just Want to Be a Mom--Sincerely, the Preacher

I never signed up, exactly, to become an author and to plant a church at the same time, all the while mothering four kids and trying to be a good wife. In fact, I’ve spent years judging others for having too many irons in the fire (confession time!). Suddenly, I’m meeting publishing deadlines and preparing sermons and hoping my kids have eaten breakfast.

Joyce Meyer says it’s almost become fashionable to be too busy. If that’s true, I’ll dress for comfort, thank you very much. But these days, it seems I have no choice.

Some of my friends have expressed envy—they’d love to have a book coming out, a ministry pedestal and the like. It is to those friends I must continue confessing the truth:

Have Yourself a Slacker Little Christmas

I relax here beside my old synthetic scotch pine and realize that Christmas is one week away. There are seven days left to do all the things they say one has to do this time of year. And yet…

No presents have been wrapped.

My Daughter's Deep Dark Secret

I noticed this morning that Anna has been distant lately. An alarm went off inside me, since nothing in this world is as important as keeping my kids and hubby close. So I set aside my beloved laptop and squeezed Anna's big thirteen-year-old bubble butt next to me on the green la-z-boy. (Please understand that I am giving my daughter a huge compliment here. She takes after the other side of the family in this regard. I would have given anything to have a butt like that at that age. Or at any age for that matter.)

Putting my arm around her, I asked, "What's wrong? Why do you seem so far away?"

She answered in typical teenage fashion: Silence.

I tried to make it easy, to coax verbiage out of her like I sometimes wish Dave would do for me (Honey, you're sulking because I didn't notice your dress. Is that it? Getting better at this mind-reading thing, aren't I?)

I asked Anna, "Is it me?"

Nope.

"Is it anyone in this house?"

Nada.

"Is it something you did?"

More shaking of the head.

"Do you just need more lovin's?" That's usually it. But not this time.

"Honey, you know you can tell me anything."

She furrowed her brow and huffed. I knew she had something to say. Suddenly she burst into tears and I thought, This is serious. (Because not only does that side of the family have well-rounded buns, but they are normally very emotionally even-keeled.) This is the day my daughter is going to tell me that she is running a meth lab out back. Or dating a pedophile. Or wants to pierce her tongue. (Even mothers of the most angelic children have these kinds of thoughts flash through their minds in such moments.)

I braced myself. Maybe it won't be so bad. She wants to be a nun. Or join the army.

"It's Ferdy!" she sobbed. "He likes the P--'s pond better. He has friends over there and he's been lonely since Dorothy left and I miss him!" The snot was flowing now.

"This is about a duck?" I supressed a chuckle. "I mean, this is about your duck!"

I hugged her tightly, grateful for a problem that could easily be solved with a quick trip to Craigslist. After a few minutes of browsing through listings of five-dollar Pekins, laying hens and pedigreed rabbits, Anna jumped up and went to bake cookies.

What about you? Have you squeezed your teen today?

Applebees and Flat-Screened TV's

     

The other day I went to Applebees for a little R&R (Ruthie and Rebecca).  The two kids had Bookworm Club cards to redeem for free meals. Settling happily atop spinning seats, we ordered lunch, and began working our way through the trivia and puzzles on the kids’ menus. Not five minutes into our “girls’ day out,” the restaurant manager glided over asked my children what TV station would suit their dining pleasure. That’s when I looked around and counted nine flat-screen TV’s in our immediate seating area. Beyond that, I stopped counting after eighteen.

I wish I could tell you that in that instant, I politely told the man that the decision was up to me, the mother, and that my girls and I were spending quality time together--which for us, translates into the dying art of dinner conversation. I wish I could say that I sent him slinking away, red-eared, with the remote control cradled in his armpit. But caught off guard by his strange offer, I heard myself sheepishly reply,  “Do you get Animal Planet?” And with a click, our girl-time went down the drain as R & R sat mesmerized by a show on the rescue of abused and decaying dogs. When it got graphic enough to elicit more than a few frowns from neighboring tables, Channel Surfer turned the girls’ attention to another screen, flashing with transformable superheroes and villains.

Sitting there watching my two young barstool potatoes, I felt violated. I had not put my work on hold and driven twenty-five miles in a gas-guzzling Suburban and eaten transfatty food to let my kids vegetate in front of a TV screen.  And yet I realized this is where we’ve come to as a nation. Families that spend mealtimes staring at the tube, stuffing their mouths full and ignoring each other, are no longer confined to the American living room. “TV dinners” are now a dining-out sensation. Applebees, I guess it really is “a whole new neighborhood."

Snitchin' from the Kitchen

Last Sunday one of our daughters was found stealing marshmallows from the church refrigerator (Well wouldn't you be tempted? The seat can only sit beneath a tummy's rumbling and a preacher's rambling for so long). In our dwelling, the punishment must fit the crime, and so it was decided that the aforementioned would go without sweets for the rest of the day.

This was acceptable until our dear friend Xiu Yun, petite owner of "The Famiry Wok," gave our children a package of orange-almond cookies. When Dear Daughter realized what her snitchin' from the kitchen cost her, she ran up to her room and fell into a torrent of tears strong enough to soak through the knotty pine-lined ceiling. Ruthie, listening to the despairing cry, sat and studied her cookie. Suddenly she jumped up and with wide-eyed revelation pled, "Can I give her half of my cookie?"

I smiled. My damsel in distress had been rescued. A few minutes later a red-eyed little girl and her sacrificing sister were chomping on cookie halves, their legs swinging wildly beneath the table.

Isn't that what Christ, our Brother, has done for us? Seeing we had stupidly cheated ourselves out of forever enjoying the good pleasure of the Father's Kingdom, Jesus willingly offered us a share in His inheritance. He couldn't bear to see us go without all the joys intended for our lives here on earth; He couldn't keep the gift of eternal life--power over the grave--all to Himself. He could only be happy sharing it with us. That desire cost Him dearly.

And I wonder, when Father God looked upon that sacrifice, if He felt what I did when I looked into Ruthie's hazel eyes that day---the joy that comes when "mercy triumphs over judgment" (James 2:13).

Lessons from Narnia

Monday, September 12, 2005 at 7:19 PM EDT

Today the main floor of my log cabin is suffering from housekeeper's neglect. The carpet is coated with Polly Pockets and cracker crumbs. Dirty sheets make the air stale. A mother's work never ends....

The messy rooms beckon, but I choose to stick to the afternoon reading routine. Anna, Sarah and I sink into the couch along with last night's popcorn kernels. I thumb through The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to find the chapter in which Aslan is killed.

I like this classic because it takes all the work out of teaching the gospel to my kids. The parallels are obvious . We are falling in love with Jesus all over again through Lewis' portrayal of the lion that's "not safe--but good."

Understanding dawns in my girls' eyes as I read about Aslan and the White Witch striking up a bargain to let punishment-deserving Edmund go free. I sense their sorrow as Susan and Lucy follow their beloved lion friend through the midnight forest to the Stone Table. There his devilish enemies bind and shear him, mocking and jeering at how lamb-like the once fierce King of Beasts has become. I hold back tears and read that Aslan could have easily bitten off a wolves's head while they muzzled him....how with one great roar he could have sent his torturers running...And about the damage that might have been done with one blow from his giant paw.

But he didn't rescue Himself.

I ask the girls why Aslan would allow such a thing. They understand he is giving himself over to the death that Edmund was due, according to the Law of the Deep Magic. Blood must be shed for the traitor to go free.

I close the book momentarily and look into the faces of my young daughters. "Girls, we are Edmund."

Little Anna gasps and proclaims with sudden revelation, "How Jesus must love me!"

She rests her head on my shoulder, reflecting. I notice the sunbeams streaming through the window and think about gardening chores lost to yet another afternoon indoors. My mind drifts back to the dirty bedrooms I could be transforming. The achievements I won't soon realize, the careers I may never enjoy.

I turn again to watch my girls' watery, sober eyes as they consider Aslan...Jesus. How He loves them.

Quiet, you dusty shelves. Hush, you lofty ambitions. I am content in this moment. And most fulfilled.