Morning Mourning

I used to be a morning person.  That was before I had children.  Now, sleep is that delicious time when no one is calling my name, and I have no messes to clean up.  It is magical.

Thus, every morning when my alarm clock goes off, I am plunged into the deepest of mourning.   To overcome the loss of my precious sleep I must battle through the five stages of grief.

DENIAL No! It is scientifically not possible for it to be morning. I seriously put down my laptop and closed my eyes five minutes ago. The time just doesn't add up.

These groggy thoughts swiftly morph into ANGER. The term "daybreak" is very fitting. Hearing my alarm makes me want to break everything within reach. The only thing keeping that annoying son of a gun from being thrown across the room is its power cord. The alarm continues, unaware its fate hangs in the balance.

I then move on to what is typically my longest stage: BARGAINING. Hmmm...I can press snooze and just not shave my legs today. Snooze 2 is just wash my hair and face in the sink. Snooze 3 and it becomes ponytail day.

At this point in my morning I reach a crossroad. Option A: I can wake up to have a moment with God before the day starts, or Option B: Snooze 4 and the children will be up before I have time alone with the Lord.

Option A is what my mind wants to do. It turns the weeping (self-pity) to dancing and the sorrow to joy.

Option B is what my body is screaming for. However, choosing this sends me into the eventual stages of DEPRESSION followed by ACCEPTANCE of my selfishness.

I have been fighting this battle within myself for my entire adult life. I like to think that I am not a selfish person. But, when that alarm sounds in the sleepy morning hours, the only person I care about is me.

How sad is that? God has done so much for me. So much. But I would rather sleep than spend time with Him?

Before I could waller in my self-depreciating thoughts any longer, God showed me this verse:

Photo by Sarah Grace Photography

I totally love that this is written with "she" in it. So much of the Bible is "he." Not that there's anything wrong with that, but when I read a "she" verse, I tend to sit up and pay more attention. Can I get a holla from my she friends?

Knowing God is helping me at the very break of day has changed me.  Trying to will myself to wake up on my own has resulted in a near decade of failure.  But now, the mornings have gotten easier.  I've even showered most of this week...but don't feel my legs.

As I war with my selfishness, He helps me...He fights me for me.

Even at daybreak.

Yesternews from Sunrise School

Well folks, I have gotten so far behind on posting the daily news from class, that we at Sunrise School have three full news reels to present you.  I can tell you are on the edge of your seat.  Let's begin with checking out the new word coined by Gideon.

"Yesternight" has become one of my favorite words.  It has spawned the use of many other yester words among the kids:  yestertime, yesterweek, yestermonth, etc.  The possibilities are endless.  I even find myself using a good yester word every so often.

Now, if you will, turn your attention back to Josiah's news from yesterpicture.  Compare that with his news from yestermonth below. 

It is nice to have a break from his standard alligator news of yesteryear.   However, this one sentence has become his standard response to anything I ask him in the classroom. Even if he is not the leader for the day.

"Josiah, what color is this?"

"I saw a big, giant snake."

Hmmm....  "What are you most thankful for?"

"I saw a big, GIANT SNAKE!"

Uhhhh.... "What did you do yesternight?"

How many times do I have to say it?  "I SAW A BIG GIANT SNAKE!"

Moving on.  This is usually the only way to end our cyclical conversation. Love that kid.

In other news from yesterweek:

Disclaimer:  I think spell check looks with a disapproving eye upon all our yester words.  It is showing its disdain of these words by refusing to proof this post.  My apologies for any errors.

Being A Mommy: NOT My Most Important Job

Not her most important job?!?   

She must be a terrible mother! 

Hang on a second, read below and allow yourself time to get good and mad.

I hear women say it all the time.  My most important job is being a mommy.  I've even heard dads say it.  Most of society hears this and releases a collective sigh.  Aww...how sweet.

Whenever I hear or see this, it makes me cringe.  In fact, it makes me want to throw up in my shoe...and then maybe throw it at the parent. 

I have been around children raised to believe they are the center of their parents' lives.  They are brats.  I have taught those children.  They are arrogantly entitled.

I love my children with a fierce love, but I pray they never think they are the most important thing in the world to me.

I'd rather show my children that being a follower of Jesus is most important.  That my decisions are based on His will for my life.  That He comes before they ever will.  That loving God, not them, defines who I am and what I do. 

Does that diminish my love for them?  In no way.  It deepens it.

So, I'm sure some Christians can get on board with this line of thought:  Jesus first, children second.  But can I?

Nope.

My children are not second on my list.  What is wrong with this lady?

My husband is second.

I want my girls to grow up knowing that I love their father with a deep, true love.  I want them to know how important he is to me.  I want them to know that we are one.  As much as I love my children, they will never replace my husband in my heart.

But now, how do I show this to my children?

With my time.  Spending daily, quality time with God and my husband, not just my kids.

With my words.  Making sure my girls know how much I love them, their daddy, and our God.

As my daughters grow, I hope they collect thousands of happy memories of us together.  I hope they see in my life how important Jesus is.  I hope they see what true love between a man and a woman is.  I hope they see that being a mother is wonderful and meaningful and deep.

And I pray they may have this for their own lives, as well.

Unrelenting Faith

Most of us have heard his story by now.  Iranian pastor Yousef Nadarkhani, 34 year old husband and father of two, was arrested in October 2009.  His persecution began when he protested a government policy requiring his sons study the Koran in school.  Afterwards, secret police arrested him for apostasy (converting from Islam) and evangelism of Muslims.

He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to death.  His case was pleaded all the way to the top Iranian court where his conviction was upheld.  At this point, he could be executed at any time.  He has been told if he will recant his faith in Jesus Christ, he will live.

He refuses.  Heaven applauds.  The world is stunned.

I look into this man's eyes and smile. This one man is rocking our comfortable world with his unrelenting faith.

We are moved by his strength.  But if all Christians do is read his story, have pity, and move on, how are we different from non-believers? 

But, what should we do?  We should pray diligently.  Not once but continually.

Pastor Yousef is just an ordinary man, like you and me, in need of divine grace to fight the good fight, to finish the race, and to keep the faith.  He writes in a letter to his church, "Your loyalty to God is the cause of my strength and encouragement."

Through the simple and mighty act of prayer, we can be part of his church.  Will you join me in praying for Pastor Yousef  and those affected by his witness?

______________________________

Sunday:  Faith to grow stronger than his fear
His church, as they worship this day without him

Monday:  Physical health as he withstands hardships in prison.
His wife, Fatemeh as she carries on the faith

Tuesday:  Mental health as he endures intense pressure to recant
His two sons, 8 and 9 years old to find comfort in their Heavenly Father

Wednesday:  Comfort from the presence of God and prayers of many
The world to have hearts to understand this that is worth dying for

Thursday:  Spiritual strength to erase doubts
Fellow inmates and jailers to see his faith and remember

Friday:  Words while the eye of the world is upon him.
Iranian officials' hearts to be softened and changed

Saturday:  Memory to recall verses and songs of comfort and strength
Christians worldwide to be spurred on to increased faith and prayer

 ______________________________

What else can we do?  Those of you that are Twitterpated can Tweet for Yousef.  You can also write a respectful letter to Iranian Ambassador to the United Nations at the following address:

The Honorable Mohammed Khazaee

Ambassador and Permanent Representative

Permanent Mission of the Islamic Republic of Iran to the United Nations

622 Third Avenue

New York City, New York 10017

Fax: 1.212.867.7086

Email: iran@un.int

More Information:

Yousef's Letter to his Church

Become Aware of Persecution

I Am Momma She-Ra

Sometimes I feel like I am a total momma failure.  I yell at my girls.  I don't have plans for dinner.  The clothes are all dirty.  The floors are even dirtier.  I just want to go back to bed.

Today is not that day.  Today I felt like She-Ra.  Princess of Power.  Twin sister of He-Man.  But better.  Momma She-Ra.  Here is my stunning likeness.  Just add five kids.

Yep.  Five kids.  Today I took those five kids on an outing.  No one died and no one got lost.  The hardest part was getting all of them in and out of the van.  After pushing and rearranging seats, they all finally fit.  Piece of cake.  Princess of Power is only slightly perspiring.

 

We went to church to make a mayhem video for Sunday morning.  Mayhem happens to be these kids' specialty, so they did great.  Oscar worthy.  Then we played in the gym.  Running, screaming, and only mild arguments.  

 

And how does a super hero get kids to leave a gym full of balls?  Momma She-Ra promises them candy from the bank brandishes her sword with much fanfare and the children happily follow. 

 

The sidekicks squeezed back into the borrowed van.  All still happy.  Mamma She-Ra gloried in her triumph.  We rolled up to the bank window to make a deposit.  The teller looked in, laughed, and asked how many suckers I needed.  When I told her five, she laughed again and shook her head.

Laugh all you want lady.  But be warned.  If you laugh any harder, I might just take my posse out of this car and bring them inside your peaceful little bank.  Make my deposit in your lobby.  Then we'll be the ones laughing.  I guess she can't see my sword from her pedestal.

The superhero club rounded out the day with a magical car wash, calendar time, Daily News, memory verses, Queen Esther, the letter E, reading, journals, lunch, nap, math, and science.

Learning, errands, and fun all day with no injuries to report.

I am Momma She-Ra.  Hear me roar.

Here's the news from those sweet babies and a few more.
To the parents of Jaycee: Did you know this?
To the parents of Gideon: If anyone can, he can.

Mildly Inappropriate

My love affair with chocolate could definitely be described as mildly inappropriate.  Truly, I consume an insane amount of the deliciousness everyday.  I am not really a nice person without it.

Hence my morning breakdown.  I had an Oreo after my breakfast of donut holes.  It was wonderful.  Double Stuff.  Mmmm.  But, upon devouring said Oreo (in the pantry so the children wouldn't see), I made an unsettling discovery.

Our house was out of chocolate.

This is not an acceptable occurrence, and one I cannot handle with grace or dignity.  Don't judge.  I have a cocoa bean deficiency.  Very rare, but very real.

I searched the freezer.  Ice cream?  Nope.  Finished that off several days ago.  Frozen cookie dough?  Nada.  Ate most of them uncooked.  Who has time when you're craving?

What about the candy dish?  Yuck.   Just a bunch of non-chocolate reject candy.  The pantry?  Finished off the Chips Ahoy yesterday, and you know the sad tale of the Oreos.

I was about to despair when I remembered the cooking cabinet.  I always have chocolate chips.  Empty.  I felt the walls of my house closing in on me.  Six children.  Can't go to the grocery store until Patrick gets home at 4:30.  What if I don't make it that long?

Utter and complete misery.  My wonderful and, might I say, wise husband bought me chocolate last night.  But now the Twix and KitKat wrappers in the bathroom trash can mock me.

Hours later I have given up hope of having a normal life.  Then, the amazing happened.

The doorbell rang.

We all jumped.  It was nap time, and no one comes to my house at nap time.  I opened the door to see this blessing:

A truly wonderful woman gave me a gift card to Godiva after Christmas.  I wished I could kiss her right then.  I had placed an order and forgotten about it.

I shouted, "Thank you!" to the startled UPS man.  I ripped open the package and started taking pictures.  I am pretty sure the awake children thought I was insane.  It is best they learn the truth now.  Maybe I'll even stop hiding in the pantry.

Ahh....chocolaty caramel goodness.  I ate an undisclosed amount.  My smile came back.  The children laughed.

It may sound crazy, but this is how I know God loves me. 

He is always doing things to surprise me.  To bless me.  To make me walk with a lighter step.

Some days it is a smile.  Others it is children who obey the first time.  It has been a card.  It has been a hug.  Today it was chocolate.  Thank you, Jesus.  I love you, too. 

Here is the Sunrise School news.  Doesn't it pale in comparison to the miracle of chocolate delivered to a doorstep in the middle of a crisis?



Death of a Fish

Our beloved fish Swimmy has died.  He was a good ole fish who served us well.  He survived a year of second grade - living through weekends and holidays of total isolation and little food.  This summer he retired from second grade and came to live at our house.

He seemed to enjoy his new life.  Then I went out of town for the weekend, entrusting the care of Swimmy and my two daughters to the husband.  Patrick was two for three.

Swimmy was belly up Monday morning.  His tank was in the kitchen.  The sink was right there.  I did what seemed natural and put him down the garbage disposal.  Didn't even think twice about it.  May he rest in pieces. 

My sister was appalled.  Apparently she thought this would have been more appropriate:

What's next?  Funerals for house flies?  Wakes for mosquitoes?  He's a fish, people!  Bless him to bits.

This fish was so beloved by all that his death came to the attention of my oldest daughter after only one week of him being departed.  Because of this, I did not really think she would be very affected by it.

I was wrong.

She cried and cried and cried.  After that, I didn't have the heart to tell her about the garbage disposal.  Maybe my sister was right.

We decided to use this as a teachable moment.  It's good to mourn.  It's ok to cry.  Let's talk about things we loved about Swimmy.  God loves us and is the only one who will never die or leave us.  You know, wise parent stuff.

Then Patrick chimes in with, "Do you want to watch Finding Nemo?  That's a happy fish movie."

Really?  More tears.  More talking.  More holding.

And suddenly the inevitable question, "Is Swimmy in heaven?"

I had no response prepared.  I was like a squirrel frozen in the middle of the road with a truck headed straight for me.  Which way do I go?  My mind froze.

Before I could stop my squirrel self, I ran to one side of the road and told her yes.  Abby's face lit up.  Thud.  Hit the wheel of the truck.  Cannot move to the right side of the road now.  It got worse.  She thinks my Meamaw is taking care of Swimmy.  Great.

Do I go back now, days later, drag my limp squirrel self to the other side, crush Abby's one glimmer of hope, and be hit by the truck's other tire?  Or do I stay flattened on this side of the road and let her keep believing a lie?

Perhaps I'll just wait till she mentions it again.  That sounds wonderfully lazy, and therefore must be the wrong answer.  But what's a squirrel to do?

If I am wrong, and there are animals in heaven, I hope Swimmy doesn't recognize me.