The Power of Dinner

 Yesterday was the first day of school for my kiddos and it was certainly a departure from previous years. We decided to take a last minute vacation last week so we missed "Meet the Teacher" on Thursday. It's not usually a big deal so I didn't think a whole lot about it. Neither of my kids are new to the school and they both are comfortable with the building and staff. I figured we'd just take our supplies in on the first day, shake hands with the teacher, take a picture or two and that would be it.
Mom Fail.
Both of my kids, the boy and the girl, started having mild anxiety Sunday night that escalated into Monday morning. Both started questioning,"What if I can't find my classroom?" and "What if I don't know my teacher?"
We talked them down, explaining that we would, of course, walk them in and help them carry the supplies. We talked about how we would go with them to introduce our family to the teacher and say, "Hello!" It would be fine. It was fine.
After school I was so excited to hear all the details of the day. I wanted to know who they sat with, what their schedule looked like, and how awesome their teachers are. I was met with tired, overwhelmed silence and a few grunts.
Enter the power of dinner.
We decided to have a celebratory dinner at one of their favorite burger joints and as the lemonade and fries were ingested the words slowly started spilling out. Shelby knew all of her teachers first and last names, their cities of origin, and their favorite football teams. She had a sense for which one is going to be her favorite and which one is going to have the strictest classroom. She told us about a new friend who moved to our town only a week ago and an old friend that she was happy to reconnect with.
Seth told us about recess and lunch.
I've always known the value of a family meal. I've been a long time believer that sitting down together is a bonding experience and allows kids and parents to talk to each other about things other than punishments or instructions. Last night was a great reminder that sometimes they just need a little time to decompress after a day of over-stimulation. Dinner is a non-threatening place for them to share casually and for their dad and I to learn fabulous tid-bits about the day and about the kind of people they are becoming. Our dinner was not fancy, nor was the conversation, but both were valuable components to ensuring the health of our family. Time spent together is like a shot of vitamins to our relationship. I want to make sure family dinner time is a priority in our lives.

The Digging and Burying of Poop

There's a trick to teaching a dog not to dig. Have you heard the poop tactic before? This is a nugget of information that people with small, pocket size dogs probably don't need to know. It's crucial, however, when you own a horse dog.
Pocket dogs could dig and dig and dig and you'd have to fill a hole with a teaspoon. Giant breed dogs dig for two minutes and you fall in a hole that carries you to Middle Earth.
So the trick is this...it's gross so hold on...you bury the dog poop. When Frank was a puppy he showed tendencies towards a desire to dig. A wise dog trainer told me to simply place a turd or two into the hole he has been digging, bury it, and he will have no desire to dig in that particular place anymore. The hard part about this training technique (like all dog training) is that you MUST be consistent. Every hole, every area of the yard, every start of digging must be filled with poop and covered.
I did this for about a week. I had to watch him like a hawk. There was no letting him out the door and walking away. I would let him out, stand behind the window curtain like I was a poop carrying James Bond, and watch for him to dig. I would run out, say, "No!" in a loud and firm voice, and then pick up my shovel.
If you're asking how we had that much poop to fill all the holes then you don't own a Giant Breed and this information is not for you.
I haven't had to think about burying poop for several years. After that one week of training, Frank gave up digging. Some say it's because the dog feels it has sufficiently spread it's own scent throughout the yard. I say Frank had mercy on me and was tired of seeing me running with a shovel filled with poop.
This week I am pet sitting a lab puppy that likes to dig. I have begun the poop burying process again. The trick is knowing which poop is his from the pile of daily scooping.
I realize right now that my life may appear very glamorous. Try not to be jealous.
I actually had another thought this week though, as I was burying poop. There have been countless times in my life when I have been incessantly pursuing something. A thing, an idea, a goal, whatever....that isn't healthy for me. I think back at how many times God has said, "Stop! That's not good for you. Put that down. Let go of that. Walk away." I generally will put down whatever the bad thing is and step to another area of life and start digging.
What would happen if I asked God to help me bury the bad? What if I said, "God, I don't want to mess with this harmful thing again so I need you to get the shovel" and then fully laid it down? I'm assuming the scent of a buried past would help me to avoid digging up old holes again. I feel certain that God has some blessings he's been holding out for me that I haven't been able to see because I've been too busy digging on the other side of the yard.  How many rests by the fire or walks down the lane have I missed out on with my Father because I was obsessively digging holes?
Healing doesn't come in questioning the what-ifs but in making a conscious decision every day to ask God to bring the shovel. Healing comes when I can have peace in my heart, knowing that God wants more for me than obsessively searching for something that is outside of his will. Healing comes when I hand all the poop over and not dig it up again.

Pie and Margaritas Don't Feed Bromeliads

A dear friend gave me a bromeliad plant for my birthday. I was touched because it's a beautiful plant and I'm really trying to turn my brown thumb green. She leaned in and said, "Read the tag. It's just like you."
The tag says, "Durable plant. Dramatic central flower."
We laughed, probably a little too much, at how true a statement it was. I am durable and strong. And dramatic.
It's amazing the difference a few days can make. Last week I was in a place of thankfulness and peace. I was strong and durable. I was praising God for another year of life and honestly feeling like I was pretty close to having this whole "life" thing figured out. I might have given lessons if the opportunity had risen. That's where I was.
Then I went back to work. I engaged people outside of my home. I interacted with that life that I thought I had mastered. I fell flat on my face.
The first situation was one where I realized I had been left out of something I deemed as important. My pride was hurt in such a deep, slashing movement when I learned that the world was able to turn just fine without me. While my logical brain knew that to be true, I've never claimed to spend too much time in my logical brain.
The second situation was dealing with a difficult person and thinking I could handle it all on my own. "I don't need to bother God with this. He's busy. I'm familiar. I've got this." Never have more prideful words been thought.
The third situation came last night when someone said something online that was so insensitive and hurtful and revealing about his true heart that I'm not sure how I will recover.
Scratch that. I do know how. I'll start with laying it down in God's lap. Then I'll not make a pie.  I relied on pie and margaritas the past couple of days, knowing full well that while delicious, neither lend to a durable Tamara.
So let's recap. My plan to move forward in life, get back on the track of awareness and thankfulness includes:
1) Lots of Jesus
2) No pie
3) No margaritas
I'll eventually have pie again. I know I'll partake in margarita's again. There's no reason in my world for me to not enjoy those things. What I want to avoid is putting them before Jesus. When I hand my life to him and submit to his will for me, I can be a bromeliad. I can be durable through the power of Jesus.

Happy Birthday

I love my birthday. I love my birthday much more as an adult than I ever did as a child, and I really loved it as a child.
My birthday is the 4th of July, which means it's shared with everyone in the USA. The great part is that most people have the day off and are expecting a party. The bad part is, well, I guess there is no bad part. It's a great day to have a birthday.
When I was little we always had a party with barbecue chicken, potato salad, and cake. My mom made the best cakes. I usually requested white cake with strawberry filling and she'd cover it in butter cream that would melt in your mouth. She made the most beautiful roses from butter cream and she'd put them all over my cake. They were almost too pretty to eat. Almost.
I don't make barbecue chicken anymore. Mostly because no one in my family like barbecue sauce. I make a cake, although this year I made a pound cake. But we still party. We invite friends and family and we just enjoy the day.
I think the enjoyment part is why I love my birthday so much. There was a time, 17 years ago, when I thought I would never feel joy again. In the months after my mom's suicide I slipped into a place so dark and engulfing that I wasn't sure I'd ever make it out. My life was in danger and I didn't know how to climb out.
God is good though. He picked me up from the mire and I am not just surviving but I am living. I am blessed beyond measure with a loving husband and precious children. I have great friends who love me and stand with me every day. God is using me to bless others.
My birthday stands as a reminder to me that God is faithful and loving and that I matter to him. It is an anniversary of life and life is a gift. It's a gift that shouldn't be squandered, which is why I strive every day to be the woman God has created me to be. I want to learn and grow and know more about who he is. I want to experience his love richly and I want to share that love with others. And if that means I have a kick-off party each year that includes sparklers and cake...then it's all the sweeter.

Barbie Houses Are Better With Friends

I knew this girl when I was little who was being raised by a single mom. This was scandalous in our small town as there weren't that many single moms. Actually there were probably a lot more than I realized but within my very small town I lived in a small bubble that included my elementary school and my Southern Baptist church. Hence the scandal... that may have only existed in my own head.
Anyway, this girl was beautiful. She had naturally curly hair and dark, smooth skin. And by dark I mean darker than mine, which is about 92.3% of the entire world. She had long, feathery eye lashes that batted over deep brown eyes. And she had the Barbie Dream House. And Barbie Corvette. And all the Barbies. All. Of. The. Barbies.
I had Barbies. I had a Barbie Town Home. I was not at all Barbie deprived. But in my head, this girl had all the Barbies and I really wanted to be her friend so I could play with her Barbies. I've been shallow for a long time.
So one day I finally scored an invitation to her house for a play date. Although they weren't called play dates in the early 80's. I don't think there was a name for the playing. It was just playing. I wore what I felt was about my coolest outfit and my mom drove me over to her house. I brought a Barbie of my own, you know, just in case we needed a spare, and it's a good thing I did. What I didn't know was that a play date with this girl meant that you go to her house and watch her play. I was not allowed to touch anything. Not the Barbie Dream House or anything inside. Not the Barbie Corvette. Not any of the Barbies. It was maybe the worst play date ever. And to make it worse, her mom checked in on us several times, saw what was happening, and did nothing.
Flash forward 30 years.
My daughter invited a sweet friend over for a sleepover. They swam, ate dinner, watched cartoons, and got ready for bed. I poured a glass of wine. Went out on the back porch and put my feet up. Suddenly I see my daughter at the back door and she's crying.
"My friend wants to go home. You need to text her mom."
I was so confused. They had been laughing and playing and having a swell time the whole evening. How could things have gone so terribly wrong that I was going to now ask this girls mom to get out of her pajamas, put on a bra, and drive to my house to retrieve her child?
It turns out that the friend had touched my daughters things. Her precious junk stacked ever so hoardingly on her dresser had been touched and knocked over and then, in a manner that can only be described as cuckoo, my daughter had shamed her friend and made her feel no longer welcome in our home.
This is where I flashed back to the Barbie play date.
How did I raise a kid that can't share? She has a little brother.She went to preschool before elementary. She's a Girl Scout. I thought I'd put her through all the sharing courses.
Apparently not.
She was so angry and tried so hard to justify her behavior that my head was spinning as I listened to her. I tell you what...parenting should really come with a better hand book.
Since that night, we've had several other eye opening experiences where I've seen that sharing and cooperating with peers is not her strong suit. My mind is blowing because she's so sweet in most situations. Situations that don't involve her stuff. She prays for others on a regular basis. She knows the Golden Rule by heart and has scriptures about loving others posted on sticky notes all over her room. Apparently you just aren't allowed to touch them.
Knowing what to do and actually doing it are often two very different things. Paul even wrote about it in the Bible so I know this isn't a new problem for this generation. It's yet another matter of the heart that I have to wrestle and teach her how to wrestle. That's what parenting is, right? I can't wrestle it for her but I'm going to need to coach her through it. I have to help her see that this is a battle worth gearing up for because you have to know how to be a friend before you can have friends.
And having a Barbie Dream House is more fun if you have someone else to play with.

4 Years Later - An Over Night Success

A few years back we made the decision at our church to move the wildly popular day time VBS to night time. We invited the entire family to be a part of it. We served dinner. We offered a class for adults.
You would have thought we were suggesting a sacrifice of puppies on the alter.
"Why would you KILL something so good?"
"Why do you HATE the children?"
"Who do you think you are, changing our ways?"
These are only a few of the responses we got with this decision. They came in the form of phone calls, emails, text messages, Facebook messages, stops in the grocery store, with lunch invitations, and my favorite...a drive up to my front door. Yep, someone drove to my house, knocked on my door, and, in front of my children, asked me why I hate kids.
It wasn't easy and I questioned the decision at least a million times. The thing I kept going back to is that if we say we are a church that values families then we have to invest in families. If we say that we want to bring families together for the benefit of the Kingdom of God then we have to create environments for families to be together. If we say we want parents to be spiritual leaders in the home then we have to give them the tools to take the leadership out of the hands of the church.
And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, you have to get rid of something that is really good to make room for something else really good. The sucky part is that some people didn't measure "really good" on the same score card I felt God had required me to start using. The change was slow. It was four years slow.
There were a few people on board from day one. Thank God for those people because I would've thrown in the towel when the first mom yelled at me. There were a few people that came on shortly after. I thank God for them because it was a sign that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't such a crazy idea after all. There were a lot more people that took a lot more time and, well, I thank God for them, too.
This year was wild. And by wild I mean running out of tostadas and kids dancing in the aisles wild. Which brings me to the moment I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God had led our team down this path for a reason.
On the first day of VBS this year I got a call from a woman at a local shelter for abused women. The women at this particular shelter are fresh from abusive situations. Most have taken their babies and what they could carry and no more. They have no where else to go. The woman at the shelter told me that they had 4 women with several children that they wanted to bring to our VBS. They couldn't pay us and couldn't promise that they'd be back. There was no question. Bring them all.
I won't lie and say I didn't hesitate when I found that some of the kids coming were teens. Our VBS uses teens as group leaders and helpers and I wasn't quite sure where I would plug these kids in but I knew they all had to be invited.
I never met the moms that night. I didn't want to single them out and be like, "Hey, I hear you're homeless!" I smiled and welcomed them and I hugged their kids but I never spoke specificalities to them. What I did see though was in the closing. When the band was playing a song about the one-of-a-kind love of Jesus and the Jam Team was clapping and dancing, one of the little girls threw her crutches down (I have no clue as to why she was on crutches) and slid out into the aisle. She danced her heart out. She balanced on one leg, raised her arms, and sang at the top of her lungs.
For one night, that little girl got to be a part of something joyful and fun. She got to do it with her siblings and her mom. Their whole family heard a message of Jesus' love and it's powerful healing abilities. The mom heard a message that God desires that she be loved and respected and the kids got to run and play.
This year's VBS was a win in so many columns that I may need to make new columns. God is so good and I am so blessed to be a part of what he's doing in his kingdom. While I would've loved to have seen an over night success and people jumping on board immediately, I am grateful for the       journey and looking forward to the road ahead.

Hanging On

Some days you just hang on. I'm not sure where this pig came from or who dressed him in such finery but he hangs on to the top of my desk thermometer and watches me work. Every now and then he gets knocked down by a wild file folder or a flying ink pen. I'll find him laying on the floor, legs sprawled in distress, and I gently place him back on his perch.
There's something about this little guy that makes me smile. I appreciate his hanging ability. I get that feeling. VBS is next week and I feel like I'm just hanging on. The details are all coming together. I have plenty of help. The supplies are sitting in large boxes, piled haphazardly in my office. It's coming and it's going to be great - I know it in my logical brain. There's always an anxiety that rises in my illogical brain however, the week before as the what-ifs and what-abouts rush in like bayou flood waters. The self doubt, self pity, and selfishness whisper loudly in my ear and beg for me to let go of my faith in a God who always comes through. They whisper like a 4-year-old whispers in church - it's really a hushed yell - in an effort for me to take my eyes off of my Father who loves me, loves family, and loves the idea of blessing families.
In an effort to fend off the whispers I wore my comfy clothes to work today, stopped for a giant coffee, and have turned the praise music up loud in my office. It's going to be a great day, VBS is going to happen, families are going to be blessed, and I'm going to hang on through it all.