Triscuits or Wheat Thins?

I used to buy Triscuits. Now I buy Wheat Thins. If you are a mom, you may know why I switched. If you are a mom and have no idea why I would make such a drastic change, then I can tell you, you are blessed.

As soon as Ben was able to chew and swallow a single cracker, I introduced the Triscuit. Is there really a better cracker? Grainy, lots of texture, great with peanut butter or special cheeses, and flavored with the perfect amount of salt. You would have thought I was giving him his first M&M. Or his first taste of ice cream. I couldn't wait to see how he liked my very favorite cracker in the world.

Until he took that first bite. I picture it all in slow motion. I watched while his teeth came down right in the middle of the cracker. Of course his little mouth wasn't big enough to take off the entire side, and on either side of his mouth little grains of wheat rained down like sleet onto the floor. And then another bite. The same thing. Little pieces of that delicious grain flew out and covered my floor. I just stared at them. Like tiny beads from a broken necklace were those grains - all over my hardwoods. With every bite more grain, and I sat on my knees trying to catch each one in the cups of my hands.

At first, I was simply annoyed. Another mess for mommy to clean. Another time stealer. Another rag. But after the initial sigh and frustration, I knew I was sad. It was over. I realized that I didn't have the patience or time for Triscuits. They are without doubt the world's best over-the-counter cracker, but entirely too messy for real life with kids. Aren't they?

And so to this day, six years later, I still buy Wheat Thins. A creature of habit and a creature of cleanliness. But I've started thinking about it lately. What if those Triscuit grains did't get swept up immediately? What if I stepped on them barefoot while unloading the dishes? What if someone actually came over and saw that my children couldn't put an entire Triscuit into their mouth without grains falling to the floor? What if my kitchen was a mess? (Don't worry, much of the time it is.)

I think that I often try to live life as though it weren't a "mess". Instead of expecting or even embracing those grains that fall from Ben's mouth, I avoid them altogether. I deny myself simple pleasures to avoid what isn't "clean" and well-kept, and I try to keep things ordered and neat at the expense of enjoying something new. Taking it even further, sometimes I wonder if I choose friends whose lives don't appear "messy" either. Or maybe I even make choices for my children simply to avoid disorder or conflict or struggle for them and for myself? Probably. But with that, I wonder, do I miss the pleasures and joys that my children could experience? Do I miss friendships with depth, with struggle, with growth, and with joy? And isn't the messiness of one person's life often a testimony of God's grace and God's favor? I certainly want to be a part of that. And, ironically, are the floors and windows in my own heart always so swept and vacuumed?

I think oftentimes we avoid this mess at all costs. We try to clean ourselves up, and in doing so, we miss the joy that comes with repenting and returning. We miss the joy that comes in trusting. And we miss the joy of knowing that the the only "clean" One who can rescue our souls from their mess is the same One who DID rescue our souls from their mess and who counts His perfect life as our own. I already know that my God DOES see my mess. But He doesn't hold it against me. Praise God. I just seem to forget that I need Christ's life just as much as His death.


So what am I afraid of? Why do I try so hard to hide my messes? Or why try so hard not to make them?

Maybe this year, I'll invite the Triscuits over to play again. I've missed them.

"Tis the season to be jolly"

Am I the only one who every year secretly hopes that December will come and with it those "peaceful easy feelings" of joy and renewal and passion? And instead, midway thru, I just want January to get here as quickly as possible. And then January comes, and I hope for the same all over again. Every December seems to just get busier, even with concerted efforts to minimize. I'm still wrapping, ordering, baking, cleaning, preparing, shopping, and this year, I am schooling. December begins in fast forward and doesn't stop.

My blog ideas usually come when I run and right now running is sporadic at best so I haven't much to say. I've been hoping that thoughts of Christmas in all of its magic would drift from head to page in the last couple of weeks, and I would be able to articulate, with great gusto and emotion, like the apostle Paul, "for me to live is Christ!" But alas, nothing. On I good day, I might muster up something like "Carpe Diem!" but that is about as spiritual as it gets. Regretfully, it is more of an indication of my heart than of my creativity (which, yes, is flighty too). The Christmas carols that we sing each night with our kids have been rote and habitual. While my kids eagerly anticipate opening our advent calendar each day, for me those little boxes are no different than opening a can of green beans. This year, hanging the Christmas tree ornaments was another opportunity to check off my to-do list and give my husband the silent treatment. And so December is like any other month, isn't it?

Yes, in fact, it is. Praise God.

I think this is where I've been affected by all of the "spirituality" out there. The hype of emotion that seems to permeate our pulpits, stages, and showtime Sundays. I'm looking for a "feeling" to draw me to my Savior. Something that I could claim is a special connection with the Spirit. It is not unlike my feelings approaching worship on Sunday morning. I want a "pick me up" to get me through the week, to be spiritually "drugged" by some one hour experience.

So I guess the same is true for December. I want the feelings that this month evokes to get me through the year. Can hot chocolate, a Christmas tree, roasted chestnuts, and Santaland do that? Maybe. But it seems to me that it should look something more like this: like knowing that while I bake that 13th loaf of pumpkin bread, I remember and cling to my Bread of Life. Or while I carefully wrap up all of those shirts and trucks and dolls, I pray that my children would know the True Gift. Or while I set the table with Christmas china and polish the silver, I remember the Great Banquet waiting for me in heaven. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To depend on truth like that? Apart from some outside entertainment?

And does only have to happen with pumpkin bread? And Christmas gifts? And do I have to eat on Christmas china?

I think what I'm learning is that I don't need the "chills" to know my Savior. I don't need to weep to see my Christ. I don't need to belt out "Glory to the Newborn King" just like the herald angels did. I certainly don't need snowmen (already learned that). No, what I need has already been given to me. It is Christ Himself. He is enough in July. He is enough when it is raining. He is enough when someone else is preaching. He is enough when the worship leader is out of town. He is enough when my dearest friend turns against me. He is enough if we have to skip Christmas next year! My feelings are seasonal, but He and His Word are not. "Thanks be to God!"

Ms. Bea

I wasn't an animal person. Once my teenage years hit (or maybe just my first weeks of deodorant in sixth grade), I gave up contact with most animals. After all, I needed to smell good. I'd spent hours on my rather tall, wave-like bangs. And I was already struggling to put on mascara by myself. How could I afford to pet an animal? My family had two different dogs over the course of my childhood, both of which were fairly harmless, and they did bathe, but I was, again, too busy trying to maintain perfect hygeine, remain put together, and somehow win over prince charming. I couldn't afford to be slobbered on or trampled down by some furry, hyped-up pooch.

And, several years later, nothing had really changed. Until this Thanksgiving with my family. I kept my mouth shut, but I wasn't terribly excited about having my parent's new four month old goldendoodle running around the house. Aren't three kids (6 and under), two uncles, an aunt, another blind dog that poses little threat to anyone, and two grandparents enough under one roof?

It wasn't the first time that I had met Ms. Bea. I had met her briefly when she was about 9 weeks old and fortunately, I was with my kids, so they could properly dote over the new pup (Lauren and Nathan loved her). She was definitely cute, but still furry and wet, and just like a swimming pool, isn't she better left at grandma's house?

So back to Thanksgiving. Well, if you know me, I am still the early riser in the family. Sleeping late has never been in my vocabulary, even during those glorious slumber party years (I remember fake snoring at most of those so that someone would wake up and I could go home). So Friday morning after Thanksgiving I woke up about 6:00. My father, the other early riser, had gone hunting so I was making the coffee for everyone else. Within minutes of pouring the first cup, I hear these pitiful whimpers from the basement, and I knew it was HER. I knew that she needed to go out. I also knew that I could pretend that I didn't hear her.

That didn't happen. Something in me (very deep inside, almost invisible) wouldn't let me ignore her and I trudged downstairs to let her out, not real happy about the prospect of having my alone time interruptted by a needy, hairy 4 month old.

After she finishes her business, we head back in. I can tell that she is just as excited about the sunrise as I am. But unlike me, she doesn't really want to be alone. She runs around the room (no cries or pants or whimpers, thankfully) and begins to play with her basket of toys. I opened my book and began to read, trying hard to ignore my companion. I didn't want to give her any unnecessary attention. But suddenly, without warning, she leaps into my lap, licks my face, lays down on her back, and stares up at me.

At first, I was rather put out. Wasn't she quite presumptuous? I mean, I am not a dog person, and I am fine with that. But, she didn't move. She lay there, belly-up, looking at me without a flinch. Now I know that most of you are thinking, "she just wanted a belly-rub". And you may be right. She did get her belly-rub, don't worry. But the funny thing was that, as I thought about it later, she didn't look at me with a question on her face like "hey, will you please scratch here." She looked at me with a statement: "You will be my friend." It wasn't with arrogance or vengeance or spite. It was a simple look that stated a simple truth. I just stared back at her sort of dumbfounded.

And so, now, I have a dog friend. I'm not buying her a Christmas present yet or anything, but I still have a dog friend.

Sometimes when I think about that few moments with Ms. Bea, I think about Jacob wrestling with God and crying out, "I will not let you go until you bless me!" I think of his claim to the covenant promises of his fathers. I think of his boldness toward His Caregiver. And I think of Ms. Bea.

Or sometimes I think that Ms. Bea is very much like another Hound of Heaven that I know...and I am glad that she chose to be my friend.