Where is the marshmellow?

A sweet friend sent me the recipe for "resurrection rolls" to make during the Easter season this year. A fun idea. You wrap one triangle of crescent roll dough (from Pillsbury) around a buttered marshmellow, dip to into cinnamon and sugar, and put it in the "tomb" for ten minutes at 375 degrees. When the buzzer rings, Jesus (the marshmellow) has disappeared. He has risen from the tomb. They were fun and delicious.

One problem though. My kids didn't want the marshmellow to disappear. They wanted to eat it too. Of course, Nathan had trouble understanding that the marshmellow hadn't disappeared. It had just melted. So when the rolls came out of the oven, his was so disappointed. And the rest of us, were at least pretending to be excited. He had RISEN! He had RISEN indeed!

I've thought about that morning this week. And I've thought that Nathan's reaction was not too different from mine. Not unlike both Marys that went searching for their Lord's body, do I really want the tomb to be empty. Wouldn't it be easier if He were still here? In flesh and blood? So that I could touch Him, taste Him, smell Him, and Hear Him? I want to see the marshmellow and to know that it is real and that it tastes so sweet. To believe that He truly is with me and loves me and is holding me in His strong arm.

It is so much easier to walk by sight than by faith. Isn't it? But, of course, faith is the "assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (Heb. 11:1) But thankfully, faith is "not of your own doing, it is the gift of God." Otherwise, I would be sneaking some more marshmellows...

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Almost three years ago my family moved from Oklahoma City to Tyler, Texas. You would think that moving from a fairly large city to a small town would prohibit decent grocery shopping and that you would wind up shopping for everything at Walmart. (Now, believe me, I'm not knocking Walmart. It is the cheap one-shop-stop, and convenience does comfort my soul.) BUT, at the risk of being called a grocery snob, I would much prefer a grocery store for my groceries. Now, all that is to say, you would think that OKC's options for grocery shopping would be much larger than Tyler's, but actually the reverse is true. The Walmart Neighborhood Market was my best option across the Red River, but one of the most wonderful things about living in Tyler is Brookshires.

Three brief stories to prove my point. We moved here with a 4, 2, and 2 week old. Chaotic at best. I hardly knew a soul here, and my days were filled with nursing, picking up toys, and just trying to keep order. I made my first trip to Brookshires alone, thank goodness, so this won't be the crazy-mom-with three-kids-pulling-stuff-off-the-shelves-poor-pitiful-me-story. That will be my third one. But I first went to the Flagship Brookshires off of Rice Road accompanied only my purse.

I walked in, and at least three guys stocking fresh produce greeted me. First of all, I never saw anyone putting anything fresh out at Walmart. So this was immediately "refreshing," not to mention, their greeting me as I walked in. Being the new girl on the block, I didn't know where anything was, so I slowly wandered around to get my bearings. Lots of great specialty items, great looking fish (also not at Walmart), a real kitchen for visiting chefs to offer a class or two, fresh Boarshead turkey by the pound, and a good-looking bakery. I was impressed.

After filling my cart with lots of the necessities, I realized that I had missed one thing. Refrigerated pasta. Where was the refrigerated pasta? Well, before I had time to blink, another kind employee approached me and asked if I was looking for something in particular. She had seen my inquistive look. I asked about the pasta and she replied simply, "Oh, I'll go get it for you." She returned (seconds later) with two or three packages of each variety of ravioli that I had requested. "Which of these would you like?" I couldn't believe it. Was she some kind of grocery angel or something? She actually went and got the pasta for me instead of looking at me like I was an idiot or pointing in some general ballpark direction. I almost pinched myself.

And to top it off, as I entered the check out line, two efficient and very competent employees removed and bagged my groceries, rang me up, and one walked me to my car to load them. I offered a tip like my mom had years ago, and the bagger refused claiming that Brookshires did not accept tips. I smiled the whole way home.

The second story is probably what truly won me over to my local grocer. So six months into our move here, I had had another hard day. Hadn't left the house. The kids were so very needy, and I was still getting up in the night to nurse. One tired and grumpy mama. Greg kicked me out of the house, and I told him that I'd make the much-needed trip to the grocery store.

After making my rounds again at Brookshires, I entered the check out line. The familiar checker ran my "Thank You Card" (a frequent buyers discount card), and I waited. After a few minutes, the lady looked at me and said, "Oh, congratulations! You have won a roaster!" What? My sleepy, grumpy self looked at her like she was crazy. She told me to hang on a minute and came back carrying a brand new boxed roasting pan with lid. I did not own a roasting pan. Nor did I own a lid. I stood there stunned, asked her why I had won, and she claimed that I had spent a certain amount of money at Brookshires showing that I was a loyal customer and that I had won a roaster. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Still don't. But I did laugh hysterically all the way home thanking God for comic relief, for my roaster, and that He had chosen to bring us to such a wonderful town. Six months later I won luggage.

The third story happened two days ago. Not quite as funny, but amazing enough to put on paper. This time I had all three kids - 2, 5, and 6 year olds (definitely not funny). They know Brookshires well now and are past the extremely difficult phase grabbing things off the shelf or taking a bite out of the apples, but that day I did have alot of groceries and all of our patience was wearing thin.

It was about that time that Nathan fell, bumped his head, and started screaming. I tried to calm him down, feeling like, of course, the whole store was staring at the cart packed with my food and family. Within thirty seconds (maybe), the florist (did I mention the great floral department?) ran over and asked each kid about their favorite color. Minutes later she returned with three helium balloons in each color, and I had three smiling faces. But that was not all. Not surprisingly, as we were checking out, Nathan let go of the balloon and it flew to the top of the warehouse ceiling. We practiced saying "Bye-Bye Balloon," and I didn't give it much thought. But then the manager walked by and realized that my little guy (who isn't really that upset about it) was missing his balloon. He left and returned with one of those long poles that some of you may use for your gigantic closets - to pull down clothes on your second tier of summer shirts. He worked at it awhile, and was heriocally able to rescue that little blue balloon. Amazing. Surely he had something better to do with his time?

Now I am a natural cynic and very little impresses me. But really friends, are there any stores that you could think of with this kind of customer service? In my former grocery store experience, it was difficult to find an employee, let alone one that speaks to you, looks at you close enough to realize that you have a need, and is eager to help. And if that is not enough, Brookshires actually rewards your loyalty to them. Isn't that amazing?

Not sure how to end this...I don't have a jingle to sing or a sentimental picture to leave you with. Just wanted to share a positive customer service experience...they seem so rare....maybe if I print this out, and take it up there, I'll become Brookshire's poster child....I don't know...but regardless, I'll probably win a bird feeder or something next month.

Immediately

About three weeks ago, I frantically dialed those three dreaded numbers for the first time. It was a "school day" and I had been reading in Ben's room with all three kids. Nathan was on his third day, fifty-second hour, of throwing up and a trash can waited by Ben's twin bed where our sick little guy tried to rest. The dreaded stomach virus had attacked, and it still haunts me every time someone in my family so much as coughs.

We were reading our Roman mystery aloud and as I said, Nathan lay listless on the bed. I looked at him briefly because he started moving around restlessly. Ben and Lauren were coloring and building with some Legos (a special treat sometimes when we are reading). Then, in the blink of an eye, Nathan's body froze. He had been on all fours like a little puppy, and just like that, he tipped over. He lay still (in an all-fours position) and his eyes got really wide. He was slightly trembling, unconscious and stiff as a board. I ran to him, grabbed him, tried to pry his arms out of their locked position, and then started screaming....He began to spit up a bit...

I ran to the phone and dialed 911. Obviously trained to respond to hysterical women who think that their 2 year olds are having seizures, the lady who answered talked me through Nathan's unidentified "episode". I think that it lasted a mere thrity seconds before he was sound asleep in my arms, his body limp like linguini.

After the ambulance ride, an IV of fluids, and a doctor's visit, we were home in about four hours. A morning I would like to forget. Doctors believe that our little guy had a "vasovagul" episode due to dehydration from the virus, but I'm not sure that we will ever be sure. It is simply an educated guess. He is fine now and doesn't remember it.

So after the reality of something like this is over, and tears and fears have been replaced by a return to diapers, books, and extracurriculars, it is interesting to look at the whole thing again. Not to relive it, of course, but to think about it.

My most acute response and concern lies with Nathan...is he epileptic? Was this really just a viral response? I won't have that answer until it happens again.

But, as for myself, it is interesting to think back on my response to the "emergency". I certainly think that I did the right thing at the time by calling 911. And I think that it was a normal response for a mother of three little ones who had never witnessed anything like that before. But I have been reading the gospel of Mark this month and it has been interesting to revisit "sick people's" responses to their illnesses. Gentile women, Roman soldiers, disciples at many levels, are described as going "immediately" to Jesus with their aches and pains (I counted about 12 immediatelys in the first 6 chapters). Many of the episodes read as though the ailing one (or family member of the sick) makes a B-line directly to him, probably stumbling over the crowds of His followers trailing his robe.

Of course in that day, there was no 911. No Tylenol. No Benadryl. But when I read Mark, broken man and women from all over, with lots of different "theologies" so earnestly fled to this Great Physician, this Son of Man who walked gently with them. Who wept. Who was thirsty too. But whose powerful hand could heal the blind, the mute, and the demon-possessed.

And what amazes me more is that they didn't even know exactly who He was! They couldn't know that the resurrection was coming. They didn't know of that this healing power was a glimpse of a power that was to come.

I envy them. I long for that same faith. For that immediate disaster response when even so much as a headache flusters me. Would I dare, Lord, flee to you with the smallest headache? Do I turn to you first when I think my son is seizing? Do I run like an Olympic champion to you with all of my fears about the future? I know that Paul liked to say that we are running a long, grueling marathon to heaven. We must stay the course with much endurance. This is true. But I sure would like to win a few sprints....if it meant that He was at the finish line.

It is finished

Finding time to write has been like finding time to redo my toenails. It hasn't been a priority (I don't wear flip-flops in the winter), and I really don't want pull up all of the yucky stuff today anyway. And for me, as with toenails, you kind of have to finish what you have started. Who wants three red toenails? Likewise, I'm not one to start a blog entry and not really finish, at least within two or three days. I know this is a gift that the great writers possess, to mull over passages of genius before pushing the "save" button, but I'm not one of them. I like to have a finished product fairly quickly. And, most often, it is definitely at the expense of the product.

This is true in most areas of my life. Just ask my husband. I like knitting projects, dishes, sweeping, to-do lists, registration forms, meals, lesson plans and deadlines COMPLETED. I can rest quietly at the end of a day only if what I was supposed to finish that day is DONE. And, yes, I confess, I'm a little obsessive about it. Thus, there are many sleepless nights and many lists lying around our house waiting to be crossed-off and thrown into the abyss of completeness.

Our family loves hymns. There is an old hymn in our Trinity Hymnal called "Hark! the Voice of Love and Mercy". It sat unnoticed among the worn pages of our family hymnal until just this past year. My family purchased a copy of Red Mountain Church's (Birmingham, Alabama) redone hymns. There have produced several fantastic CDs (I recommend them all),but the one entitled "Help my Unbelief" is one of our favorites. It has some great acoustic interpretations of beautiful hymns, most unknown to the contemporary world. Song #4 (as my children call it) is called "It is Finished" (otherwise known as "Hark! the Voice of Love and Mercy" on page #259 in our hymnal).


In my college days I had a 25 minute commute to my favorite local church in Franklin, Tennessee. With windows rolled down, my left leg propped up on the side of the driver's seat, music flying out of the windows of my Honda, my soul sang with the poets of our days and those of long ago (I loved hymns even then). I sang loudly. But now I rarely sing with gusto, or with pleasure, or with tears; most of my time in the car is spent driving three kids to ballet or to the grocery store - hardly time to emotionally let go and enjoy those five minute trips that let you listen to music freely. I might have time for one song in the car, but the kids usually get to choose first. And if you have kids, you know why. Occasionally when I have a little drive to Dallas by myself or when I'm driving to an evening coffee date, I might turn up some tunes, but usually it is Coffeehouse or something like old Dave Matthews. Nothing to rock my soul like those hymns.

But the other day, Song #4 came on while racing to basketball practice. Much had been left undone at home, including laundry, unlocked doors, and the scattering of toys in the driveway. Something struck me as the song began and I sang. I sang loudly. I sang with pleasure. And I sang with tears. I even smiled. Let me share a brief excerpt from the updated version. I think you can find the tune on www.redmountainmusic.com.



Hark! the voice of love and mercy
Sounds aloud from Calvary:
See, it rends the rocks asunder,
Shakes the earth and veils the sky
It is finished! It is finished! Hear the dying Savior cry.
It is finished! It is finished! Hear the dying Savior cry.



Finished all the types and shadows of the ceremonial law;
Finished all that God had promised; death and hell no more shall awe;
It is finished! It is finished! Saints from hence your comfort draw;
It is finished! It is finished! Saints from hence your comfort draw.



Dear friends (I'm preaching now), this is a song to turn up and belt out. Amidst all of my unfinished blogs, amidst all of the lingering chores, amidst all of the toys left on the ground, amidst all of the unresolved conflicts, amidst all of the feelings of being imcomplete, my GOD, my LORD, has finished His business. He has finished all that matters. He has finished our salvation. He has finished our glorification. He has finished the brokenness in me and in my world. He has defeated the enemy. He has finished all that He started on that first day. And my guess is that those toys on the ground don't matter quite so much....

He has finished.

It is finished.

So, dear Saints, from hence your comfort draw.

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.