Well, besides that.

And that.

I don’t have to do school supply shopping. <insert dance of joy>

Since I’m still recuperating, this year I don’t have to take the kids on that dreaded trip to one store and then another and then another. You know what I mean, right? Inevitably, you can’t find everything under one roof. It’s impossible!

I love this picture of the kids after last year’s shopping extravaganza, and that receipt. Whew! That set us back a bit, to be sure.

(They’ve changed so much in a year.)

Over the years I have gotten smarter about Back to School shopping and it’s easier now that they’re older. These days, they can take their printed lists, shopping carts of their own and be mindful of prices.

Good luck, Peter. We’re all counting on you!

PS Is there any such thing as a zippered binder that doesn’t completely fall apart before Christmas holiday? Is it possible that someone could make such a binder out of the same material as an airplane’s little black box, only lighter? And PLEASE someone invent three rings that stay ring-shaped for at least half the school year? Is that too much to ask?

What about you?
How do you manage shopping for school supplies with your students?  Have you found a binder that holds up to the likes of certain 13-year old boys?

I’m certain Peter will appreciate any tips.

UPDATE: 8/8/11 I just found this link for a zippered binder from Land’s End that appears to be durable. Sadly, it looks like it will be too small for our two 8th grade boys and 10th grade girl. May give it a try for the 6th grader though.

Watch the video below to see why changing your settings could be important for your safety and for that of your family/children. (You may need to scroll down a bit. There’s something wonky with my spacing?)

Follow These Steps On the iPhone

• Go to Settings
• Click on “General”
• Click on “Location Services”
• Make sure the Location Services for the camera (and other applications that may use the camera or photos) is in the “Off” position

What about you?
What setting did you have on your camera? (Mine was already off and I’m headed into the kitchen to check the teenager’s phone.) Does this give you cause for concern?

I’m planning to share this simple children’s story I wrote a few years ago for a friend’s seven year old-daughter, who was struggling with her own mean daddy.

Sometimes hearing words from someone else unlocks years of hurt and pain. Sometimes saying them out loud is freeing, even for a grown up. And sometimes, seeing the words on the page makes us realize how horrible our own behaviors can be.

My Daddy is Mean

My Daddy is mean.

He yells a lot. When he yells, his voice is very loud and scary. His face looks like a mad monster. I feel very afraid. I want to run and hide in my bed so he can’t find me. When I’m safe in my bed, I pull the covers up way over my head so the loud yells don’t go in my ears. But it doesn’t work.

My Daddy is mean.

Sometimes he yells at me in front of other people. When he does, I wish I could disappear. One time he yelled at me at my school in front of my friends and all the teachers. He was so loud that the Principal actually asked him to stop yelling. And he did. I felt really embarrassed and wanted to crawl under a giant rock.

I wish I were as powerful as my Principal. If I were, then when I asked him not to yell, he would stop. I feel powerless.

My Daddy is mean.

He calls me an idiot and says I can’t do anything right. If I say those mean words at school, I get in trouble. But my Daddy never gets in trouble. I think he’s right. I feel stupid.

I learned a rhyme to help: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.” The rhyme isn’t true. My Daddy’s mean words always hurt my feelings. I feel sad.

My Daddy is mean.

Just ask my friends and they’ll tell you the same thing. They don’t like to play at my house because my daddy’s mean words and loud voice are too scary. None of their daddies are mean. They’re so lucky! I feel all alone.

My Daddy is mean.

My mother doesn’t like it when I say those words. She says I shouldn’t talk about Daddy that way and that he loves me very much. I don’t believe her. If he did, he wouldn’t be so mean.

She doesn’t understand. Daddy must not be mean to her. If he were, maybe she would want to live in a different house too.

My mother asked my daddy to stop yelling and stop being so mean. It worked for a few days. Then one day when she wasn’t around, I did something stupid again and my Daddy was mean. I wish she were as powerful as my Principal.

That day when my daddy was mean, he spanked me really hard. He jerked my arm and covered up my mouth when I was crying. It was hard to breathe. I felt stupid and scared and afraid and all alone and powerless.

Maybe one day my Principal will come to my house and my daddy won’t be mean anymore.

Would you pray?
Would you pray that God will use simple words to unlock hurt and set the captives free? Would you pray that Truth will be revealed?

My Daddy is Mean, copyright 2008, Cheryl Smith. All rights reserved.

Creative Commons photo from Flickr by 427, Mike Chaput.

“Great! Then you can borrow someone’s phone any time you really need to make a call,” was my brilliant response.

We’ve had that conversation, or ones like it, for months now. Hannah, now almost 15, has been asking for a cell phone since, well, forever. Peter and I have talked often about when to get her a phone. There were so many factors to consider.

• Would she be able to keep up with it? Kids with ADD and their parents are intimately familiar with Lost and Found. This is the same girl who in elementary and middle school lost a $20 bill, at least three coats/jackets, checks and permission slips for school activities and an iPod nano, among other things.
• How in the world would we afford it? Cell phone plans are expensive! We’ve heard horror stories of parents who’ve been burned with extreme phone bills for overages.
• What plan would make the most sense? Were data and texting features or requirements? And if so, how much would she need?
• How in the world would we afford it? Oh, wait. I’ve already covered that, but seriously. How in the world do parents work that into their family budgets?

Peter did his normal research using his Consumer Reports magazines. He learned that many of the pre-paid plans have hidden costs.

Finally we discovered Straight Talk plans at Wal-mart and online and agreed that it looked like a great solution. We talked with Hannah about the total cost of the phone plan. We told her could use a portion of the money we’d normally spend on birthday and Christmas presents, but that still wouldn’t cover the annual cost. We finally agreed to split the difference. Hannah would cover the remaining amount from of her allowance, gifts and income from babysitting and other small jobs.

We decided on the $30 plan and wrapped the brochure in a box for Christmas.

The plan seemed sufficient for her communication needs and was the most reasonably priced of anything we’d explored.

The All You Need Plan

• 30 Days of Service
• 1,000 Nationwide Minutes
• 1,000 Text or Picture Messages
• 30 MB of Mobile Web Access
• 411 Calls Included at No Additional Charge
• No contracts
• Auto Refill Option

We purchased the phone online, because the in store selection was more limited or depleted, and because there was a special deal online for a free phone. SCORE!

The phone arrived last Tuesday, within a few days of when we placed the order. It was easy to set up online and Hannah’s been thrilled with it ever since.

Technically, that’s an understatement. The phone is a new appendage.

I’d heard it before, believed it to be true and have even spoken about it during presentations on generational differences, but I hadn’t lived it until now. The girl and her phone are one.

The “All You Need Plan” is a lie.

In seven days, Hannah has sent and received her allotment of texts. She still has plenty of phone minutes and web access left, but zero messaging.

We were originally under the impression from the guy at Wal-mart that we could simply pay the remaining $15 to upgrade, at any time. WRONG! I looked online and couldn’t see a $15 option anywhere. I called the toll free number and Jackie confirmed my sinking suspicion. We either have to upgrade to the $45 plan and loose the minutes and web time, or she waits until next month. At that time, we’ll either continue with the $30 plan and she’ll have to stay within 1,000 minutes or we’ll buy the $45 plan, and she’ll have to pay an additional $15 a month.

Kids Communicate Differently
My phone plan has 200 texts and I’ve never even come close to the limit. Kids today, however, communicate differently. It’s probably not unlike when I was a teen and my mom and dad could not understand how I could talk on the wall phone in the kitchen for 30 minutes or an hour at a time.

“That thing’s going to start growing out of your ears!” they complained.

How Much is Enough?
I’ve not regulated how many texts Hannah sends and receives because I wanted to see how the pattern would emerge. I also thought we could pay $15 at any time to upgrade.

But I’m wondering, how much is enough?

When I break it down, it doesn’t seem that unreasonable to me. Let’s just say she spends 30 seconds reading each text. (Remember, even the smiley face texts count as one message.) It works out to be about 71 minutes. She’s been out of school all week, so 70 minutes of communication time doesn’t seem that odd.

I was a teenager once.

But I’m curious.

What about you?
If you have a teen with a phone appendage, how many messages does he or she send/receive during a given month? During school? During the holidays? During summer?

NOTE: We do have one phone rule. The phone doesn’t go in her room at night. I’d be curious to know what other rules you use to help your teen monitor use of his or her phone appendages.

I bought the book for Morgan when he was two or three. He had such a difficult time with transition! Whenever it was time to transition from one thing to another, he would FLIP OUT!

Morgan would be putting together a puzzle and I would tell him to put the pieces away so we could eat dinner. The boy would flip out.

Or he’d be watching Teletubbies and we’d have to leave for preschool. The boy flipped out.

Or he’d be at preschool playing with his friends and I’d come to pick him up to go home. He flipped out.

Then I found Adam. The cardboard book was a God-send. The pages were easy enough for Morgan to manipulate without wrecking them. (I still have my copy – good thing, as I just realized a new one is currently selling on Amazon for $450+.) The images were simple and the text was plain.

Page 1: Adam was playing in the playground.

Page 2: “Come on, Adam,” his mother said. “It’s time to go.”

Page 3: “I don’t want to go!” yelled Adam. He kicked and screamed.

Yep, that was pretty much my life in those early years. I was completely unaware and ill equipped to help my son. I was a single mom, just trying to make it through the routine, day in and day out.

Today, I’m reliving the story of Adam. I have a ten year old step daughter who also struggles with transition. I forget how smart Adam’s mom was. She got on Adam’s level, spoke simply to him using language (words) he could understand.

It always ended well in the book.

On the last page, Adam and his mom are sitting in the kitchen at the table, which is covered in a blue and white checkered table cloth. They’re eating lunch, presumably PBJ’s. He’s holding half of his sandwich, with plenty of bites missing from it. And he’s smiling. Even his big brown eyes are smiling and the light on his face and in that golden brown hair makes him look angelic.

His mother is not frantic nor frazzled. Her long, straight blond hair is neatly tucked behind her ears and behind some wild 1980′s glasses.

The book ends with these words,

“It was nice to be home. And tomorrow they could go to the playground again.”

But you know what? More than Morgan, more than Michaela, I am Adam.

You see, lately I’ve had such a yearning for the deep things of God, and a great war is waging within my soul, as my flesh cries out,

“I don’t want to go!”

Like Adam, I’m afraid I’ve been doing some spiritual kicking and screaming.

Today, God reached down to my level, spoke my language.

We were visiting a friend’s church and God spoke loving words to me, propelling me forward – all through a complete stranger.

A Prayer
Father, thank you for loving us and for stepping into our world. Thank you for lowering yourself, and for speaking to each of us using words we can relate to. Holy Spirit, continue to confirm words of reassurance in uncertain times of transition.

What about you?
Can you relate to kicking and screaming? Or to a time when God spoke gently to you in the midst of your own kicking and screaming?

They came upstairs from his man cave way later than I had hoped. It was dinner time and they had been called long ago. The table was set and three of us were seated. Waiting. Even Hannah, the messenger child, hadn’t returned from the abyss. I was hungry and grumpy when they finally sat down.

Peter explained Michaela had just found out the truth.

About Santa.

I wasn’t aware that he was going to have “the conversation,” so initially I was a little put off for not being involved in something so significant. But when he explained it hadn’t been planned, my mood softened.

Evidently she was asking a lot of questions. Santa questions were easy to answer when the kids were younger, but by the time a 10 year old gets to be in fifth grade, she asks tougher questions. The one that made a grown man cave,

“Daddy, will Santa Claus die?’

So he told her the truth.

As we sat around the dining room table, we reminded Michaela of the real meaning of Christmas. We celebrate the birth of Jesus, the greatest gift of all. And how Santa Claus reminds us of the spirit of giving. She took it hard. Just last year she wrote a thank you note to Santa that said simply, “I believe!” and included a one dollar bill as her way of returning thanks. The thank you note resurfaced this week when Peter was cleaning and I’m pretty sure he got a little teary-eyed when he read it again.

Feeling a bit sympathetic given the onset of tears, the three older kids tried to make Michaela feel better by sharing their own stories.

“I wish I didn’t know either, Michaela,” Morgan said with great sincerity.

Jake consoled, “You’re lucky Michaela. I found out when I was in the second grade.” (They spent Christmas morning of his 2nd grade year at their mom’s house. He observed that all their presents – those from Santa AND the ones from their mom – were wrapped in the same paper.)

“I found out when I was in fifth grade too Michaela,” Hannah said. (She was right. I remember telling her so she wouldn’t be made fun of by older and wiser tweens.)

Michaela alternated between giant crocodile tears and high pitched whines of “Santa’s not real?” and an-almost-smile that comes from a child who likes knowing she’s growing up.

Peter wistfully explained, “You’ve had ten years of believing in the magic of Santa,” and asked her to think what it would be like when she saw younger kids (even her own some day) who believe.

Michaela reminisced about Christmases past. How her and Morgan were always the first ones awake and last year they had to wait for “Hannah to finish taking her shower!” she said most indignantly.

We all laughed. The whole conversation was a great family moment.

“What about the Elf on the Shelf? How did he always end up in my room?” Michaela asked, sure she’d found a loophole. Peter told her it was us.

She looked at me and asked in a fun, sassy tone, “Well, I guess you’re Mrs. Claus?” Yep. Guilty as charged.

Then someone brought up the Easter Bunny. “The Easter Bunny?” she pleaded, looking to her father, hoping beyond hope that he would dispel this crazy talk. With a closed lip, half smile, he simply nodded with resignation.

“The Easter Bunny’s not real???????”

A wave of tears flooded her face. The realization was almost too much to handle. She quickly moved into the first stage of grief.

“But Jacob?” (No longer referring to her brother by using his nickname. THIS was a serious moment!) “But Jacob, if the Easter Bunny’s not real, then who hid the candy and Easter eggs?”

Delighting just a bit in the power of “one up,” Jake smiled smugly like any 12 year old brother. “Mom and I hid them.” He paused for effect. “I wrote the note.” You could see satisfaction on his face and confusion on hers.

“WHAT?????” More tears.

After a few minutes, and several hugs, she settled down again. The questions continued. It all sounded soooo familiar.

I excused myself from the table and went downstairs to retrieve the book nestled on the shelf with the  Christmas decorations. Susan Branch’s Christmas book has long held one of my favorite holiday stories, “A Loss of Innocence.” This year, that very story was playing out in our own family dining room. I had to find the book and read it to Michaela. It was perfect.

Score! The book was right on the shelf and I didn’t have to dig through any boxes to find it.

I returned to my seat beside her at the dinner table. As I read the story of Susan’s 12 year old discovery about Santa, the entire family listened in silence. Several times I choked back tears, particularly when I looked up from the book and saw Michaela’s expressions. Peter’s face was the most difficult to see. In that moment, he knew his little girl had grown up. (It was a Modern Family moment, akin to Phil driving his daughters in the car with the Cone of Trust.)

I wasn’t prepared for her response to this part of the story,

“Then the big one, the one I knew couldn’t possibly be included in this hideous deception, ‘the Tooth Fairy?”

The shrill of a fire engine made it’s way into our dining room.

“YOU MEAN?? THE TOOTH FAIRY’S NOT REAL EITHER???????”

Incredulously, she looked at her dad and asked, “I guess you’re the tooth fairy too?”

He nodded.

More denial. “But how did you get the tooth out from under my pillow?” she said, sure he wouldn’t be able to answer THAT one!

Hannah chimed in with all the wisdom of her nearly 15 years. “Kids are heavy sleepers.”

It was too much for her. She sobbed and grasped for anything that would help her out of this mess. I saw her brain working.

“But Junie B. Jones,” she began. And I knew she was thinking of Junie B., First Grader: Toothless Wonder. Before she finished her sentence, the other kids now caught up in the amusement and excitement of it all, yelled out, “Junie B. Jones isn’t real! Neither is Sonny with Chance or Barney (Hannah’s favorite)!”

Peter added, “Or Hannah Montana!” He quickly corrected himself, “Wait. Yes. She is. Sort of.”

Michaela interrupted before he could finish. “WHAT??? YOU MEAN JUNIE B. JONES ISN’T REAL EITHER?”

We tried to remind her of the difference between fiction and non-fiction but it was too late. She’d spiraled into that place where nothing made sense. Logic and reason were ineffective in that place. And to top it off, she was hungry and had hardly eaten her dinner.

Who can eat, after all, when life as you know it has just been swept away?

I’m happy to report that days later, Michaela has recovered. As much is possible.

A New Tradition
This week our Advent to Ascension wreath will arrive. My prayer is that this year, and in all the years to come, we’ll be all the more intentional about the birth of Jesus, about his life, death, and resurrection, which make Christmas possible. May we tell the story of the greatest mystery of all, how God became flesh and dwelt among us.

And this, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.”

What about you?
What are your favorite stories about the holidays? How do you and your family remember the One we celebrate?

She told stories about Jefferson’s love of literature, music and art. She pointed out instances of exceptional architecture and weaved stories about family (both free and slave).

But the lessons that stuck with me the most vividly were probably not taught in her extensive training. She explained to us that in her training to lead tours at Monticello, she actually took a class on how to close a door. (I wonder if I can send our kids to that class?)

15 Lessons Learned on a Field Trip to Monticello

1. If the field trip bus leaves the school before school starts, some children have no breakfast.
2. Compassionate teachers pack pop tarts.
3. Outdated chartered buses are still a thing of wonder and mystery to a boy with little means.
4. I can identify with at least one fifth grader who is afraid of heights.
5. It’s a holy moment to hold hands with girl whose mother died several years ago.
6. Teachers who teach for 30+ years love what they do, and they love those kids.
7. Sometimes love means you move some kids to the front of the bus when they misbehave.
8. Breadsticks and cheese in a package slide right off picnic tables that aren’t level. So do plastic spoons, Pringles, red Kool-Aid drinks and pretty much anything else that isn’t clasped by growing fingers or held in laps.
9. Hungry chaperones who’ve spent the morning with fifth graders would choose to eat the remainder of their lunch at said slanted picnic table.
10. At least one fifth grader would choose to move, thus beginning a chain reaction.
11. It’s nearly impossible for fifth grade boys children not to run on long paths that wind downhill.
12. The surprise of fragrant yellow flowers is a thing of beauty.
13. We’ve all but lost the art of letter writing.
14. To have one great accomplishment at life’s end is incredible. Thomas Jefferson was beyond incredible.
15. To touch one person at life’s end is miraculous. Barbara Hawks and Elizabeth Cook, and teachers all across this country, are beyond miraculous.

This was not the case last night. Peter was actually cooking. In his defense, Peter is a great cook. The reality is no one is immune to an occasional kitchen mishap and last night was Peter’s turn.

We were having homemade pizzas, which Peter has perfected to an art! His final step is to gently brown the pizza on the top shelf just under the broiler for the last minute or less. His careful, watchful eye makes sure the pizzas don’t over cook and his track record is nearly flawless.

Somewhere in switching the pizza from one rack to the other, or as he was about to remove it altogether…he dropped the pizza in the bottom of the oven. Sauce and topping side down. The messy goo that found its way to the bottom of our oven triggered a scent my nostrils won’t soon forget.

But sometimes the best way to get rid of messy goo is to let it burn off so the pizzas can finish cooking, all the while praying the children avoid spontaneous combustion due to hunger pangs rising faster than the oven temperature.

At one point small flames ignited from within the oven. Peter alternately poured salt and water into the dark smoky cavern, successfully quenching the fire.

Miraculously, the first pizza was salvaged, the second one came out perfectly and we had a fun dinner filled with laughter and “good thing, bad thing.” Some of us even threw spinach leaves at one another like confetti. (It’s a long story.)

A More Devastating Fire
I was indisposed when I heard the boys (both 7th graders) running around screaming at one another. Peter, who had been downstairs, and I arrived on the scene simultaneously. Without words, we both agreed to let them fight it out. To the disbelief of the youngest child, we watched them explode.

It was hot, loud and destructive.

An eternity later, we isolated the boys in separate corners of the house so they could cool off. I began what would be a lengthy and difficult conversation with Morgan. A bit later, Peter joined us.

Angry words from a boy whose father is 1000 miles away burn hotter than pepperoni and pizza sauce. Smoke billows out at step brother, even though he wasn’t the source of the hurt. Neither had the previous day’s meltdown, nor the quest for blessing been about me.

We’ve learned how to fan the smoke detector and open windows. We carry box fans and quickly place them in the window nearest the flame. We are well equipped at using hot pads.

But sometimes, a 12 year-old boy needs the Fire Chief to help him extinguish the fire. He must first gather enormous amounts of courage to make a difficult and scary 911 phone call.

“Hello, Dad?”

What about you?
When have you needed someone else’s help to extinguish a fire?

Creative Commons photo on Flickr by Pompeii Am Gotterdammerung. 

Our former minister, Steve Cromer, had returned to preach the sermon as many honored a man and his wife for serving faithfully for twenty years. And preach he did. Steve chose a passage from Genesis 27 as his text to talk about blessing and buckets.

The Importance of Blessing
The idea of blessing is mentioned more than 600 times in the Old Testament. It is a sign of favored status and paved the way for a person to walk into prosperity. The blessing created a future for a person to step into, and shaped the course of life.

Steve continued, “We need blessings. Most of us are desperate for them!”

And later, “God, at the core of His being is about blessing. If we want to do what God does, we’ll be about blessing others.”

Then, the part that made the tears fall.

Steve read a portion of a letter he had written to one of his sons, just before he was to enter college. Instead of taking notes, I listened intently to the words of a father who affirmed his son simply because he was his son.

I was reminded of The Blessing by Dr. Gary Smalley and Dr. John Trent. When I read the book years ago, this idea of blessing resonated so deeply within me that I wrote out the five principles of blessing on a sticky note and placed it in my Bible. As Steve preached, I flipped through the fine pages of my Bible to see if it was still there. Sure enough, I found it.

Five Principles of Blessing

1. Meaningful touch – warm and nurturing
2. Spoken word – affirmation, love, acceptance
3. Expressing high value – acknowledging intrinsic value
4. Picturing a special future – hope for God’s plan and destiny
5. An active commitment – helping people realize identity, purpose and destiny in Christ

Closer Than I Thought
Later in the afternoon, Morgan had a meltdown. What began as a step-sibling squabble turned into a nuclear reaction directed entirely at me. It was hard and I felt completely inadequate at finding resolution.

“What do you need to be happy, Morgan?” I finally asked in desperation.

He fell into my chest. “Give me your blessing,” he pleaded.

I don’t remember the words I used, but as I hugged him, held his face in my hands, I reminded Morgan of my love for him. I told him what a special kid he is, with God’s heart of compassion in his own chest. That I would never leave him, and that the future God has planned for him is bigger than either of us realize.

The thing is, I’ve done this off and on (probably more off that I care to admit) for Morgan’s entire life, yet he still felt lack.

Our world is full of people in need of blessing. Clients and customers, coworkers and colleagues. Classmates and playmates. Sons and daughters. Husbands and wives.

What about you?
Who do you know in need of blessing and how can you share in giving God’s blessing to others this week?

*Note: Morgan gave me permission to share this story. We pray it’ll be meaningful to you.

After Michaela finished her breakfast, I asked her to put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher and throw away her empty medicine capsules. She put her dishes away, but left the capsules on the table and walked into the living room.

When I called her back to the table and asked her to finish putting her stuff away, she acted like she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. I could tell it was a game by the smile on her face. But I wasn’t in a playful mood.

I asked her to look at the table and finish her task.

“I already put my dishes in the dishwasher. There’s nothing left, except your medicine,” she said, holding up the small white bowl we use to dispense medicine. My two pills were there, along with her two empty capsules.

Another smile.

I didn’t tell her again specifically what to do. Instead I more firmly said, “look at the table.”

I didn’t want to play and wasn’t about to tell her what she already knew. I just wanted her to obey.

When she didn’t – wouldn’t – I took a permission slip out of her backpack and told her I would give it to her when she was finished.

(In hindsight, I realize that was a mistake. Great thing about hindsight…)

Things went downhill from there. A full-out temper tantrum followed, mixed with a few of those knowing smiles. Arms flailed and semi-real tears flowed. (I say semi-real because this is the same talented actress who can make herself cry real tears while staring into a mirror.)

I had to wash my face and put my contacts in, so I locked myself in the bathroom and cranked up the praise music to drown out the yelling.

When I went back to the kitchen, the capsules were still there….

Fifteen minutes later, the empty capsules were still on the table and Michaela still insisted she didn’t know what to do, despite a few hints from me. All the while, those intermittent knowing smiles indicated otherwise.

Throughout the course of the post-breakfast “capsule incident,” I had to be intentional about remaining calm. Believe it or not, despite the permission slip snafu, that’s HUGE progress.

Finally, seconds before the bus came, Michaela tossed the capsules into the garbage. And continued arguing about new things as she headed to the bus stop.

Once the bus drove away, I realized I had been using so much restraint that I was nearly holding my breath. I used my best Lamaze “deep, cleansing breaths.” Several times.

Still not enough.

I absolutely needed to release some of those fight or flight endorphins, so I went for a run.

Before I even made it to the top of the first hill, I realized I didn’t have my headphones. Shoot! I continued without them. Maybe I needed a little quiet.

Maybe I needed to process the conversation I’d just had with Sharon, one of my wisest and most discerning friends. She had called at just the right moment. I knew her words about spiritual warfare and heart matters rang true.

And I needed to hear from God.

As I was running (and I use that term very loosely), and complaining about Michaela’s defiance, God showed me His perspective.

“Cheryl, you’re every bit as defiant. Yow know the things I’ve told you to do, and yet you pretend you didn’t hear my directions clearly the first time. (or the second, or hundredth…) ‘What?’ you ask, all the while knowing that you know.”

Ouch!

Just like that. And I knew He was right.

Michaela and I are more alike than either of us like to admit. We’re both defiant. Very. Defiant.

My prayer
Heavenly Father, You’re absolutely right. I know You’ve asked me to do something very specific and yet I play games instead of obeying. Forgive me for my defiance. Help me plan, make myself accountable to others, and then DO what you’ve told me to do. Lord, use these words, fraught with my own failure, to stir the hearts of others.

What about you?
Is there something God has asked you to do, and you’re still acting like you haven’t heard His instructions? How will you plan, make yourself accountable, and act on it? Today?