I'm Not Her BFF

I will never be friends with my daughter.  This makes me sad.  It also makes me determined.  We are given "jobs" to do, responsibilities, by God and parenting is one of them.  I have failed many times in the past (and will in the future, I'm sure) by not giving this assignment the energy and effort it calls for.  Being given a responsibility is serious.  Being given a responsibility by God is a calling, an honor, and to be undertaken with grave effort.  We are to do everything as to the Lord.  Parenting is just a step further.  (In my opinion)

Maggie is eleven.  It's a fun age.  We are beginning to share interests.  She gets my jokes.  She's pretty funny with her own jokes.  She is able to take on more responsibility and be a true help around the house.  It's fun hanging out with her.  But I'm not her friend.

I am not saying we don't laugh together and act silly and share confidences.  We do.  And it's wonderful.  What I'm saying is that I have a higher calling where Maggie concerned.  I must be forever vigilant with her soul.  I don't know how long I have with her.  I may be called Home tomorrow.  I must do everything I can to ensure that she is fully equipped to fight the Evil One.  I must do all I can to teach her that Jesus is the answer to every question.

In practical terms, I must also teach her to survive on this planet without me.  Cooking, cleaning, managing her money and her time.  Choosing friends, buying clothes, deciding on a career.

I will never control her.  She must make all of these decisions one day without me.  But how I guide her in the decisions today will ultimately determine her wisdom in making choices later.  That's why I will never be her friend.  I will not say, "Whatever you want, Dear."

Every moment is a teaching moment.  Relax and enjoy her sweetness?  Absolutely.  Laugh and enjoy her silliness?  Of course!  Call her out when she's wrong, instruct her when she's confused, never let her get away with disobedience?  Imperative.

But what if she's mad at me?  I hate that.  I hate knowing she's disappointed, hurt, mad, sad.  And yet, what is the alternative?  It's just going to be rough-going at times.  I am the grown-up here.  And I'm not motivated by trying to get her to like me.  In fact, I know very well that there will be stretches of time when she doesn't like me at all.  And that must simply be enough validation for me to know I'm doing it right.

I'll never be her BFF.  But she'll never doubt my love for her.  She's my favorite Maggie in the world.  I am prouder of her every day.  Laughter, arguments, illness, disappointments, grief, joys, triumphs..... I want to share every minute with her.  And I want to be worthy of the gift that is Maggie Pruitt.  One day she'll be a gift to the world.  Daughters are precious.  Mothers are necessary.  It will not ever be "balanced".  She will never love me the way I love her.  She will never thank me or truly appreciate any sacrifice I make.  I must not be motivated by the desire for recognition.  God sees.  God knows.  And that is more that enough.

We'll talk about the role of fatherhood and sons in a later post.  :)                        

Mother's Day Schmother's Day

I'm out for the summer!!  So I get to blog again!!  Yay!

So, yesterday was Mother's Day.  Growing up, I always got very excited about this holiday.  I got to make crafts and cards for the woman who was my world.  As I got a little older I understood that this was a day of honor and respect for this hard-working, much-deserving lady who had taught me all I knew of being good.  I felt a lot of pride about showing her how much I appreciated her.  When I became a mom, I looked forward to it in a new light altogether.  This time it would be about ME!!  Sure, I'd call my mom and all, but I would now be the one putting her feet up and getting all the showers of attention.

I don't know what happened to this holiday between honoring my mother and becoming a mother myself, but it definitely was not as I'd pictured it.  My children made things for me.  Things I'd have to keep forever, but which had no purpose at all.  I got to sit and listen to off-key songs my children made up for me.  And they cooked for me.  I mean....good grief.  I had to eat every bite of the breakfast in bed (no item of which was even related to a breakfast food).  Then I got to clean up their mess from making it.

I got to go out to lunch and order whatever I wanted!  And then share it with all the children because of course they no longer wanted what they had ordered.  And so it went....for years.

I came to dread the holiday.  No matter what I knew from experience, I would always let hope build inside of me and be sorely disappointed when I did not wake up to roses and a clean house and a personal masseuse and gift cards to everywhere....*sigh*

Yesterday, my eleventh Mother's Day as a mother, I climbed, gasped for air, took no breaks, and climbed some more until finally I got all the way over myself.

I have three children who look at me with untainted trust and love.  I get to see the world adore these precious beings and know they are mine.

Yes, I will take a bath right now in the bath salts you made for me, even though it's scented with ginger and I hate ginger and will secretly gag as I sit in a bathtub of ginger and then go to bed smelling like ginger and probably have nightmares of being baked and painted and then running from a fox.

Yes, I will sit very still and let you massage my feet though it feels as though you plan to rub the skin right off and then put cold lotion on, the amount of which could soften the skin of a third-world country until you decide that I've been "pampered" enough and move on, leaving me to slip and slide to the nearest towel.

Yes, I will gladly hear the piano piece you so lovingly composed for me everyday within my hearing as you yelled, "Mama, don't listen right now!" and then continued to play the same bars over and over and over until I was sure the piano could play it for me all by itself.

Yes, I will love you.  Forever.  I will celebrate Mother's Day in whatever fashion you present it to me because this day is not about being a mother.  It's about being YOUR mother.  And I will never deserve that.

Loving Stronger

Yesterday at church, I was humbled beyond anything I'd ever imagined.  A young man came forward and confessed to having cheated on his wife.  He was not alone at the front of the church.  His father and mother sat on the front row, tearfully supporting his willingness to confess.  Close friends and church elders filled the front rows to also lend support and encouragement.  But that wasn't what brought me to my knees.

In the very front pew sat his wife.  His young, beautiful, super-mom, sweet-spirited, church-serving wife.  She sat in that pew, crying, and loving her husband.

For most of my life, I've considered adultery the "big" sin.  I mean, yes, there's murder.  That one's pretty big.  But it's not something I really think I or my close loved ones will struggle with.  Adultery, however, is everywhere.  It's random.  It's shocking.  It hits marriages that have been strong as a rock for years.  It's scared me.  

Once, when Mark and I were praying together, he said, "Let us never be tempted to have an affair..."  After the "amen" I jumped on that.  "Are you tempted?  Are you praying that because you're tempted?   Are you thinking of having an affair?  Are you HAVING an affair?!  IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE?"  It's a wonder I didn't drive him to having one just by my obsessive fear of it happening.  His response was calm, of course.  "No, Sweetheart.  I just don't ever want either of us to even think about it.  It's a prayer of protection.  Prevention.  That's all."

When I was very young, I remember a couple in our small church having marital struggles.  I remember them getting a divorce, which was not as common and still a bit shocking back in those days.  I remember asking what had happened and my mother said, "He betrayed their marriage."  He had had an affair.  In the years that passed, the same thing happened in other marriages.  One spouse would cheat and the other would dissolve the marriage.  And I fully supported this.  

In fact, I didn't realize it at the time, but inside me was a growing hate for cheaters.  I felt a burning anger every time I heard of someone having extra-marital relations and I found myself, as time wore on, championing the "true" spouse and all but helping them throw the "offender's" bags out the door.  

The fear of being cheated on was proven true in several of my dating relationships.  I don't know if I was just cheat-on-able or what, but I can only think of one guy who didn't cheat on me.  Other than that, I was able to feed my self-righteousness more fodder for anger against "The Cheater"!  

Yesterday's display of strength and commitment was not the first that I'd witnessed.  A couple in this same congregation years ago went through something similar and I remember being awed by the fact that a divorce was not forthcoming.  Again when I witnessed this family's undeniable faith and love yesterday I was moved.

My paradigm began to shift.  My conscience broke.  I have been the offender.  I have made myself a judge.  I, who usually love all and all alike, realized there was one sin in this world that I had withheld my forgiveness from.  Adultery.  I was just as wrong as the one confessing yesterday.  And so I realized that if he could bring this to Light and make his sins known, I should do the same.

I know longer believe that cheating in a relationship is a "scoundrel-offense."  It's a mistake.  It's a big mistake that hurts many and brings damaging consequences.  But it's a mistake.  We all make mistakes.  We all make big, embarrassing, regret-consuming mistakes.  And we ALL fall under God's grace.  His grace is sufficient.  

I'm sorry for my attitude in the past.  I want to do better.  I want to love stronger.

Third Time's the Charm

I'm back in school.  Most of you know this and have been very supportive and encouraging.  Thank you.  One of my classes is Algebra.  We won't talk about that.  Another class is Kinesiology.  Or Wellness.  Or Health.  You know, that basic gen/ed class where you have to fill in the blanks about the cardiovascular system and take your heart rate and all that.  I hate it.  This is my third time to take it.

The first time was my first semester as a college student way back in the 1900s.  I was lazy and ended up dropping the class before I could fail it.  The second time was just two semesters after that.  I was so far into a depression at that time that I dropped the class...only to learn that I never officially dropped it.  Turns out I just quit going.  Yeah, those weren't my best years.

Anyway, so here's the charm and I started strong!  I love my teacher (which, let's face it, adds a lot toward motivation to go).  Coach Clay Beason at Harding University is a fantastic person and I highly recommend him if you have the choice of teachers.  He's funny, sincere, compassionate, Spiritual, and he knows his stuff.  (He's also in good shape.  I loathe taking health advice from some overweight idiot.)

So, I am all gung-ho the first four weeks of class.  I mean, I have done the work and turned it in early.  I sit at the front of the class.  I am a note-taking machine.  I've GOT this.

Until the 3-minute-step-test.  How many of you know what that is?  Yes, those of you turning pale and starting to shake...you know what I'm talking about.  For the rest of you, it's where you must step up/step down on a foot-high step (bottom bleacher usually) for three minutes.  You must keep pace with the wonderful BEEP that seems to get faster, but in reality stays the same rhythm (you just get slower).  After three minutes, you take your heart-rate and write it down and you're done with class for the day.  What could be easier?  And Coach Beason doesn't grade you on whether you do a great job.  He grades you on the fact that you showed up and are giving it a go.  Great, right?

Rewind a bit.

I'm not the healthiest person.  Y'all know that and I won't go into all the yucky details.  Like how I take three pills every morning and have to drink taurine in order to move around; and how I have to nap during the day if I'm supposed to do anything after 5:00 in the evening; and how I take 4 pills and two hormones every night (plus melatonin); and I usually go to bed by 8:00 because the joints are aching and my muscles are jelly; oh, and how, because of essential tremor, I shake all the time, making me look like a 90-year-old.  Nausea, low-grade temp, inflamed lower back, headaches...this is my norm.  So, I thought taking this class would be GREAT because I'd learn a lot about physical wellness and maybe something would help me feel better!

Oh, and nosebleeds.  I sometimes don't have one for days.  I sometimes have five in one day.  They're lovely.

Now, back to the 3-minute-step-test.  I had a major nosebleed just before class started.  Now, the difference between a nosebleed and a "major" nosebleed is this.  Nosebleeds require lots of tissue and a trash can near by.  Major nosebleeds mean I have to hang my head over the toilet because tissue doesn't cover it and I'm going to throw-up blood at the same time.  So, there.  Beautiful.

After the nosebleed, I didn't have time to eat anything and was almost late to class.  We started our step-test.  The bleachers look so funny when they swim around and then come up to meet me.  I almost passed out just 90 seconds in.  I remember seeing Coach pulling a trash can up to me (said something about me looking white) and Sarah McGaha (another gem in the gym) saying something about getting security to go find my husband.

I faked some focus and told them I'd be fine.  But I wasn't.  Not for awhile.  I was so frustrated.  When my vision cleared and the nausea passed, I drove home.  I sent an email to Coach Beason and told him there was no way I could come close to meeting all the physical requirements for this class.  We were later going to have to do sit-ups, push-ups, run a mile, etc...  It's not a simple case of me being out of shape (although I'm more out of shape than a deflated beach ball), it's about my body not being up to snuff period.

Remember how I said Coach Clay Beason is awesome?  He is.  He is awesome.  He visited with me and concluded that I can take the class online from home.  FROM HOME!!  :)  Yay!!

I am still meeting the physical requirements, but I have all semester to build up to them.  It's not going to be near the monster I thought it would be.  Sometimes, things really do work out.  Including me!  Sometimes I work out!  Ha!

Now....about Algebra..... *sigh*

Have You Considered My Servant Job?

How many of us have compared ourselves to Job, that Godly man from the Old Testament who is attacked by Satan and favored by God?  When calamity hits, we remember how God was pleased with Job and so He allowed Satan to try and sway his faith, but Job did not waver.  We tell ourselves that we too are being tested and that we too will stand strong.

Well, let me ask you something.  Those of you who have lost jobs, lost homes, lost loved ones, lost your own child, you do need to stand strong and not lose your faith; however, before comparing yourself to Job, think about his loss.  He lost ALL of his possessions, servants, and livelihood.  This was seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred donkeys.  We're not talking about a few acres and and some cattle.  His lost was more than devastating.  And before he could digest the news of this loss, he was told he had lost his children.  Not a child.  His seven sons and three daughters.  At one time.  Before he could completely mourn these great tragedies, his body was struck with boils.

Do you know what boils are?  They are sores under the skin that fester like blisters.  Have you ever had blisters?  They hurt.  Have you ever had them over every inch of your body so that you couldn't lay down, sit down, walk, or stand without being in severe pain?  That was Job.  Job was so desperate and suffering that he broke pottery and used the jagged pieces to scrape his blistered skin.  !!!  Wow!

Even in your greatest trials, have you had friends to comfort you?  Job didn't.  He had "friends" who didn't believe him.  They didn't comfort him or try to help.  They didn't bring food to his home and pray with/for him or put his name in the church bulletin to be recognized as one in need.  They didn't offer condolences or a listening ear.  They didn't offer to lend him their homes or their livelihoods.  They preached to/at him.  Even his wife was bitter and did not support him.

So, next time you are sad and going through devastation and someone says, "You're like Job," just thank God that you in fact are NOT like Job.  Your mourning during your loss is good and right and I am not intending to take away from your grief.  I am, however, trying to remind you that, even in our greatest suffering, we are still not experiencing loss the likes of which God's favored servant Job experienced.

Chapter 2 (Part 3)

Again, I know it's messy.  This is like the rough-rough-rough draft that you write while cleaning house and taking care of kids.  Hope it makes sense.

Brady picked another wildflower and started plucking off more petals.  She was way past playing the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not game.  She knew he loved her.  She'd be more honest asking if she loved him.  She did, didn't she?  Love.  What was love?  Brady took in her surroundings and sighed blissfully at the beauty.  A village in the English countryside; so picturesque and perfect.  Green hills, some with sheep grazing; clusters of trees and clearings full of flowers.  It was absolutely a dream.  She mentally gave herself a pat on the back for choosing such a place for her wedding.

                Her wedding.  She'd felt sure of everything last night until...  She pushed the thought back and forced herself to conjure up a pretend Philip sitting beside her.  What would he say to her right now?  "Brady, we've been so worried about you."  She felt a little knot forming in her stomach.  Why did it bother her to think Philip was worried?  Isn't that what she'd wanted?  But, she felt nervous and...what was that other, foreign feeling?  Guilt!  She felt guilty for running out on her own wedding!  Why?  It was her wedding, after all.  And Philip's, said her conscience.  She knew she'd been foolish to run away, but he'd brought it on himself, right? 

                What would Fiona do, she asked herself for the hundredth time.  She mentally conjured up Fiona but literally waved her hand in front of her to dispel the image as soon as she'd pictured it because of the scowl on her imaginary Fiona's face.  She knew Fiona would be furious at her.  Fiona never ran away.  Fiona the strong; Fiona the honest; Fiona the better-than-everyone.  She wasn't jealous.  Brady knew she was more beautiful and had more popularity than her younger sister.  But for some reason, she'd seen Philip, on more than one occasion, looking at Fiona with an expression akin to worship.  Why didn't he worship Brady?!

                He told Brady he loved her.  And she believed him.  Of course he did.  But he didn't adore her.  Marrying someone who didn't adore her seemed like she was settling.  But she wanted Philip!  Didn't he realize how lucky he was?  Again, the question what would Fiona do popped into her mind.  She knew.  Fiona would pray.

                Brady had prayed on and off throughout her life but didn't see that it did any good.  She made her own blessings.  She believed in God and was faithful in her church attendance.  Her faith surely couldn't be questioned.  But God had made her beautiful and smart and talented, so surely He wanted her to use her gifts however she deemed best for her.  Right?  And what was best for right now?

                Brady thought back to her first date with Philip.  He'd come to the door of her apartment and, when she'd answered, he'd handed her a bouquet of flowers.  She'd literally laughed in his face and said she hadn't realized he was so old fashioned.  Instead of frowning and apologizing, like she'd half-expected him to do, he'd smiled and said, "Well, I am.  Do you have a vase for these?"  That had intrigued her.  A man with self-confidence.  It was almost a challenge.  After several months of dating she'd found herself wanting to please him.  She'd wanted his praise; something he only gave for certain things she did.  He wasn't generous with compliments about her appearance; a first for Brady.

                At first she'd been frustrated.  Didn't he realize the time and effort she put into her physical appearance?  There were beauty regimens, long-researched and put to use in order to maintain her perfect skin, glossy blonde hair, gleaming teeth, and super-model-thin figure!  He did occasionally tell her she looked nice.  Nice?  Her mother looked nice.  Fiona looked nice.  She was stunning!  But when he did praise her, she felt it to her very soul.  The first time had been when she'd helped the little girl in the shopping mall. 

                Philip and Brady had been shopping for Brady a new scarf when this young girl, about seven years old, had walked up to them.  She'd been crying and had looked Brady right in the eye.  One thing Brady Kenton could not ignore was a needy child.  The girl had become separated from mother and Brady and Philip had spent the next half-hour searching for her.  They'd found her and Brady was overwhelmed with the gratitude the distraught mother had bestowed upon her.  But even more exhilarating had been Philip's words.  "That was a very good thing you did for them.  I'm proud of you."

                The memory of the mother and daughter made her stomach knot up again.  Was anyone that concerned about her right now?  Would there be tears of rejoicing when she was found?  Somehow she doubted it.  No one ever really worried about her.  That's why she had to put so much energy into worrying about herself.  

Chapter 2 (part 2)

This is VERY rough...lower your expectations.  :)

This time it was he who smiled.  In a clear, British accent he asked, "Crud?  That's all you have to say after scaring a man half to death?"

                Fiona noticed his smile was not menacing.  He had straight, white teeth.  Surely someone with straight teeth was nice, right?  Why did she think that?  He certainly looked as if he could be dangerous.  He was unshaven and had a faded scar running beside his right eye.  Fiona caught herself thinking that he was quite attractive, then immediately felt guilty, as if she'd just been unfaithful to Philip.  His eyes seem to be laughing at her.  She couldn't make herself feel afraid of this man who held a gun.  She didn't return his smile but calmly said, "I'm looking for my sister.  Have you seen a woman?  Possibly in a wedding dress?"

                His smile remained but no longer reached his eyes as the stranger answered, "I have.  She's not here."

                "You have?!  When?  Was she okay?  Did she say anything?"  Fiona was surprised at her own mixture of relief and dread.  She hadn't realized how concerned she truly was for Brady's safety.

                The man held out his hand, the one without the gun, and said, "I'm Oliver."

                Fiona stared at his hand and then back at Oliver's face.  She felt anger surge up within her. "I'm not here to make your acquaintance!  I'm looking for my sister!"  What was wrong with this guy?  He's sitting in a dark corner of some shack in the woods but wants to shake hands and make friends?  Maybe she should in fact be very afraid of this man.  Had he harmed her sister?  Was he one of those psychos who killed women and buried them in his backyard?  In her exhausted mind, she had the thought that British men weren't psychopaths.  What was wrong with her?  Straight teeth?  British?  None of this made a difference; this man, whose muscles looked to be lethal weapons enough, was holding a gun and looking at her as if she was the very last person in the world he wanted to see.  And then he smiled again.  Stupid straight teeth.

                What's wrong with me, Oliver thought.  This green-eyed witch had barged in on him at a most dangerous moment and here he was, greeting her as if he was hosting a party.  Oliver lowered his hand and said, "I'm sorry.  Of course.  The American woman.  Yes.  Well, she was here and now she isn't.  I don't know where she's gone."

                Fiona took a deep breath.  Was he slow-witted or was he being deliberately obtuse?  She couldn't explain the logic of it but she just knew he wasn't a killer.  She knew she could trust him.  And she didn't have time to analyze it right now.  "What shape was she in when you saw her?  When did you see her?  Tell me something!" 

                Oliver noticed how the girl was shaking.  Woman, he mentally corrected himself.  She wasn't the young girl he'd originally thought when he'd first turned on the light.  She wasn't afraid.  She was fiercely angry.  Well, that was nothing to him.  He'd just as soon she be on her way so he could attend to the business he'd come here to do in the first place.

                He turned away from her and said, "She was here a few hours ago and she seemed in perfect health.  She asked to stay here for awhile and I refused her.  She became angry and stomped away in the direction of the Hollow.  That's all I know so I hope you too will kindly be on your way."

                Kindly be on my way?  Fiona didn't think much could make her angrier but those words sent her over the edge.  "HELP ME FIND MY SISTER, YOU IDIOT!  WHERE'S THE HOLLOW?!  HOW DO I GET THERE?"  She raked her fingers through her now unkempt hair.  She wanted to pull all of his hair out but forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down instead.

                He turned back to her and gave her a very confused look.  "I do apologize.  I hadn't realized you were actually concerned for her.  She seemed to be on some kind of playful errand in a game of hide-and-seek and I simply thought you were her finder.  Is she on the run then?  Wedding jitters and all that?"

                "Yes," Fiona said forcefully.  "Wedding jitters and all that!  Now where's this Hollow?"

                "Oh, yes," he said.  He reached around her and opened the door again.  His scent lingered near her and she felt an unexplainable urge to touch him.  To run her finger along that scar.  She didn't, of course, and wondered where in the world that impulse had even come from.  He gestured toward the open door and said, "I'll lead the way, shall I?"

                What was he doing?  Oliver Cast shouldn't care one whit whether or not these two American sisters found each other.  He certainly didn't have time to help them.  There was only one thing he wanted to do today and that was to kill the man that had ruined his life.  But, since he knew where the man was and had nothing but time, he guessed it wouldn't hurt to at least see to it that these two bothersome women were out of his way.