I would say I have been praying for a miracle in one (or more) of my kids for a year now.
But, y’know, it’s probably one of those things where you think, spring feels like a small miracle sometimes. My kids hanging up their towels sometimes feels like a series of miracles. And hey, let’s not forget the miracles God’s doing in me (to the tune of, Wow, when that kid flipped his lid, I didn’t flip mine. Miracle.)
The first time I met her, I entered my friend Kristen’s shop jittery as a triple espresso. She’s a multi-published author who didn’t know me from scrambled eggs. A mutual friend simply knew my resume, knew I was beginning a blog.
I was on “home” assignment from our post in Uganda (“home” while living overseas = weirdness. Every dang time). Perhaps I was most embarrassed that stress sweat tumbled off me in waves; I remember thinking I smelled like a packed African minibus. (Despite my insistence, my mom says I can either have 1) natural deodorant or 2) friends.)
So now that I’m a mom of teenagers and all their weirdness, we talk about things like we did last week: Is it okay to date a non-Christian?
This naturally means I have introduced things like oxen into our conversations before (cue the “unequally yoked” verse, 2 Corinthians 6:14). What’s a good dating conversation without lowing livestock?
This morning I walked through my house, trying not to see things.
I tried not to see the underwear packaging left on the floor by my two teenage boys. The clothes my daughter left on the bathroom floor. The cereal bowl on the counter of a few floating Honey Nut Cheerios.
Ever lost a job?
Years ago, after a frequent series of layoffs in my company, the axe finally fell on me.
For a year in Uganda, I taught a class at a local institution for early childhood education teachers. I’d haul in boxes of file folder games and bottle caps and flour for us to make playdough together. I’d bring along one of my kids to show them how the games worked, and we’d split up into “centers” for them to try out games involving clothespins and string and painting with water on cement. I wanted them to feel and smell and hear and taste how fun it could be to teach kids early math skills; to know how to read. In a country where it was still acceptable to cane children in the classroom, I wanted to show them that by getting kids excited about learning–rather than shamed–teachers cut their work in half. Why?
In teaching that class, I uncovered a core philosophy of mine. If kids can “catch the bug” for a subject when they’re young—having fun and being engaged—they’ll be self-driven to learn and experience that topic for the rest of their lives.
(That’s the philosophy that informs the whole Spiritual Disciplines for Real Families series on this site.)
Last week was the week where you sign enough paperwork that you think, Maybe I just bought a house or something. But actually, you’ve just registered your kids for school. I lost track of how many boxes of pencils and packages of notebook paper I purchased. And one of my kids is starting high school, which may mean that I am old?
Either way, the principal introduced himself as I walked out with my freshman (man, just typing it makes it sound real). And here is what I liked: Our new principal, in his last district, was also an elder in his church. So was our new superintendent. These intelligent, gifted men could presumably be doing a lot of things with their giftedness. But as I chatted with the principal, I thought, I’m really glad you’re doing this particular job. It matters to me and my kids and their discipleship. People like you preserve our schools so they don’t become “unreached”.
Sometimes it can feel a little like my schedule has me on a leash, rather than the other way around. During the school year, when asked how we are, how many times could we answer, “Busy”?
But, as I like to be reminded by Peter Scazzero, we’re human beings, not human doings. We are more than what we do, more than our usefulness, like some machine or hired hand.
So it’s summer, and the kids are home. And my son, who loves to cook and does so frequently, just asked me where the teaspoons are. Two days ago, he asked me to grab him a pair of socks. Yesterday, he asked me to text his friend. And I calmly responded, without snark, that I was not actually his personal assistant. (Okay. Minimal snark.) These requests are pretty frequent in my house.
In April, before I headed to Thailand, said son was swimming at the pool, and accused me of not making lunch for him (we were at a birthday party for one of our other kids. I was fortunate to be in my right mind). My husband tilted his head. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
So I have a teenager, and another just about. Most of me is tickled pink about all the real conversations we get to hold, all the fun we have as a maturing family, all the crazy jokes they tell me that leave all of us laughing.
And there’s this leeettle part of it that scares the bejeebies out of me.
Seemingly separate note: I have recently acquired an agent for a non-fiction book I’m writing, which makes my heart do little cartwheels of happiness. It was a moment I wasn’t sure would ever happen.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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