My father is the broad-shouldered, strong, internal teddy bear type, with fingers like sausages. In my childhood, he was a Midwestern farmer. In his spare time, he donates his mad skills to car repairs of missionaries, single moms, people like that. He’s that kind of guy.
And it’s common for him to come back into the house with blood zigzagging down his leg or seeping through his shirt.
I know I wasn’t the only mom whose gut sunk like a stone when I heard of the death (“passing” seems a misnomer) of George Floyd. Just weeks after our family discussion about Ahmaud Arbery, we sat down in lieu of online church to talk again about racial discrimination.
Truth: Sometimes I wish I didn’t tell you I’d help with “uncomfortable conversations…worth having.”
But here’s another truth: Those of you readers of color probably didn’t have an option for this uncomfortable conversation with your kids.
So for a lot of the world, boredom is real. I read in a meme that pandas can eat 13 hours a day…hence calling this a “pandemic.” Need a couple of fresh ideas while you’re bored in quarantine?
Try these jigsaw puzzles from White Mountain with icons from the 80’s and the 90’s–serious conversation starters. (“Dad, who was Michael Jackson?”)
So yeah. That happened.
I won’t tell you which one. It doesn’t matter. And I have this phobia my kids will need to be in therapy because their mother is a writer.
Most of the things we need to be most fully alive never come in busyness. They grow in rest.
Mindset of the man too busy: I am too busy being God to become like God.
Mark Buchanan, The Holy Wild: Trusting in the Character of God
Author’s note: If you missed these previous posts, you might grab them first for other overarching ideas on choosing vulnerability even when it’s hard–and being a safe place for others when they don’t have their act together.
My husband and I were headed out on a date night (can you hear the angel choirs singing? I needed it. As in, bad). It was admittedly last minute, to the point that my curly-turned-cotton-candy hair had been lassoed by a headband and fun-bun. But my kids would have food and it looked positive no one would burn anything down, so the big stuff was covered. Thus I sat in the passenger seat with my makeup bag, aka magic wand. I was just about through patting on concealer when my husband looked over at me.
So my kids are home for the summer after their first year in public school. Observations:
a. I’ve been looking forward to quality time with them. That said, if they fight like, one more time? I may be glancing at tickets for four children to, say, Abu Dhabi.
b. I am still working from home. So in contrast to what I wish summer looked like for moms, it’s more to the tune of “more bricks, less straw”.
Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering.
The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.
Like this series? Get more of these here.
I’ve been putting this post off.
It’s pretty much because creating a sense of respect in my kids still makes me want to tear my hair out. Admittedly, my oldest is now 13, so we’re breaking new ground in this area.
Missed the previous posts and the ideas behind this series? Catch ’em here.
He was barely in the front door, cheeks flushed from the bike ride home. He smelled like the cold and that faintest puff of little-boy sweat. “Mom! Guess what! We’re getting a new kid and his name is Toby and the teacher wants me to show him around and tell him all about the school!” He drew a breath, those Chiclet-sized adult teeth still, charmingly, just a bit too big for his eight-year-old mouth.
![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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