Our New Year Adventure

Well, Christmas is over and, like many of you, we're feeling a little financially challenged. Add property taxes and higher heating bills to the Christmas crunch and, well... I start looking at creative options. This year, my plan involves a family adventure, of sorts. Since I feel like there's more month than money every January, it's easy to embrace that as the truth. So, my husband and I totalled up all of our monthly commitments - house payment, car insurance, utilities, phone and the amounts we've committed to give to our church and other ministries. Then we subtracted that amount from our monthly income. The result showed us in black and white that we do have money left after we pay our bills. The only reasonable explanation for the gap between our intentions about how to use our money and the reality are the "variable" expenses. (That's CPA speak for expenses we can more easily control, like groceries and clothes.)

So we devised a plan. For the month of January, we've resolved not to eat out and not to buy anything except essentials. We are going to make a list of any non-essentials we want to buy and reconsider those potential purchases in February.

Let me set this up for you. We're not big spenders. We drive a 10-year-old Jeep and a five-year-old minivan. No car payments. We live in a 1950's Ranch style house that we have slowly fixed up over the last decade. We usually eat out after church and sometimes one other time per week at the "kids eat free" places. I buy many, if not most, of our family's clothes used or drastically on sale. We've only taken one family vacation, which we paid cash for.

But, alas we are apparently still "leaking". We want to be better stewards of the resources God has entrusted to us, and we want to give more, save more and continue to fix up our house. Maybe you want to get out of debt, save for retirement or travel. Whatever your goals are, I hope you'll join us in this challenge, and I'd love to hear about your victories, challenges and temptations along the way.

Good luck and Happy New Year!

A Heart Filled With Gratitude

We spent the weekend at my mom's with my siblings and their families. I ate too much and slept too little. But as we traveled home tonight - six hours through gusty wind, rain and sleet - my mind wandered back over the weekend, and the first 38 years of my life, recalling my blessings. Here's just a sampling, which I'm sure many of you share.

1. Another year of life, truly the most precious gift God bestows
2. Still being crazy about my husband after 15 years
3. The privilege of motherhood
4. Healthy, happy children
5. A big, loud, crazy family who love me just the way I am
6. A big, loud, crazy family I love just the way they are
7. My sisters' two-year-old girls
8. Living in the greatest country on Earth
9. Knowing that God loves me and has a purpose for me in His master plan
10. Reuniting with college friends (almost 20 years after college)
11. Pumpkin pie and chocolate fondue
12. The generosity of others
13. Getting out of a warm bed to a hot breakfast (Thanks, Mom!)
14. Beautiful colors and textures of the late Fall countryside
15. Forgiveness
16. Reliable transportation
17. The ability to work
18. Girlfriends
19. Reading a good book by a glowing fire
20. Warm, fuzzy socks (Is there anything better?)

My wish for you is that you focus on your blessings more than your burdens and that each day reveals itself as the unopened gift it was meant to be. Happy Thanksgiving!

Now It's Gettin' Political

I have no political expertise; my degree is in Accounting, not political science. But my dad, a Vietnam vet and high school political science teacher, was passionate about America and its greatness, and he passed that zeal onto his daughters.

That said, recently my daughters (ages 12 and 10) were trying to sort out all the rhetoric and asked me why their dad and I consider ourselves "conservatives". Here's my answer, condensed into a top 10 list.

10. I can't relate to the Hollywood elites, and they can't relate to me.
9. I think I am better qualified to manage my own life, and money, than the government is.
8. I believe that capitalism, not socialism, is the strongest economic system.
7. I am, and always have been, proud of my country and believe that, with all its faults, it is still the greatest country on earth.
6. I think the only effective anti-terror strategy is to fight terrorists where they are, not merely ask them to play nice.
5. I believe the responsibility of judges is to interpret the constitution, not re-write it.
4. I admire, not blame, the brave men and women who fight for our right to criticize and accuse them of "air-raiding villages and killing civilians".
3. I believe that 99% of the situations people find themselves in are caused, or greatly contributed to, by their own choices; therefore, taking personal responsibility is much more empowering than government intervention in most situations.
2. I believe that marriage was intended by God to be a union between one man and one woman.
1. I believe life is precious from the moment of conception until the moment of natural death, and that the circumstances surrounding the child's conception don't determine the value of its life.

I think Ronald Reagan said it best. "Freedom prospers when religion is vibrant and the rule of law under God is acknowledged."

Decorating 101

I read something once that completely changed the way I decorate my house: "Surround yourself only with those things which you find to be useful or beautiful." For ten years, I have followed that advice strictly, almost fanatically. Since I read that simple yet profound statement, it has been a source of freedom and inspiration in every decorating choice I have made, especially in the absence of the "money is no object" scenario. As a result, my house has taken on a look and feel that distinctly reflect our family's personality and priorities.

Comfy couches and chairs beckon from in front of the fireplaces. Family photos fill the walls. (After all, what would any mother consider more beautiful than pictures of her children?) Sweet-smelling candles scent the air, and miles of books line the built-in bookshelves. Brightly colored petunias peek out of the flower boxes while the porch swing and hammock practically beg to be put to work on lazy summer afternoons.

The house isn't fancy; in fact, it's old and the never-ending list of home improvement projects, including "gutting" the 1950's pink bathroom, is daunting. But we believe this house is a gift from God, a haven for our precious brood, and we nurture it with patience and persistence.

I like to shop for little "treasures" for the house, so on a recent outing to Target, I decided to peruse the summer clearance items. Unbeknownst to me, my six-year-old son Micah was browsing too, and halfway down the doormat aisle, he cried, "Mom, look at this one!" I obediently backed up the cart and glanced at the object of his affection: a school of blue fish on a tan background with the caption, "Thanks for swimming by." "That's cute," I half mumbled and ambled on. "Cute?!", he practically yelled. "Mom, I love it!" He is fascinated with nature, especially fish and birds, and his delighted, fixated gaze told me he really did adore it.

So, I tried my first "I don't want to buy that" excuse. "Let's see how much it is." Bummer. Only $7. Who knew clearance could be a bad thing? Luckily, I had another excuse poised and ready. "But, honey," I said as he clasped his hands together and pleaded with his eyes, "it doesn't match our house." Realizing he couldn't argue with that logic, he slowly unclasped his hands, stood up straight, turned toward his silly new friends and said, "But it matches me."

Needless to say, the fish found a new home, and my "useful or beautiful" logic took on new meaning. Every time I look at those blue, bloated cartoon faces under my feet, I think about what they represent: a little buzz-headed blonde, full of energy and life, who treasures God's creatures with a simple appreciation that rubs off on his sisters, dad and me. I think about the other imperfect aspects of my real-life decorating dilemmas like tiny, greasy fingerprints on the carefully painted walls, black permanent marker on the red ottoman and crayons, CD's and smelly socks strewn from one end of the house to the other. Messy? Yeah. Frustrating? At times. Beautiful? Absolutely. My house will never be featured on HGTV, that's for sure. But our zany, wonderful, noisy, unpredictable life happens here, and that will always be enough for me.

Party, Interrupted

My son turned six on June 18th and as usual the date, lying in wait behind Father's Day, snuck up on me. Micah's a nature lover and, after much discussion, he decided he would have a "water party" in our front yard. (His first idea was to hike the nature trails at a local conservation area while searching for deer, wild turkeys and snakes. He couldn't understand that some people consider that torture, not fun.) "What a great idea!", I thought. Practical, inexpensive, easy to plan and I won't even have to clean the house.

We invited his friends and their moms for a low-key afternoon get-together. Next we picked up some squirt guns, borrowed a sprinkler toy from a friend, blew up the inflatable kiddie pool, hosed off the lawn chairs, ordered a cookie cake and made a quick trip to the party store for matching fish plates and napkins.

The big day finally arrived, and everything was in order. The weather forecast called for a "slight chance for rain" in the evening, but the party was scheduled from 2:00-4:00. Perfect. A little before 2:00, the guests started arriving. Micah proudly greeted his friends, handing them colorful plastic leis and inviting them to "grab a (water) gun and start shooting". The moms lounged in lawn chairs, rocking babies and sipping cold water, while the kids splashed, squirted and screamed.

A good time was had by all until, at precisely 3:03 pm, a high-pitched whine echoed all around us. The sky was clear, but there was no mistaking the sound: tornado sirens. Time to implement Plan B. Everyone inside - NOW! In a matter of three minutes, 15 soaking wet, grass-covered boys and girls tramped through the house, as I frantically made my way toward the TV. Mass chaos ensued, as the kids stripped off their wet swimming suits, confused by the sudden end to the water fun; the weatherman screamed instructions at us and the moms called their husbands to assure them they were safe.

Meanwhile, Micah kept pulling on my shirt, begging me to "save his presents from the patio table before they blow away". I tried to calmly explain this was a crisis, the presents would be fine and I'd get them as soon as I was sure everyone was safe. That explanation didn't cut it for him so, in the midst of the mayhem, he slipped on his sandals and embarked on a rescue mission. I didn't even notice he was gone until he reappeared in the family room, laden with bags and boxes, looking terrified but triumphant.

The wind blew, the rain poured and the sky turned black as night. Through it all, Micah gleefully opened his gifts while he and his friends devoured the giant chocolate chip cookie, a half gallon of ice cream and two dozen juice boxes. They didn't seem to notice the dangerous weather or the completely disastrous (in my mind) change of plans. As soon as Micah's party ended, I had a party of my own--a pity party. "Why does something always have to go wrong when I plan a party? Why aren't my kids' parties as cool as other kids' parties? I didn't even clean my house, for Pete's sake." I sulked and pouted and wondered why God hadn't answered my prayer for calm weather.

The next day, Micah crept into my bed early, like he does every morning after his dad leaves for work. I rolled over and peered groggily through a half-opened eyelid to see him gazing at the ceiling and grinning ear to ear. When I asked him why he was so happy, he said, "I'm just thinking about my party. It was the best day of my life." But I wasn't convinced, still feeling like a party-planning failure, until we went to the church picnic on Sunday. Micah was getting settled on the picnic blanket, trying not to spill his fried chicken or lemonade, when his friend Garrett bounded up to him and joyfully exclaimed, "Hey Micah, I loved your party! We got to squirt all the girls.", and they promptly exchanged high fives. Amused and more than a little surprised, I looked over at Steve. He just smiled, winked and said, "See? I told you. It was perfect." And I had to admit, based on the evidence, that he was right.

A Tribute To My Dad

Today's my dad's birthday. He would have been 56, but he died 11 years ago of melanoma. With Father's Day a few days away, it seemed only fitting to dedicate this post to him.

A Tribute to Dad, Michael Robert Coyne (6/9/52-5/4/97):

I spent last week at a writers' conference on a quaint college campus near Chicago. Being there, surrounded by stately buildings and lovers of words, brought you to my mind even more than usual. Your passion for learning and ability with language, both written and spoken, were a shining example to me.

Since you were so young when I was born, I remember attending your college graduation ceremony. You beamed with pride, and I thought that I'd never seen you so happy as you were wearing that square hat with string hanging off the side. I wasn't sure what it all meant, but your smile told me that piece of paper was important and somehow represented hope and progress. I remember, years later, when you took Amy and me to the campus on lazy summer days. We'd stroll along the sidewalks and admire the distinguished buildings and majestic oak trees, eventually meandering to the history museum where you gave us our own guided tour. You saw beauty in learning just for the sake of learning, and you taught us to love it too.

And what a way with words you had! I remember how you studied for hours and seemingly never forgot anything you read. Your razor-sharp wit allowed you to discuss virtually any subject, from politics to basketball, and your engaging style held us all captive as you recounted events from your own life or the world at large.

You worked hard to achieve your dreams, and becoming a teacher and coach was the pinnacle for you. History came alive when you taught. "Mr. Coyne" sounded so formal, so I just called you "Dad", to the delight of the other gum-popping, note-passing high school girls. Your incredible command of history and animated narratives made us laugh but, more importantly, they made us think. I learned to love America--in your classroom and in your home. You taught me that voting is a privilege, that having a voice is just as important as holding an office. (I also remember your disappointment when I was the only student in the senior Civics class who couldn't register to vote because I was still 17.) You taught and modeled that it's worth it to work toward an ideal, no matter the strength of the opposition. That's the beauty of democracy, you said.

You craved variety and were always searching for a new adventure. You loaded boxes for UPS, hiked the Grand Canyon and cheered the KU basketball team to their first National Championship. You lived to travel the world, ride horses and coach football. Literary classics captured your heart and Saturday Night Live made you laugh so hard you hiccuped. You could never pass up Mom's fried chicken or root beer floats. You hated peas and injustice and, as hard as you tried, you never understood math or your teenage daughters.

Your life read like a good novel. The scenes were always changing, from the Kansas plains to the jungles of Vietnam to an Eskimo village in Alaska. You were down-to-earth yet complicated, strong yet vulnerable, gentle yet distant. And there was plenty of conflict--with yourself and others. No one knows the hurts of another human heart, but I know yours were deep. Maybe that's where the novel takes an interesting turn. Your wrestling with God told a twisted, beautiful tale about a loving Father's willingness to pursue His beloved children and woo them with grace and truth toward sweet redemption.

That's your story, Dad. When I think about the ending, it seems tragic. The lessons you learned in war and family and life seem wasted because you died so young, before two of your own children were grown. Your grandchildren don't know you, except from looking at pictures of you on horseback or kissing the Blarney stone. But then I remember the elements of a good story I learned last week. Take the reader on a ride, then leave them with something to take away, something to think about. To the casual reader, the ending is senseless and heartbreaking. But look closer, it's the most amazing ending of all.

No more conflict or cancer and just one final change of scenery. The hero in the story returns to his true home, a safe place where he's welcomed with open arms. That's not tragic. After all, physical death isn't the end of the story. It's merely a new chapter in a never-ending tale of peace and oneness with God, the author and perfecter of all things good. That's "happily ever after" if I've ever heard it.

You packed a lot into 44 years, and I thank God for your life and the influence it had on me and many others. I still miss you every single day, but I know I'll see you soon.

Love,
Lisa

A Lesson in the Garden

As I rounded the corner of the house to fill my watering can, I stopped dead in my tracks - shocked by what I saw. A rose bush in bloom isn't unusual in May. But this wasn't just any bush. This was the most stubborn, resistant, obnoxious plant I'd ever encountered. I'd wanted, even begged my husband, to cut it down and pull the roots out any number of times during the past nine years.

At our first house we had roses, planted by the previous owners, and were always amazed at how little work they required. We did nothing; yet they bloomed radiantly in a rainbow of colors each Spring. So, when we moved into our current house, we knew we wanted to include those "beautiful, low-maintenance roses" we remembered so fondly. We promptly planted the aforementioned climbing bush right outside our bedroom window.

The first year it did nothing. No growth, no buds. Nothing. We watered it faithfully and "fed" it rose food. Year two - still nothing. Year three - nada. Year four - zip. "Be patient," Steve said. "It will bloom when it's ready." (He knows me better than anyone on the planet, except you- Mom, and he still used the "p" word. Patience is not a virtue of mine, to say the least.) Year five. Eureka! A couple of buds formed. We got excited, but they never opened into full flowers. That's when I got mad - and serious. This thing was not going to beat me. I Google'd "roses" and read everything that popped up. The recurring theme in each article was pruning - a fancy term for "Cut the heck out of the plant every year."

I've been gardening for a while now, but apparently I still had a lot to learn, and the concept of chopping something up to make it grow bigger and stronger didn't make sense to me. It seemed unnecessary, even harsh. But, my husband's grandparents had a fruit orchard, and he was all too familiar with the pruning process. He explained to me the benefits that fruit trees and flowering plants derive from pruning, including ridding it of the unproductive parts and helping it to conserve resources to maximize its new, healthy growth the following season.

So, after carefully studying the recommended rose-pruning procedures, he sharpened the clippers and went to work. He cut and chopped and clipped until the poor thing looked pathetic. "Trust me," he said. "Next year will be better." And, sure enough, he was right! The next Spring, one or two of those buds did open up into a gorgeous pink bloom. Progress! We have pruned it every year since with varying degrees of success, but I hadn't paid much attention to it so far this season. Hence my shock when I rounded the corner. It was stunning! There were six flowers in full bloom and at least as many buds ready to open any day. The foliage was vibrant and green, and it had climbed almost to the roof line.

Right then and there, I learned a life lesson that I'm sure I'll never forget--the value of pruning. Not just in gardening, but in life. Jesus said, "I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit; and He cleanses and repeatedly prunes every branch that continues to bear fruit, to make it bear more and richer and more excellent fruit" (John 15:1-2, Amp). I thought back over my own life and all the cleansing and pruning God has had to do. He has chopped away at self-destructive habits like overeating and overspending. Every day, He clips off unruly thoughts filled with selfishness and pride. He digs up the weeds of worry, criticism and unforgiveness, bringing me to a beautiful place of repentance and restoration, like a spring rain washing over my wilted leaves.

I wish I could say my pruning days are over, that my life continually bears rich, excellent fruit. Alas, that's not the case. BUT, when I think back over all the mistakes, poor choices, and trials, I realize that those pruning incidents have caused fruit to grow. Owing only to God's grace, my marriage is still strong and loving after 15 years. I don't overeat or overspend anymore (okay, okay, rarely). I love being my kids' mom, and God has blessed me with several close friends. Most amazing to me are the many times He has turned pipe dreams into reality. Just like that rose bush, I'm still stubborn and obnoxious at times. But God sees the beautiful flowers trying to bloom through adversity and thanks to the faithful pruning of a loving gardener, I believe I'll see them too.

Maddie Gives Big!

My daughter, Maddie, turned 10 on March 28th. Birthdays are a big deal in our family, and Maddie usually starts thinking about hers the day after Christmas. :) She has lots of friends and wants to include everyone in the festivities, which can be challenging on our limited birthday budget. So, thinking I would get a jump on it, I asked her in early March what she wanted to do for her birthday this year. I expected her to say, "Have a sleepover.", or "Go roller skating with my friends." To my surprise, she didn't say either of those things. But what she did say blessed my heart and made me proud.

"Mom, I can't really think of anything I want this year, except a Hannah Montana movie. So I was thinking that maybe..." Here it comes, I thought. She wants to invite the whole world and have a three-day festival commemorating the day of her birth. I started to feel nauseous. "..that maybe, instead of asking for presents this year, I'll just ask for donations to help abused kids." What?? Did I hear that right? A ten-year-old girl--the ten-year-old girl who lives in my house, no less-- is voluntarily giving up gifts to help hurting kids?? It took a minute for that to soak in. But, knowing Maddie like I do, I shouldn't have been surprised. She's always had a tender heart toward others, and more than once, she's asked to use the computer to make "flyers" to initiate a penny drive at school to help those less fortunate.

How can a mother turn down a request like that? "Let's do it!" I said, and we got right to work. After much discussion and thought, she decided to donate the money she raised to Royal Family Kids Camp, the nation's largest network of camps for abused and neglected children. Our county has the highest child abuse and neglect rates in the state, and our church sponsors a Royal Family Kids Camp every summer. So Maddie has heard about and seen the tragic consequences of child abuse and neglect in church, school and even in our family since her adopted sister was neglected in early childhood. All these factors convinced Maddie that giving up her gifts for RFKC was a perfect fit.

Next, Maddie typed a letter explaining what she planned to do and sent it to our extended family, her church and school friends and a few close family friends. The party was simple--a room @ the church and plenty of cake, soda, balloons and, of course, Hannah Montana movies and CD's playing all three hours. Everyone had a great time, and the end result was amazing! With God's blessing and the generosity of many people, Maddie was able to raise $1,600 for the Royal Family kids--enough to send three or four kids to camp this summer.

This has been such an eye-opening experience for our family, and I want to share with you the lessons we've learned, the first of which is you do NOT, I repeat, do NOT, have to be wealthy, influential or part of an altruistic army to make a very real difference in the world. All it takes is one person, even one very small person, with a heart of compassion and a desire to look @ the tough stuff in this life and try to make things better.

Jesus taught that it is "more blessed to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35), but to most of us, those words just don't ring true. But God showed us the truth in that statement in an upclose and personal way. I have never seen Maddie as happy and joyful as she was this year. Her face lit up each time she opened a card that contained money--not for her, but for someone else--and she beamed with delight for several days after. She experienced the true, deep joy of giving that no pile of presents can ever replace. Someday, she'll forget the clothes, movies and books that she usually gets for her birthday. But, the memory of reaching out to "the least of these" can never be erased.

We're all familiar with the law of sowing and reaping. I mean no one expects flowers or fruit to grow without first putting a seed into the ground. This law seems so obvious when we think about how it works in nature. But I'm learning that it's just as powerful in everyday life. It really is true that you get what you give, and Maddie's big-giving adventure demonstrated that in spades. God puts it this way, "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you" (Luke 6:38). Maddie started with a small seed of compassion, planted it firmly in love, watered it with hope and faith. But it was God who made it grow. He made the love and generosity of one little child blossom into something beautiful and life-changing--for Maddie, for Maddie's mom and most importantly, for some precious Royal kids.

Built for Speed?

It's been too long since I've posted. I apologize to any of you who routinely read my posts. The bad news is life has been a little crazy lately. The good news is it's been hectic for (mostly) all the right reasons -- hanging out with my family during Spring Break, celebrating Easter, planning my daughter's birthday bash and trying to meet the ever present writing deadlines which, by the way, I'm oh-so-thankful for! :)

Anyway... I'm back, and here's what I've been thinking about. A few weeks ago, my five-year-old son, Micah, entered a little wooden car in our church's annual Pinewood Derby race. For those of you who haven't been fortunate enough to watch your child's car zoom down a wooden plank to victory, allow me to describe the process. First, lots of little boys (and girls) design, cut out, paint and assemble their own wooden car for the big race. (Micah spelled "Mom" on one end of the car and "Dad" on the other end. Of course, when the announcer asked him which end was the front, he promptly replied, "DAD"! No hard feelings though - really.)On race day, all the cars are displayed on tables for the die-hard fans to admire. Then the race begins. Three cars at a time, divided by the child's age group, are poised at the top of a thin wooden plank - think roller coaster rail. They are released at the same time and, as they cross the finish line, a computer calculates each car's time to determine the ultimate winner.

There are two awards given per age group-- one for design and one for speed. You can imagine which one the boys all want and what a source of pride it is -- for the boys and their dads -- if they win the coveted prize for speed. This year, Micah won third place for speed in his division, which warranted a long-distance call to Grandpa, a self-confessed speed demon and soon-to-be drag racer himself. Micah proudly announced that his car "was almost the fastest out of 18 boys!", as Grandpa congratulated him on the other end of the phone and Steve grinned from ear to ear.

That conversation, combined with the aforementioned craziness in my schedule, started me thinking about which trophy I want. Not for the Pinewood Derby, of course, but for my life. When it's all over, what do I want my life to count for: speed--the busy, hectic, run from here to there at the pace of a world-class sprinter with nothing to show for it except busy-ness itself, or design--a well-crafted way of living that drinks in everything life has to offer. It's a no-brainer, but it's also a constant battle. Like many of you, I want to take long walks in the Spring sunshine, bake homemade chocolate chip cookies for my kids and generally shower my family and friends with endless amounts of energy, patience and love. But the reality is there is laundry to wash, bills to pay, toilets to clean and deadlines to meet. I'm human, so I feel discontent, tired and grouchy more often than I like to admit.

So where is the balance? I have a feeling I'll be asking myself that question on a daily basis for as long as I walk this earth. But a couple of truths keep resurfacing in my life, and I've noticed a pattern. Whenever I keep these thoughts in the forefront of my mind, my days are more fulfilling and less irritating. My priorities stay straighter and my life feels richer. They're not earth-shattering, but they have been life changing: 1) There is not time in each day to do everything, but there is time to do everything that God wants me to do, which ties in closely with #2. "Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness (His way of being and doing), and all these things will be added to you." (Matthew 6:33).

So, with these principles in mind I wake up each morning and visualize what my day "should" look like to accomplish what I need to while still keeping first things first. I like to think of each 24-hour period like it's a lump of clay with no particular form, shape or color. It's up to me to take that ugly mass of "empty" time and craft it into something beautiful. That might mean cleaning my house and running errands, writing at my tiny, garage sale desk for 10 hours straight, sitting with a friend by her child's bedside in the hospital or playing tag with my kids in the front yard. Whatever the rest of my life brings, I know if I listen to my heart and trust God that someday I'll win a trophy too. But it won't be for speed. For me, to hear God Himself say, "Well done, good and faithful servant" (Matthew 25:21) at the end of my journey will be the ultimate reward for design. All that's left to do is begin - TODAY. "Ladies, start your engines!"

Remember Surrender

I took my nine-year-old daughter (and famous singer wanna-be) Maddie to a Sara Groves concert last Friday. It's the third time I've seen her in concert; I love her music and respect her message more each time. It's not even entertainment from the standpoint that it's not passive. It's almost like work. Sara makes me think and search and confront myself. After the concert I felt challenged, not entertained, but it's a worthwhile tradeoff. She sings about real life in a broken world, but the music teems with hope and promise. She writes most of her own lyrics, which have moved and sustained me during the most challenging times of my life. Case in point - Remember, Surrender from the All Right Here CD.

Remember, surrender. As a matter of fact, I do remember. I remember exactly where and when I surrendered - in a red chair in the middle of another sleepless night. Taunted by doctors' reports and dismal statistics. Afraid to quit fighting, afraid I would lose.

My youngest child was just six months old when I was diagnosed with a rare, usually fatal (90% of the time) liver disease. My future looked bleak at best. I was undergoing the only known medical treatment, a series of steroids with an immunosuppressant drug often used in chemotherapy. My head spun, my stomach churned, my hands trembled and I slept only about 10 hours a week. It was 3:00 am, and I was still awake. Bleary eyed and frustrated, I stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the hallway to the family room where I collapsed, exhausted and defeated, into my favorite red chair - and God's arms. Hopeless and scared, I cried my heart out. I told him that I wanted to live but that I couldn't fight anymore. The drugs were taking their toll and trying to raise four young kids, work part time and stay ahead of the mounting medical bills and laundry piles, all while trying to squelch my fears and those of my family and friends was more than I could handle. All the anger, fear and bewilderment of the last few months spilled out. I held nothing back. Remember surrender. Remember relief. Remember how tears rolled down both of your cheeks. As the warmth of a heavenly father came closing in.

After my crying fit, I laid my head against the arm of the chair and I gave it all to God. The length - and quality - of my life. My children's future with or without me. All the hopes and dreams I'd had for my life and theirs. A few minutes later, for the first time in months, my hands stopped trembling and I closed my eyes and slept... deeply and peacefully right there in the red chair. Remember surrender. Remember the peace. Remember how soundly you fell fast asleep. In the face of your troubles your future still shone like the morning sun.

I was fighting against the disease with all my strength but the whole time, God wasn't asking me to fight. He was asking me to do something much more difficult - to trust and to rest - in the middle of the battle. Not to take on the weight of the world. Not to grieve my losses - yet. Not to roll over and die. Not to be bitter and angry and ask, "Why me?" But only to trust. Remember surrender. Remember the rest. Remember that weight lifting off of your chest. And realizing that it's not up to you and it never was..."

That was five years ago and I'm still here. God has taught me so much about what my body and soul need to be healthy, including proper nutrition, exercise and plenty of rest. I have a wonderful doctor, who gives me hope and encouragement, which sometimes is all I need to get through another day with a good attitude. My life has changed a lot since the night in the red chair. My priorities are straight, and my relationships are rich. Now I spend my days caring for my family and my health. I've learned how to forgive, love, play and enjoy life. But maybe the most healing aspect of all of this has been God awakening dreams in me that I had long since buried, not the least of which is reaching out to other women through writing. Remember surrender. Remember that sound. Of all of those voices inside dying down. But one who speaks clearly of helping and healing you deep within.

Yes, I do remember the surrender. It was the sweetest decision I could have made, and the beginning of an incredible journey toward true healing and wholeness. So, let me encourage you in whatever you're struggling through. God will give you joy for sorrow and beauty for ashes. All He asks in return is that you trust Him and realize that it's not up to you... and it never was.

Sabotage is Such a Strong Word

I'm reading a devotional book called Praying for Purpose for Women, by Katie Brazelton. In each daily entry, there is a question to ask yourself, a Bible verse, a short prayer and space to journal what you're learning. The point is to guide the reader toward discovering God's unique plan for her life through a series of "baby steps". It takes guts to look that closely at yourself, but that's what I'm trying to do.

Day 11 was particularly piercing. Here's just a morsel, "Are you a saboteur?" (Absolutely not! That's such an ugly word.) Then the definition: "Self-sabotage means that you consciously or subconsciously obstruct your own productivity (uh, oh...) in order to underhandedly defeat a worthwhile endeavor." Nope. Not me. I read further to find out what other women do to complicate their lives and ensure that they fall short of the fulfilling lives they desire.

That's when she pulled out the big guns. She gave examples - galore! "Could this be your story?", she asks, in her unassuming way. "NO!!" I screamed inside my head, starting to panic now. Here are just a few:

• You don't exercise, causing health issues.
• You are rash and impulsive, resulting in poor, often irreversible decisions.
• You compare yourself to others and end up feeling inadequate.
• You aim for perfection, leading inevitably to failure.
• You allow your temper to rage out of control, producing guilt and shame.

You get the picture. And so it went, each example peeling away another layer of denial until I found myself searching frantically for the "All of the Above" choice! "How did this happen?" I wondered aloud as I sat in the middle of my bed confronted by all the ways I choose to be my own worst enemy.

I've read more self improvement books than any woman alive and, while I have made positive changes as a result, I still struggle in EVERY SINGLE AREA she mentioned. And, as often as I've undercut God's best intentions for my life, instead of facing it and making a change, I usually blame Him.

So what's the answer? Well... I think step one is probably doing exactly what I was forced to do - strip away the denial and excuses. Each of us needs to take a deep, honest look at our daily thought and behavior patterns. Then we need to surrender and be open to change. God will show us areas where we need to come up higher, but we have to listen. And, you know what I've found? God is the Alpha and Omega of Common Sense. Sometimes the things we make so hard are actually very simple - not easy, mind you - but simple.

For example, if you're moody all day because you stayed up too late, go to bed! If you're miserable because you just ate three Snickers bars, choose one "fun" size Snickers (I wonder how much fun a candy bar that small can be.). You get the idea. Overspending, overeating, yelling at my kids, or that racing, pounding heart feeling, all of which I still confront, really have straightforward answers, whether or not we want to believe it.

Here are just a few principles that I am discovering to help alleviate my self-sabotaging behaviors.

• Be content. Period.
• Be moderate in all things, including work, eating, spending and exercise. Following this principle alone has added balance and peace to my life.
• Treat others like I want to be treated. Need I say more?
• Try to see myself as God sees me - a cherished one-of-a-kind work-in-progress.
• Be humble. Note that this does NOT mean thinking less of yourself. It simply means to think of yourself less.
• Be radically generous! Nothing lifts my spirits in the middle of a self-sabotaging funk like giving to someone else. There are so many needs. Every time I look, I find someone who needs an encouraging word, a hug or a hot meal.

In spite of the many "self improvement" books I've read, I learned every one of these principles from the greatest book ever written. It's true. Start with the book of Proverbs and see for yourself. And, take "self sabotage" out of your vocabulary for good!

We're All On This Quest

First, let me establish that I read -- a lot. I'm a busy mom, but reading is a life line, of sorts, for me. So I make time for it. I read while I'm waiting to pick up my kids from school. I read at the doctor's office and in traffic jams. I read first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I read on the porch swing and in the bathtub. So when I say a book has been life-changing, one thing is for sure: It's had a lot of competition.

A Quest for More, by Paul David Tripp, was just such a book. Wow! What a read! The brutal honesty was refreshing, and the way he molded a weighty topic into a concept I could get my mind and heart around was remarkable. This book made me think, cry, hurt and hope. It challenged me, and everyone who dares to read it, to leave behind my little "kingdom of self" to reach toward something deeper and wider than my life - the kingdom of God.

Tripp convincingly demonstrates the value of living with God at the center of your life, in gratitude to Him and service to others. Nothing else will, or even can, give our lives such meaning, purpose and joy. Most of us long to be part of something bigger than ourselves. But, in the midst of daily life and busy schedules, we find that we only have enough energy to (barely) take care of ourselves and our families, thereby "reducing the size of our life to the size of our life". Tripp writes that we are “wired” for so much more and that tying our purpose into God’s kingdom is the only thing that will, or can, fulfill us. The bottom line: Each of us was created with a void inside and an intense need to fill it. This isn't theology, and you don't have to be "religious" to see this played out every day. We all try to fill the void, sometimes in destructive ways, like with drugs, alcohol or too much food. Or, we might try to fill it in more benign, but still ineffective, ways like through our careers, relationships, entertainment or even ministry. While many of these things are not wrong in and of themselves, they weren't intended to fill our void, and they never will.

This book is pretty “heady”. If you want to read something sweet, light and fluffy, read something else. But, if you're ready to take an honest look at yourself and feel the hope that lies beneath what you find, this is the book for you. It's also real. I'm not much for head knowledge without practical life application, my personal litmus test for a"personal/spiritual growth" book. A Quest for More passed with flying colors! In fact, the last chapter of the book, aptly titled "Putting It All Together" outlines what this kind of "big kingdom" living looks like, in the real world on a daily basis. On some level, you will recognize yourself - and the people in your life - in this book. Thankfully, you will also have a road map to start your journey toward a passionate, purposeful life.

The Littlest Stalker

Our family is being stalked. It all started innocently. There were occasional phone calls and pleasantries exchanged. But now it's starting to get a little weird. This person called our house 12 times in less than 24 hours. Every time the phone rings, we all groan... We know who it is without even looking at the Caller ID. The stalker - Maddie's friend and fourth grade classmate.

Her big brown eyes are beautiful, and her tiny voice on the answering machine - MANY TIMES EVERY DAY - is as sweet as honey. "Hello, this is Maria*. Can Maddie please call me when she gets a chance?" Maddie does call her when she gets a chance; however, that never seems to be fast enough for Maria's taste. Within two minutes of leaving a message, she calls again, and again, and again.

We've tried various approaches. We've asked Maddie to speak to her about it at school, which she assures us she has done. "Maria, you only need to call me once. If we're not home, or I can't talk right then, I'll call you back later." "Ok," she says - and calls eight times, starting two seconds after she gets home from school where, I might add, she and Maddie have spent the entire day together. We've tried ignoring the phone, even turning off the ringer. But the answering machine beeping and clicking on and off repeatedly while we're having dinner isn't pleasant either. I'm sure the "experts" would advise us to take the assertive approach. When she calls again, just answer the phone and tell her politely that Maddie can't talk right then and we will have Maddie call her. After all, it's our house, our phone, our time, and our child. Right? Well, guess what? We tried that! It didn't work either.

Call me a weakling, a coward, a wimpy parent, but... we have adopted a new approach. Maria comes to our house. As a matter of fact, she spent the entire weekend here. The irony of this whole thing is that she's very meek and well mannered. So, when she's here, I don't even notice there's an extra child in the house. I know, I know... It's not a viable long-term alternative. But until I can think of something else, I'm embracing the age-old Looney Tunes philosophy: "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" Hey! It's all for the sake of the cause: peace and quiet.

*Names have been changed to protect the obsessive.

The Night in the Pink Closet

Our family spent last night in a closet. The whole family in a tiny pink closet. We didn't exactly sleep, and we did come out from time to time. So maybe saying we spent the night in there is a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. No, we weren't having a pajama party on a school night. We were simply following the weatherman's strict instructions to "take cover". The weirdest "winter" weather I've ever experienced slammed into our little part of the world last evening. My mom was on the phone first thing this morning informing me that she heard on the news these were the worst January storms in this region since the 1800's.

It was a sneaky storm too. For three days before it hit, the weather was gorgeous, complete with record-setting highs. Then, yesterday about 5:00, everything got still..and dark. The wind blew and it rained. It was eery but not scary - yet. During dinner, we turned on the news "just to be safe" and already a tornado had touched down about forty miles west of us - headed right toward us. That's when we "took cover", tornado language for getting in the smallest, most cramped part of your house, contorting your body into the most uncomfortable position you can imagine and covering your head with soft cushy items like pillows and blankets to protect your head and neck from flying trees and crumbling houses. Sounds reasonable, right? So that's what we did. Not once, not twice, but three times. The storms just kept coming, one after another, from 6:00 pm to 4:00 am. They were moving as quickly as 70 mph, and they came in waves, complete with driving rain, baseball-sized hail and deadly twisters. Hence, the reason for hanging out in my daughter's pink closet.

Mackenzie, who's 12, cried silent tears. Maddie, whose closet was our temporary residence, hunched over with her knees drawn to her chest and shook. Micah, the five-year-old, sat on Dad's lap and played with the flashlight, asking, "Can we get out now?" continuously, until we all wanted to scream! We dozed, we held hands, and we prayed - for protection, for peace and for the people who'd already lost their homes and their lives.

It was all too familiar. Eight months ago, a tornado completely devastated Greensburg, Kansas, a farming community 10 miles from where my mom & stepfather, brother and sisters live. The kids and I had gone to help with the relief efforts, and they remember it well. So when they hear the word "tornado" they get very real pictures in their minds - pictures of a hundred cots set up in a school gymnasium, people sobbing out of grief and exhaustion, and strangers embracing as friends in the midst of a shared tragedy. Because of one storm, they know that nature is strong but God is stronger, that loss hurts but love heals. They've seen a town obliterated in 10 minutes and the townspeople plan to rebuild it 10 minutes after that. They know that courage and determination trump shock and fear every time. Oh yeah and one other thing... They know that when the weatherman says, "Take cover," we all go to the pink closet.

New Year's Resolutions and Taunting Treadmills

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope each of you had a healthy, safe holiday season. I guess now it's back to the real world. I've decided that I have a love/hate relationship with the New Year. I love the idea of 12 fresh, new months unfolding before me. But... I hate my treadmill. The way it beckons to me from the corner of the room, taunting me with memories of all the food I've inhaled since.. well, Thanksgiving.

At the beginning of each new year, I used to make a detailed list of about a hundred completely unrealistic resolutions, psyche myself up and get started. I'd get up well before the sun and exercise for an hour. Then I'd shower, read my Bible and eat a nutritious breakfast, complete with two 8-ounce glasses of water. I was sweet and patient with my kids, professionally dressed for work and ON TIME everywhere I went. I ate a healthful lunch, taking time to stretch for 10 minutes and listen to soothing music. After work, I picked up the kids from daycare and school, hugging each one and asking how her day was, listening intently to their responses. Next came a healthful dinner that all the kids loved, after which the whole family snuggled and read books until bedtime. Do I really need to tell you the rest of the story? You got it - it lasted about 48 hours. Then I was back to my frazzled, breakfast (and exercise) skipping, tired, grouchy self. I always ended up feeling overwhelmed, anxious and miserable, which caused me to despise my "lack of discipline" and the first day of January.

Fast forward five years. I've learned from that vicious try-fail-hate myself cycle. Now, I do it differently. At the beginning of each new year, I 1) think about my priorities and 2) jot down a few things that I would like to improve on and one or two dreams I have for my life and family. It's encouraging to think back on the previous year and realize that I did learn, grow and change, even if only in small ways. I mess up a lot, and I still have a long way to go, but thankfully I'm not where I was 10 years ago. I fall short of expectations - my own and other people's. But the realization that each day matters and the assurance that God's grace is new every morning - not just some mornings - helps me keep things in perspective. When I think about the moments I'll share with the people I love, the books I'll read and the places I'll go, I feel grateful and optimistic about 2008. Who knows? I might even get up on that treadmill.