On Motherhood – Page 8

When Jesus Won’t Take the Wheel

February 5, 2014 By: Angela Parlin

The days are long, but the years are short.

My pastor quoted this in a sermon, and I added to it—But the days are still really long.

It wasn’t a lot of comfort—or motivation—right then, that these years would pass quickly, and then I would miss them. I had two baby boys, just over a year apart. The years spread out ahead of us, a long and winding trail of unknowns. There were no formulas in parenthood, so I was learning.

It was bigger than I expected. More than I could handle. I had already begun to add in the extras, which I made into rules for being “a good mom”. I thought I was supposed to do it all, but didn’t know how.

People would say, “God gives us the strength we need each day”. But I didn’t know how to live in strength that was not my own. I begged, Jesus, take the wheel, but felt like He left me at the wheel, alone.

What do you do when Jesus won’t take the wheel? That’s what I really wanted to know.

I asked Him for help, but still looked to myself to get everything done. Someone has get up and do the stuff. Right?

I kept trying to figure things out. Surely I missed something. If I had the best organization or meal plan or diet & exercise schedule, or the best words to pray or something else I wasn’t thinking of, then life could be better. I just needed to figure out how to improve and find the “right” mix.

But here’s the truth: there is no schedule or method of organization or diet or plan or discipline that will fix this life. It’s not going to be ideal or stay balanced or be just right like the little bear’s chair. The responsibilities of this life will sometimes feel like far too much. It will be too hard. It will be more than we can handle, at least sometimes.

We need a God who is present to help us, a God who doesn’t only possess all the strength, but gives it away.

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in time of trouble. (Psalm 46:1)

It’s not up to us—to try harder or keep figuring it out.

Now I can lay that idea down and seek God, believing He will help me. Now I can learn to trust in Him for my days, since I’m not so focused on my own abilities and performance. I’m growing in this. {At this rate, I’ll be growing forever.} But I don’t see growth as something to attain and skate past. Anymore. I hope this encourages you today. I hope we trust in the Lord and soar…

Seek the Lord and His strength; seek His presence continually. (Psalm 105:4)

But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:31)

Hero {Five-Minute Friday}

January 31, 2014 By: Angela Parlin

The 2^nd grade worksheet asked about my hero. Easiest question ever. And it hasn’t changed.

My Dad, because he’s the greatest.

I called him hero long before I understood how heroic he really was. Is. He did nothing earth-shattering to earn the title, but all the little dailies added up.

My Dad loved his four girls and our Mama. He made us feel secure and took us out for Daddy dates—mostly Wendy’s frosty’s. He came to watch us cheer or sing, and wrote letters to say he was so proud to be our Dad. He spoke life with his words. He encouraged us often. I’ve heard him read the book of Proverbs aloud more times than I can count. Remember what Proverbs stands for girls? That’s right, Wisdom…Skillful Living. He served people, laughed with his whole body, worked hard, and played harder. He stayed when so many other Dads walked away. He still loves us like crazy.

He participated in the Army Reserves when we were small. When he left for Army weekends, my sisters and I held pity parties. We skated around the basement, wiping tears and singing along with his record.

Fighting soldiers from the sky

Fearless men who jump and die

Men who mean just what they say,

The brave men of the Green Beret.

Green Beret or Black Beret, it was all the same to me. He was our Superman, as fearless as anyone. We didn’t want him to jump, and… Well, we just wanted him home safe.

When we were all grown, we bought him a Superman sweatshirt. We still believed Clark Kent had nothing on our Dad. I saw him wearing that sweatshirt just the other day.

He was probably singing too. Growing up, we heard the same songs over and over. It is Well With My Soul. Amazing Grace. At the Cross. Or songs like Bad Moon Rising, one from his old days.

He still sings to my babies the same words he sang to us—

Rocking chairs, rocking babies, rock-a-bye, the rock of ages, side by side, we’ll be together always…

Or one of his other favorites, Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier. My kids hear this and yell—Hey, that’s Grandpa’s song!

Don’t I know it. He owns a number of songs, if you ask me. Along with the Tarzan call, which he loved to shout out the back window on Saturday mornings to get us all going. I mean, make us all laugh.

When my husband was still my boyfriend in college, he met my Dad the first time. Afterward, he said, “Your Dad wasn’t anything like you said. He’s just a normal guy.”

I didn’t understand how he missed it.

No he’s not. My Dad’s a hero.

This is another Five-Minute Friday post with Lisa-Jo Baker. Join us! TGIF!

In Which I Tidal-Wave

January 9, 2014 By: Angela Parlin

The morning blew up in my face.

Okay, I blew up in my children’s faces.

I should have known it was coming. Some “issues” had bubbled under my surface for weeks.

We had just reviewed natural cycles in science class. When I had to face my own natural cycle.

Irritations happen. I swallow them down. They build up. I address them calmly, for a while. But they continue. I deal with them, or pretend not to hear because I’m making oatmeal muffins.

Irritations persist. I take the offenders to scripture. They understand a little. But they continue to complain and argue. I sit them down for a talk. Or I don’t this time, because I’m teaching an English lesson.

And then that morning happens. We have to get out the door, so I assign tasks. They do their usual—start and get sidetracked. So I do my usual—feel irritated I have to waste more words on stupid reminders.

I don’t get sidetracked. My one thing is to get them out the door with shoes on. Okay, with shoes and coats and gloves and hats and backpacks and snacks and waters (times four).

Our resident grumbler complains about my snack choice. I sweetly remind him he does like pretzels and apple sauce, and if he wants a snack today, this is it. He returns 30 seconds later with a granola bar. “Can’t I just take this for snack???”

I semi-sweetly remind him that now it’s about the principle of the thing. So no, and get back to the shoes I told you to put on. He returns, my persistent one. He believes if he asks enough times, he’ll eventually wear me down.

He does wear me down. Weeks of complaints have added up to this moment. I promise him extra work to do later, and tell him with an eye roll I’ve had enough of his complaints to last me a month or forever.

After only 17 minor setbacks, we are almost all in the car. Then I hear a child spewing unkind words to another because no good reason.

Now I think in all caps, in long, run-on sentences.

WHAT IN THE WORLD, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SPEND MY TIME DEALING WITH ALL THIS CRAP??? I’M WORKING MY BUTT OFF FOR THEM, AND ALL THEY CAN DO IS WHINE AND COMPLAIN AND FIGHT AND…..

Swallowed irritations tidal wave out. I speak harshly. I show them how to react in anger, how to make it all about yourself, how to preach grace one day and throw it out the window the next. What a mess.

After I apologize, after I admit I just taught them things I don’t believe, I wonder how to end this cycle of mine.

The irritations will come. I can’t change that.

But what if my perspective changed? What if I forgave them every single day, and let the irritations go–instead of swallowing hard and letting them build?

With my big kids, we’ve left the adorable, can’t-do-wrong, let-me-hold-you-longer stage of motherhood. I miss it.

Now motherhood becomes a marathon of forgiveness. Or it should.

How might that morning (or others like it) change if I choose to forgive each frustration as it happens?

Could I learn to see time spent talking through difficulties as a gift instead? A chance to lay foundations and build something beautiful in their hearts?

Oh, if only I could remember all the wrong I’ve done–the wrong I still do, and the way I’m fully forgiven…

Maybe then their childhood wouldn’t need to be such a marathon of forgiveness.

Fight

January 3, 2014 By: Angela Parlin

They fight. Morning, afternoon, and evening.

But they also call each other best friend.

Brothers a year apart, they’re classmates who sit beside each other daily (we homeschool). They’re roommates in our bonus room-turned-bedroom, and they’re opposites.

One of them is serious and maturing, and the other always has a good time, that’s what.

One reads hundreds of books, while the other reads only what’s required and majors in play.

One wants–needs order, and the other thrives in chaos.

One tries to keep everyone in line with rules, while the other breaks them.

You can imagine the variety of reasons they fight. You can imagine how they madden us.

I’ve been asked, How did your boys end up so different?

What do I say? Well…they just came that way.

It seems pretty normal to me. I shared a room with one of my sisters, who I fought with daily over clothes and friends and room cleaning and when to turn out the lights. She’s the one I loved and hated all at once, my big sister. We’re opposites, but still we have things in common.

Just like my boys.

They both love soccer, basketball, lego building, and video games. They love to bike, ripstick, explore the woods, and hang out with the same friends. They love pizza, enjoy being big brothers, and live for days off school. Neither one of them cares for good manners (all I can say is I’ve tried). But they both love Jesus, enjoy drawing, and like to get their own way.

Oh, but also. They love me. Just last night, one of them gave me a hug and thanked me for something. The other picked a fight.

Go away. This is my Mom. She already told me, she’s always gonna be MINE.

He’s half joking, but only half. He doesn’t understand what I learned when he came shooting out of me. How I wondered If I could love my 2nd child as much as my first. How I worried, because no one could possibly be as precious as this boy I already loved. Until I had another and felt like I’d grown a second heart.

I hope he’ll understand one day, but for now, he fights for me. Fights over me.

Sometimes their fighting drives me a little shy of crazy, but I endured this fight with a smile. They exchanged words, the big guy rolling his eyes and putting his little brother back in place.

She’s both of ours, Ry. She’s never just yours. (*growls)

These are the fights I adore. Fights between boys who frustrate and amaze me, who irritate and bless me. Who fight over stupid things, but also fight over me.

This is a Five-Minute Friday post, where I link up with Lisa-Jo Baker and a flash mob of other writers for five minutes of fun free-writing. Join us?

4 Ways To Love Your Sponsored Child

December 17, 2013 By: Angela Parlin

5 years ago, we met our first child-across-the-globe on paper, because of a video at a conference. You should see how he’s grown these years, how he’s changed.

You should see how he’s changed us.

Last Sunday, our family was blessed to encourage our church to sponsor children through Compassion International. I cannot thank the leadership of our church enough for organizing this. Because praise God ~ nearly 150 children, mostly from an extremely poor region of Bolivia, now have Aunties and Uncles and “adopted” siblings at Southbridge Fellowship.

They will be loved.

Compassion staff in Bolivia will care for their physical needs and train them to support themselves one day. They’ll train them to lead, and many of them will grow up and lead in their own communities. They’ll tell them the life-changing story of Jesus, and we hope every one will be released from poverty in Jesus’ name.

My husband and I loved helping people find a child to sponsor. Some looked for a child close in age to their own children. Some looked for children who had been waiting a long time for a sponsor. Some welled up in tears and said, I think we’ve found our girl. I couldn’t help but share those tears, because of what I know.

These children will soon learn they’ve been picked. They’ve been chosen, and their lives will change. Not only that,but a group of ordinary people–who just became sponsors–will be changed.

At the tables Sunday, some had questions. They really wanted to do this thing well. So here are my–

4 ways to love your sponsored child well:

Pray for them. Frame their picture and display it in your home. Let it remind you to pray for your new, extended family.
Write them regularly. This is the heart of sponsorship–building a relationship. So set a schedule and write your child, once a month or every other month. You may want to use Compassion’s website, where you can write and upload recent photos. Tell them about yourself, and encourage them. Share your hope. If you wish, send small, flat gifts like stickers, bandaids, baseball cards, drawings, or small paper craft projects. Search for CI on Pinterest, and you’ll find loads of ideas. Just remember, your letters do not need to be pinnable. They just want to know you!
Follow the Compassion Blog. They do an excellent job of sharing resources, so don’t miss it. You might even want to use their curriculum to learn more about the developing world with your kids or grandkids.
Think about visiting. Pray God will make it happen someday. It may seem impossible, but I encourage you to ask for it, and take the opportunity when it comes. It might be the best thing you ever do! (Read about our visit with our Compassion kids here.)

If you already sponsor a child, what would you add to this list? Share with us in the comments!

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When Jesus Won’t Take the Wheel

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Hero {Five-Minute Friday}

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In Which I Tidal-Wave

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Fight

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Compassion International

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