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Josh Harris on characteristics of a “church-dater”:

Well, I hone in on three things. First, being “me”-centered, meaning what can I get out of this church, what does it have for me, what can it do for me.

A second one would be being independent. Going to church because that’s what we do, that’s what we’ve always done, but not really looking to involve others in our lives and say, “Here’s who I am, I need help.” But instead, “It’s me and Jesus, and I come to church like a person goes to the gas station to fill up once a week or something. But this is not where I live my life. I don’t open myself up to others and become dependent on others.”

And then finally, I would add a church dater is often critical. And so there’s this mindset of “Here’s what the church is doing wrong, here’s where it can be improved, and I’m sitting in the back evaluating. But I’m not getting my hands dirty and saying how can I contribute to the solution and really help what’s really going on here.”

I would say that I’ve been guilty of all of these three things at different times in my life. And I think that every single person — whether we’re the most committed, active member of a church or not — should really check ourselves all the time for these three qualities and say, “You know, I want to turn away from that. I want to be God centered and other centered. I want to show up at church saying what can I give? I want to be dependent on these people. I want to keep in my mind the fact that I need others to live the Christian life, and I don’t want to be critical. Yes, there are always going to be problems in churches, but I want to participate in helping the church grow stronger.” (more)

I think a lot of moms-of-young-children feel less than perfect much of the time. The constant tiredness and feelings of coming up short can perhaps make them feel that their children are getting a very sub-par childhood.

Jameson’s not really old enough for me to feel like I can speak from my own experience of working through those feelings, but I thought I’d share a few peeks into my own childhood as an encouragement. I find these little vignettes to be quite comical, actually, when I compare my mom’s story with my own.

Anyway, read on:

As the story goes (correct me, Mama Dearest, if I’m wrong), my brother (#4 baby) was born shortly after I turned 5. That meant four children, 5 and under, for my mom to care for. Believe it or not, back then, Superwoman Darlene wasn’t a seasoned mother. In fact, as the story goes, Dad would come at night to find Mom crying on the couch while we ran around. (Correct me if I’m wrong, MD.)

Mom finally said, “All right. Either these kids learn to work, or this is the end of me.”

From my side: Life was peachy-keen. We played dress-up and baby dolls and once in awhile, drew make up on our Cabbage Patch Kids with markers. That didn’t make Mom very happy, but it was fun while we were doing it.

One day, Mom showed us a chore chart. We would do a month of our daily chores, which we would track on different charts around the house. Each day of completed chores would mean we could move our little shoe magnet up the Magic Beanstalk she had carefully drawn, and eventually, we would reach the top, where various treasures lay. (I think lay. Lor?)

This was great fun, as much fun as building forts. We would count our five finger chores in the morning, spin our little pie-chart diagram to see who set the table (I loved to arrange the silverware perfectly evenly, and make sure the teddy bear plates were straight!), and unload the dishwasher. And then, oh joy-of-joys, Mom would stand and watch us move those little feet farther and farther up the beanstalk.

This introduction to responsibility is one of the highlights of my childhood. Who ever would have known it all happened because of one distraught mama crying in total desperation on the couch? Not me!

A little while back, Bri and I were visiting Mom, children in tow. Eventually it was time for Bri to pack her young into the minivan and put them to bed. Unfortunately, as often is the case with small children, they were a bit emotional about having to leave Nana and Uncle Merrick. Mom, having compassion on Brietta, volunteered a young aunt to go home with her and help with bedtime. Said Mama to me as they left, “I always dreaded bedtime. Trying to get everyone dressed with their teeth brushed at the same time, and always with a baby wailing in the background… Uh. I dreaded it.”

My side: Bedtime as a little girl was so much fun. We would all dance around the bedroom as we put on pretty nightgowns Grandma made for us. Brushing teeth was so much fun, especially because we had to climb on a little wooden stool, and it was sort of like a stage — we even would sing at our reflection in the mirror. This all probably took much longer than necessary, but it sure was fun.

Mama would be helping the younger ones and helping us remember to move along to the next chore. She would take our hair things out and run her pretty hands through our hair “to give it a rest,” she always said. Sometimes she would even braid it loosely, and we would feel like old-fashioned little girls. Some nights she would read a chapter book to us, and sometimes she would tell a story about growing up in apple country. She made it sound so wonderful that to this day, I want to live on an orchard when I grow up. Out would go the lights, and then our favorite part: she would sing to us. Daddy told great stories, but Mama sang great songs. Then she would leave, and we would whisper and tee-hee until we finally fell asleep. We liked that about our Mama: she didn’t mind us talking a little before bed.

Yes, bedtime has lots of wonderful memories. Who ever would have known that our dear Mama heaved a sigh of relief and fell into an armchair, exhausted, when we were all finally bedded? Not me!

Most recently, the era of hockey injuries has been on my mind. Dad was severely hurt, in deep depression, and leaned heavily on Mom for support to make it through. Mom, of course, encouraged him like a champ, and in her spare time, took care of all 7 of us for over a year. She schooled us, disciplined us, trained us, and kept us all quieter than ever, since sound threw my Dad into a tailspin. Upstairs, a husband who had to sit all day in the dark, listening to Pachelbel’s Canon because he couldn’t handle anything more stimulating (no offense to all you Canon lovers out there.) That’s the part I knew. What I didn’t realize was what bad shape he was in. Anyway, he was upstairs, and downstairs were 7 kids who were, well, seven kids. No further elaboration necessary.

My side: For about a year, Dad had some memory and thinking problems, so he stayed upstairs, quietly sitting in the dark, progressing from boring classical pieces to Rush Limbaugh on tape. We didn’t visit him much, so it was super-exciting when he would join us occasionally for dinner. Of course, his head hurt a lot, so Mom would give us all a little pep-talk about saying absolutely NOTHING at dinner. We loved having Dad with us, and it was kind of fun to figure out how to ask for the salt without really asking. Eventually Mom would help Dad back upstairs, and we would all burst out saying all the things we’d been holding in. What a fun game! But the very best part was Christmas Eve, when Dad sat with us for the whole evening. And because I was the oldest, I got to read the Christmas story that only Dad has ever read. Boy, did I feel special! He smiled at me while I read it, and it was one of the proudest moments in my oldest-child career.

Who would ever have known the struggles my parents were dealing with while we happily played who-can-be-the-quietest? Not me!

So, some glimpses. The amazing thing about children is they’re totally self-absorbed. That means that chances are, they won’t even notice you crying on the couch. And if they do, they’ll just wonder why you’re not getting them a drink fast enough. I’m not sure selfishness is ever really a good thing, but once in awhile, it works in the favor of a young mom. :)

But I am truly amazed at how human my parents always have been. I suddenly realize, “Hey! I’m not perfect like they’re not perfect! That means I have a chance of being a blessing to my children just like they were to me!”

Cool, huh?

God doesn’t wait for us to be perfect. He can use us as we are, just as long as we stay willing to follow Him in the best way we can.

In the words of the good doctor, “Leave room for humanity. But leave no room for laziness.”

Pursue hard, do your best, stumble, and pick yourself up. He’s bringing us somewhere, and it’s somewhere good. It’s maturity, perfection, knowing Him. What a relief that is to know!

I missed Jameson’s 7-month “birthday”.

Well, I didn’t miss it; I just didn’t make note of it here on my weblog (which will probably just get printed and stuck in his baby book, since I’m so lousy at keeping it updated!)

I was busy on the 15th, what with two church services, two guests, dinner to serve, a husband with jetlag, and a baby with… well, with baby needs. But I also sort of glossed over the 7-month mark because I knew that if I thought about it too long, I would just cry.

But, it’s over now. (And I didn’t cry. I just kissed his sweet cheek as I put him in his basket. My little cherub.) And so, for posterity’s sake, I’ll record some fun details of Jameson’s sixth month:

He’s gotten SO OLD!

He was so happy on his tummy, and with is rolling skills — and then suddenly, he discovered how to push backwards, how to move around in circles with the help of his [extremely strong] arms, he does push ups that would put me to shame (girl push ups, that is), and he got stuck under a chair for the very first time. (You know — when they back up under a low chair, and then push up and whack their heads, get totally confused, and then just cry?) So now, after spreading a few toys around him, I give the room a quick glance before I leave, checking for papers or cords or dishes or whatever, because I never know where he’ll end up before I return.

When Ryan was gone, he perfected the art of getting himself into a tizzy in no time flat. First a little whimper, then he screws up his face and gives this phony, “A-ha, a-ha” (think lousy school-play acting in Anne of Green Gables the Sequel), and then before I even have a chance to laugh at how fake he is, he’s in full-hysterics, tears and all. It’s very, very funny — especially when these full-blown hysterics disappear immediately the minute I pick him up. Ahh, yes, he loves me.

But the best part of his theatrics is that last week, he learned how to fake smile. What?! I smiled at him from the other room one morning, enjoying the sight of him happily playing on the floor (read: chewing on the cold-air return); he looked up, squinted his eyes, and gave me the cheesiest, fakest* grin you’ve ever seen. I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago that he learned how to smile for real? How can he already have figured out that if he just fakes a grin at me, I’ll leave him alone, and he can get back to gnawing on the grate?

Well, fake or not, we all certainly enjoy it. Too cute.

He has a favorite book. I knew he enjoyed it (we read it through at least 5 or 6 times before he even squirms once), but I didn’t realize how much he preferred it until the other night, when I tried introducing another bedtime story. Thinking of all the fond memories I have of reading this to my younger siblings, I set it by my bed to remember to read to Jameson. That night, we did the usual read through of moo said the cow, yada yada, I set that one aside, and with the expectation that this would be a truly bonding experience, I began, “In the great green room…”

I got about three pages into it, when Jameson suddenly lunged toward the nightstand and began wailing — for the same old book.

I sighed and went back to the moos and baas that apparently my son is so very fond of.

We’ll learn about old ladies whispering hush some other day, I guess.

He’s got two teeth now, although one is still hardly there. A couple weeks of teething meant several days of tears and fevers and lots of cuddling. Somewhere in there, he got the notion into his head that napping without me just isn’t fun, and that when he is awake, I should be holding him — or at least sitting nearby, on the floor, while he plays. This simply means I get to be creative with my chores, and mostly, just get a lot stronger. I’ve got huge arms. (Okay, not really, but they’re definitely stronger than they were!)

He’s happy. He’s talkative at times, and it’s adorable. He likes to have a handful of my hair the whole I time I hold him. He’s the best little buddy I’ve ever had. If I had to be attached at the hip to anyone in the world, I’d pick him.

I love him lots.

*fakest is, I don’t think, a word.

—

I’d been thinking the last few days about what a nice place this is to raise a family. Some may complain that there’s not much to do come Friday night, or no options for shopping except the internet, but you know, that’s okay. It’s quiet, open, friendly, and safe.

Safe.

So many times I’ve enjoyed that thought. Like when I was home alone, locking my doors against the dark. Or taking a long walk down a country road.

Yesterday I was convicted, though. The Lord reminded me, so clearly, that safe is being hidden in Him. Even little ol’ Nowhere New York isn’t safe from sin and evil. I can’t hide anywhere but under His wings. This is good news, because it means that I could raise my kids in Harlem or Chicago or LA, and His wings would be there, covering us. And what is there to fear, anyway, if I’ve surrendered to the only one who has power to resurrect or destroy the souls of men?

And then today, I read the news.

Evil. It can reach anywhere, for it has found a home deep in the hearts of unregenerated man. I am so sad, so, so, sad.

And I remember, once again, that He and He alone holds me, He holds the ones I love. And here, under His wings, I find a haven from fear. He has promised me what no man can ever take away: Life.

My “Marmee” gave this to me for Easter. “A movie you can watch over and over when Ryan’s gone,” she said.

And over and over and over…

Just the opening music makes me nostalgic. It’s one of the few things that can always, without fail, make me wish for just a moment that it was winter. And that I lived in Concord. In that house.

And it always, always, for much more than just a moment, makes me wish I was a little girl again. We had fun, the little women in my family. And my mama was just as strong and capable and warm and fun as theirs.

But all I really was going to write is that tonight, watching the scene when Beth is very ill, and Marmee rushes home from DC and immediately knows what to do, and the girls feel such relief at her presence — well, it made me think that there is no more important person in the world than a good mother. In that moment, like so many moments, she is everything.

What a privilege.