Micromanaging Moms 101

So, in my inbox today, I got an email that was a collection of all the baby and child recalls this year.  At first I thought it was a joke since there were literally millions of recalls.  Apparently absolutely everything you've ever bought is dangerous, including sweatshirts (your kid might hang himself on the drawstring), foam board books (he might chew on them), and plastic fork and spoon sets (if your six-year-old is using them, he could bite off a prong or two).  Just about anything might cause your child to lose a finger, fall down, or choke.  And if they do, you should sue the manufacturer for millions of dollars because every accident is actually someone's fault.  Few injuries have been reported, but if you complain, you could cause a nationwide recall because YOU NEVER KNOW what might happen or who you, oh indignant consumer, might be saving.


I wish my mellow moms friends and me would speak up, but we are all too lazy, we are tired of listening to how dangerous it is to be alive, and how careless we are with our kids.  We are used to pinch-hitting with whatever we have on hand, even if it is a contraband second-hand car seat that has been in a fender bender or a stroller with a finger-chopping hinge.  Any mom of more than two kids knows that any stroller can work as a triple stroller in a pinch.  You can pile the kids on top of each other.  One, assuming they have adequate head and neck control, can ride in the lower basket, or one can straddle the handle and hold on to the back of the seat, or, on occasion, his sibling's hair.  If one falls off or jumps off, which will happen, does this make the stroller dangerous?


When did "safety first" creep into the top spot on the priority list of our national parenting consciousness?  And when did we decide that creating a sanitary environment was better than teaching our kids not to wrap the strings from the blinds around their necks?  If you're a parent now, chances are your parents left you in the car while they ran into the post office, you sat in the backseat of a station wagon without a seatbelt, rode a bike without a helmet, and babysat three or four neighbor kids by the time you were twelve.  Most moms today wouldn't think of leaving infants or toddlers with seventh graders, even though THEY were seventh graders twenty years ago who managed not to maim the little ones in their care.  Is it because we didn't "know" how dangerous all those activities were, we didn't think twice about doing them?


A friend of mine went to a water park in Honduras.  There were no rules and people (after waiting their turn) splashed down the slides forwards, backwards, upside down, holding babies, holding each other... any way they liked.  She said it was fantastic, fun, and liberating.  That would never happen here.  In the US today, you won't even find diving boards in most pools.  They've all been taken out because they are such a liability.  If they're there, they are accompanied by so many rules that they're not much fun if you're older than five... and then you may not be allowed in the deep end without a parent "within a hug's reach."


How did we get to be so paranoid?  And why is safety more important than community or honesty or compassion?  All these crazy recalls drive up the costs of stuff we actually do need.  They increase the already rampant litigiousness of our society, and they imply that everything that happens could be avoided... a delusion of control that our kids would be better off without.


There's a movie coming out soon called Babies.  It's a documentary on four babies born to different families around the world.  I am hopeful that watching an unattended baby take a bath in a bucket with a goat nearby will reset the standard American mom's expectations on what is safe and normal.  Maybe there will be fewer babies in all the bath water we've thrown out the window.  Sigh... there's always hope.

My Under-Achieving Cub Scout

Liam wanted to join a cub scout den when he heard they got to sleep on an aircraft carrier.  Other than hanging out with his friends, this was his only reason for joining.  The achievements, belt loops, honor code, be-a-better-citizen stuff... not interested or appealing – only the aircraft carrier sleepover.  Hoping some of that might rub off anyway, I signed him up and was instructed to buy him a uniform. 

I had no idea there was a cub scout uniform shop where you could buy all things scouting.  It was a complete racket. In addition to the shirt, which is a polyester blend reminiscent of my middle school PE uniform, you need a cap, belt, bandana, assorted patches, and slider with your den's emblem to hold the bandana around your neck (with the top button on your shirt buttoned).  These are not cheap and Liam loses everything.  

Once I got everything home, I realized there were specific spots on the shirt for each patch and pin, but I had no idea which patch went on which spot.  And, these patches (unlike the Daisy Girl Scout patches) are not iron on.  You have to sew them on, or cut out pieces of sticky fabric to paste to the back of each patch. 

The last time I sewed anything was Thanksgiving of 1983 when my mom decided that my Christmas gift for my little sister would be a dress for her Cabbage Patch doll.  I think the partially made dress is still in my mom's sewing cabinet.  So, I went with the patch stickers.  It might have been easier to sew them actually because the stickers rolled up on my fingers and I put half the patches in the wrong place.  Later I found out that the woman at the uniform store failed to mention that the sticky fabric loses its adhesive quality in the washing machine, so I bought some fabric glue that I use to touch up each patch before each den meeting. Liam's shirt is getting a swanky 3D look these days, but he doesn't seem to care, and I'm not going to mention it.  

I have finally figured out how to differentiate the pack from the den. Packs are all the dens together.  Our den is made up of four boys and four moms.  The dads show up once in a while.  I keep trying to initiate a happy hour/pack meeting combo.  I think it would make the entire experience more enjoyable for everyone.  But we are meeting at a Lutheran church.  

Every time we have a pack meeting, our conversation goes something like this:

"Liam, go get your uniform on."

"I can't.  I used my bandana to wipe my nose."

"Where is your hat?"

"I almost lost it."

"So you have it?"

"No, but I know it is in my room."

"Where?  Oh, never mind, we are already late."  


So off we go with Liam wearing his shirt like a jacket, unbuttoned, in a t-shirt and soccer shorts.  The belt loops he's earned, he's lost, and both of us pretend we care for a few minutes before we just get in the car and listen to Black Eyed Peas. When we arrive, we realize his den is scheduled to march in with the flag.  All the other boys have ironed shirts, pants with belt loops, and clean shoes.  Liam is wearing his rainbow crocs that we bought at the flea market last year.  The straps are missing and my mother-in-law's dog bit a chunk out of the left toe.  Because Liam is "out of compliance," he is not allowed to touch the flags on the way in.  He can carry the boy scout flag on the way out.  

Fortunately, while we are trying to figure out the marching orders, another mom appears with a basket full of hand-me-down scout uniforms and we snag a hat, bandana, and slider.  If I had known about this basket, I never would have gone to the scouting store.  Since Liam is only missing his belt now, he is allowed to carry the American flag out, but he still can't talk.  The flag ceremony goes off without a hitch, but as soon as the boys are back in their spot on the floor, Liam and his friend John start wrestling.  Apparently John threw his slider in the air and it hit Liam, so Liam hid it and refused to return it.  So John tackled him.  It was a high point of the evening for both of them.

One den is supposed to perform a skit.  They’ve decided on the tooth-brushing camp skit where all the kids stand in a line and each brushes his teeth with the same toothbrush, rinses his mouth with the same water, spits into the same cup, and the last kids drinks it.  But, this is 2010.  We use antibacterial soap, Purell, and anyone who so much as sniffles in class is sent home until they are certified germ free.  So, the entire skit is mimed.  Only the parents understand what the boys are missing.  Definitely too low on the gross factor for elementary school boys, and a far cry from the skit where I licked peanut butter off the armpit of the guy I had a crush on.  Times have changed.

Finally, the meeting is over.  Liam carries the flag back.  The kid behind him clocks one of the dads in the head with the scout flag, but other than that, we are off the hook until the Pinewood Derby next week.  What, we are in charge of the Pinewood Derby?  Quick… an impromptu meeting.   But, the kids have been sitting for an hour and have to use the bathroom.  There are no bathrooms unlocked, but it is raining outside and there are plenty of trees.  Lucky them.

By the time we leave, Liam’s hat, bandana, and slider are off again.  He sighs when we get in the car, “Mommy, when do we sleep on the aircraft carrier?”

Free Range Mom

I first heard this term on a t-shirt that read "Feral Free-Range Child."  My kids are all too big and it's a bit snarky even for me, but I love the term Free Range.  It's a breath of fresh air in the crazy, over-scheduled, over-hyped, over-parented culture we are raising kids in today.  

Most days, my kids walk to school and home on their own.  Our school is very close and they cross one neighborhood street. They also ride their bikes to piano lessons, which is about a mile away, get to soccer practice on their own, and have several friends nearby whose houses they can walk to.  I would not trade the sense of responsibility and self-confidence they get from this independence for the comfort of getting them to these activities myself.

The saddest part about the thrust toward helicopter parenting is that it actually makes childhood less safe.  There is power in numbers.  Kids together are far less likely to be targets than kids on their own.  The more kids walking and riding their bikes, the safer they are.  Also, freedom helps kids develop self reliance, something lacking in today's generation.  Why do you think there are so many kids moving back in with mom and dad after college?  They've never been required to figure out life on their own.  

Public behavior can be a problem in free range kids and I'm sure we've all seen how this can be true.  Fifty years ago kids were given a tight leash at home and a loose one in public.  This translated to better behavior in public.  Now it's just the opposite.  Kids have fewer requirements at home and less freedom in public.  You've seen kids hit their parents, swear at babysitters, ignore people in charge, and destroy other people's property.  

You are more likely to get killed in a car accident driving to school than your child is to get abducted by a stranger.  But that correlation never makes it into the news.  You are more likely to win the lottery, get struck by lightning and get kicked to death by a donkey.  Our assessment of risk and danger is totally messed up.  

Most rules and regulations put in place today are designed to protect the enforcer from liability. They have little, if anything, to do with safety. Just look at the way our boring playgrounds are designed.  By the time kids are five there is nothing left to do on them.   

We need a grass roots movement to take back our neighborhoods, build community with our neighbors, and send our kids back outside.  So... anyone who wants a coffee and some pastries, come over to my house with your kids and we will sit on the front lawn and practice letting them run around the neighborhood.  

Why Can't You Just Say Ouch?

“Oh Sh*t,” I swore as the jam jar slipped out of my hand, bounced off my barefoot, and exploded on the tiled kitchen floor. “Everybody out of the kitchen!” I yelled, continuing to mutter like a sailor.

“I’ll get your shoes, Mommy,” Liam, shod in orange crocs, slid off a stool toward my bedroom. I tip-toed around the shattered glass and strawberry ooze to the sink, and got a towel.

Liam handed me my flip flops, and raised his blond eyebrows to me quizzically. “Mommy, why can’t you just say ouch?” He sighed. “When you get hurt, you say bad words.”

My jaw dropped. He was right. I cleaned up my language when my kids were babies and toddlers, but now that they’ve moved into elementary school, I shoot my mouth off whenever it lets me blow off steam. I’m not an R rated movie babbling profanity, but I’ve got no problem letting a few choice four letter words out when it makes a point… even if it’s an irrelevant or self-indulgent point.

Liam continued, “Even when I get hurt you say bad words and I’m the once who’s hurt. AND, if I say bad words, I get in trouble. What is that about?”

“You know what it’s about?” my husband said later when I was telling him about the jam and the swear words. “You hate being inconvenienced. Anything that even remotely changes the way you want things to be makes you mad, and you let everyone know it.”

I hate conviction. It’s humbling and painful, and it makes me feel helpless and pathetic. If flies in the face of everything I’d like to believe about myself. Tracy was right about the root of my reaction. I swear because I don’t want a broken toe, I don’t want to listen to a whiny child, and I really don’t want another trip to the ER. I lack compassion and sympathy. And truthfully, I don’t mind swearing sometimes. It feels sophisticated and powerful, succinct and honest. But, there is no place for it in my vocabulary with my kids. I can hardly require them to control their tongues when I couldn’t be bothered to reign in mine. And the last message I want to send to them is that their injuries are an inconvenience.

So, as Liam requested, I am going to try to “just say ouch.” Otherwise I promised him that he could wash my mouth out with soap.

She Sang Every Sunday

I didn’t know her very well, but I saw her sing every Sunday. She had dark brown hair, a nice smile, and she sang with conviction. Even when she was so pregnant she could barely inhale, she showed up and puffed and sang. Two weeks later she was back, singing, of course, with Baby Zoe nestled in a pouch around her shoulders. Zoe became a common appendage on stage with the band. The music calmed her down. It was familiar. She’d heard it before.

But this morning there was an empty microphone on stage and an announcement in church. “What was it?” Michelle asked on her way into the kitchen. “Something happened.”

“Suzanne died of a heart attack last night. No one knows why.”

Zoe’s mom went to bed and didn’t wake up. Thirtysomething is too young to die of a heart attack. It’s too young to lose your wife. Three months is too young to lose your mother.

Our church is one year old next week. We have had several weddings, multiple new babies, and now, our first funeral. It is the life of the church. We have learned to celebrate in community and we must learn to grieve together. So the women start to cook and the men organize the right technical equipment for the funeral. The pastors visit and comfort, the moms cry and hold Zoe, and the dads wrap arms around Paul’s shoulders. The children draw cards with pictures of heaven, babies, butterflies, and treble clefs. We bumble awkwardly, eyes red, prolonged hugs, hushed voices, shocked, deflated.

The band sings because they have to. They must sing until their fingers ache and their heads throb and their throats are hoarse. Suzanne’s songs. Zoe’s songs. Paul’s songs. God’s songs.

O Lord My God, when the storm is loud, and the night is dark, and the soul is sad, and the heart oppressed; then, as a weary traveler, may I look to you; and beholding the light of your love, may it bear me on until I learn to sing your song in the night.
-- George Dawson, Little Book of Prayers

Liam Goes Barefoot

My son Liam is seven years old. He's pensive, artistic, stubborn, and compassionate. And he only wears shoes when he is threatened. Liam has been taking his shoes off since I have been putting them on. He would rather walk across a steaming parking lot than put on his flip-flops. I avert my eyes when he walks into public restrooms. He has never complained about stomping over tanbark, thorns, gravel, or even torn toenails. I am not allowed to clip his toenails, and haven't been for several years. He does it himself. When I did try, I had my husband lock his head in a vice grip while I sat on his knees. Talk about a hill you don't want to die on! So, he clips his own nails, and does a passable job. Whatever he misses gets snagged on the stuff he walks through.

When he was three and already an expert shoeless wonder, I took him to have his feet measured because he hated every pair I'd ever bought. Apparently I hadn't noticed that Liam's feet were extra, extra wide, like a pachyderm. Normal shoes hurt, but now it was too late. He's got both the memory and feet of an elephant and shoes are to be avoided.

Every fall, Liam laments the loss of his barefoot freedom. Part of me wishes he was born 100 years ago, so he could go barefoot with impunity, but the part of me that likes air conditioning, epidurals, and HGTV is glad he wasn't. He has one more week of black heels before he'll be shod and marching into second grade. I'm sure, however, that the first thing he'll do once he gets home after the first day of school, is to kick his shoes off.

Disappointment with Church

I went to church tonight expecting to be disappointed. I was... and I wasn't, but not for the reasons I, expected. My kids were rabid whiners, we got there too early (shocking), there weren't enough crayons in the art bags (yes, there are ART bags for kids at church... back in my day, we had to listen to the service!), and the music was mediocre. The sermon, however, was succinct, relevant, and convicting. Two of the three things you want in a sermon.

The pastor talked about taking big steps for God before you're ready, and what a shocking disaster it can be, kind of like a six year old driving a car. He also discussed the problem of refusing to take big steps for God because you don't trust him.

What I find both refreshing and maddening is that this still doesn't answer the questions, what does it look like? What are "big steps" for God? Different things to different people? Did Billy Graham know when he stepped in front of a congregation for the first time that it was a small step in a big operation? When Mother Theresa stopped and noticed the beggar at her feet? When you are doing "big things" for God, do you notice that they are big or are you so intent on what you are doing that they just seem like the right direction? Is it a momentary escape from the flogging dragon of self-awareness that demands constant attention?

This particular church aspires to do big things for God without getting to know him. There are food drives and writing campaigns and free trade coffee. There are missions trips to rebuild the houses of Katrina victims, rice and bean bagging parties, and collaborative projects with the catholic church next door, but I can't find a single Bible study, at least one that looks at the Bible without a political agenda. As Jan Johnson says, if Jesus threw a party he would tell stories and hand out cookies. You can't have one without the other.

This is one of the first sermons I've heard at this church that advocates their new mantra "rooted in Christ." Why do people go to church if they don't want to be rooted in Christ? What's the point? Isn't just a community center with a cross on top?

I was disappointed because while this is the most socially aware, humanitarian church I have ever attended, I can't navigate my way into the heart of their community. After two years, I have not been to anyone's house, my kids have not connected, and I still feel like a visitor. When I asked if there were any women's Bible studies (other than the hour long one on Wednesdays at noon that is taught by a man... sorry, women's Bible studies should be led by women... you wouldn't see a men's study taught by a woman!), I was told I should start my own. With whom? The women I'd met casually, none of whom seemed interested?

We can't be rooted in Christ without a steady diet of his word. We can't, as Dr. Phil says, "give away what we don't have." If we don't have Christ, we are simply doing good works; works that need to be done, maybe Christ has even called us and given us the motivation, but without getting to know him, we'll never know why.

Expecting Christmas

I think it was the first time I stuck my finger up some one else’s nose that I realized motherhood wasn’t quite what I’d pictured it to be. Every new mom notices that her tolerance for “disgusting” skyrockets shortly after the new arrival makes its debut. There isn’t a body part, fluid or function that I haven’t gotten closer acquainted with since my kids were born.

This has convinced me that the most compelling reason to have your baby in a hospital is that someone else cleans up after you. (Which is not going to happen at home for the next five years). I had each of my three kids at Stanford Hospital. Two were induced, and I had epidurals with all of them. Two were big (upwards of 9lbs), one was small (less than 8lbs) and during my labors, which were long, my sisters sneaked cups of Jamba Juice smoothies in to me. The rooms I stayed in were clean, people brought me food, ice packs and towels, and an army of nurses and their assistants marched in every half hour to make sure both my baby and me were still showing vital signs. While I would have appreciated the little vampire who showed up to take a blood sample at 5:30 in the morning to wait a few hours, I was well cared for, which I expected.

Two thousand years ago, Jesus was born in a barn, which historians tell us, was more likely a cave than the snug, nativity tableau we’re all familiar with. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t warm and it probably smelled like manure. The only doula Mary had was her first time father/husband, who was a carpenter, not a farmer, and therefore unlikely to know much about childbirth. No one gave her ice chips, pain meds or swaddling lessons, and she had to figure out breastfeeding on her own. It took me four weeks and three lactation consultants to figure out how to nurse my first son and I flashed everyone within viewing range in the process.

In a culture where pregnant women were supposed to be kept in seclusion from when they started showing until a month postpartum, Mary was both a revolutionary and an outcast, a fitting presentiment for the life of her child. She never expected to be pregnant before her wedding, miles from home in her third trimester or enduring labor in the company of barnyard animals. But when God chose her, she listened. Months ago, an angel visited her with the news that she was to give birth to the Son of the Most High. And her answer, was “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 2:26-38) So here she is, exhausted from labor, far from her family, stuck in a cave, surrounded by shepherds, struggling to nurse the Creator of the Universe.

Today’s rendition of Christmas is superficial and sterile compared the barn in Bethlehem. It’s obligatory and efficient. We’ve eroded the rustic magic, the mystery and the staggering irony. It’s sadly appropriate that we’ve deteriorated to the innocuous, noncommittal, “Happy Holidays.” For what is Christmas without Christ, but an excuse for rabid greed and materialism? And frankly, who needs to practice selfishness? What, exactly, is “Christmas spirit?” Optimism? Generosity? Tolerating relatives? Fascination with lights?

Christmas is that Jesus’ cosmic plunge from the throne of heaven to the arms of a teenage girl gave us the promise that love is stronger than evil, hate and even death. Such is Christmas as it should be understood. The light, shining in the darkness and the darkness mute and uncomprehending. (John 1:5) During his life on earth, Jesus made a habit of turning people’s expectations upside down. Mary expected to marry Joseph, settle down in Nazareth and raise a family. The Jews expected their Messiah to be a king and lead them out from under Roman oppression.

I don’t know what I expected from motherhood, but it wasn’t chaotic multi-tasking, strained finances, crowded closets, tiny socks, assistant chefs, crooked grins, lisped songs, enthusiastic hugs or delighted discoveries that I experience daily. Mary didn’t have a stranglehold on her expectations, or God never would have been able to use her. She agreed to be the Lord’s servant and follow his directions. Jesus came to help me do the same. I’d rather release my expectations and anticipate the grace, hope, joy and peace that his promise brings. I’m counting on Christmas to help me remember that.

The Taming of This Shrew

When I was in fifth grade I won the Big Mouth award in my church youth group. My parents weren’t surprised. I come from a long line of hecklers and peanut gallery members. So I’m not shocked when I hear my habits reflected in the retorts of my boys like, “I’m going to throw you in the dungeon,” or “I hope the hot lava gets you,” when I make them do things they don’t like. And while I’ve never threatened them with incarceration or volcanic ash, I hear the frustration and fury in their voices and it sounds oddly familiar, like something out of my own mouth.

My lifelong struggle with shutting my mouth is one of my biggest barriers to compassionate parenting. Several weeks ago, my three-year-old son Liam refused to pedal his bicycle to gymnastics. It was nap time on a day that he should have slept, but I let him watch TV instead. If he had napped, he wouldn’t have woken up for his class. Instead, I had the bright idea to ride our bikes the mile there and back, a distance he had ridden several times. This trip, however, was full of excuses. “My legs won’t work. The pedal is broken. I can’t do it. My feet are falling off. I want my penguin blankey!” he wailed. We were ten minutes into our trip and had gone about twenty feet.

As my frustration built, what came out of my mouth were not words of compassion or encouragement for a tired little boy, but the biting words of stinging rejection, “Suck it up and ride. You’re not even trying. Stop being a stupid baby and pedal your darn bike. If you can’t manage that, we’ll just leave you here!” And I pedaled far enough ahead of him to reduce him to sobs.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Liam get onto his bike quivering, and follow his five-year-old brother Skyler down the sidewalk. Later he would say, “I did it, Mommy. I rode my bike.” And while I congratulated and hugged him, I felt nasty and cold. By throwing my own fit, I effectively communicated that Liam would only receive love when he performed.

My behavior was just a bigger, uglier rendition of his temper tantrum. It’s humiliating. I’m so disgusted by the destructive dribble flooding out of my mouth that sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin. I think of Liam, crushed and tired, and like Peter, realizing he betrayed Christ, I want to hide and weep.

When my kids are obnoxious, I rationalize my reaction by claiming fatigue, provocation or, well, PMS. But, Ephesians 4:20 says, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” My flippant remarks send the opposite message to my kids. Even in my easily, irritated exhaustion, I need to pause. I need God to step into that moment between thought and reaction, to temper my words. To remind me that not only am I his beloved creation, but Liam is too and if I am not controlling my tongue, any other aspects of my life that exemplify Christ are worthless.

I had an opportunity to practice this recently. We were late for a birthday party and I was scrambling to find some wrapping paper, or at least a paper bag, when both boys disappeared upstairs. They were silent for so long that I asked them what they were doing. More silence. Then Liam said, “Hey Mommy, did you know if you throw a waffle at the fan it explodes and flies all over the room?”

Yes, the waffles had syrup on them. And yes, there were several pieces stuck onto the walls and the wet carpet of the freshly steamed study floor. But, I remember throwing cereal boxes at the fan in the staff lounge as a camp counselor. So I laughed. And I’m so glad because later that day, when Liam and I were cooking, an activity he loves, he turned to me and said, “Mommy, I just like you so much.” I hugged him and said, “Oh, Liam, I love you too!”

God, if I can’t keep my mouth shut, then fill it with your words of love and compassion.

Smile Lines

When I was eighteen, I almost got a tattoo. I was in England for a summer literature program and thought it would be a good idea to have the Snoopy character Woodstock permanently etched on my rear end. I didn’t follow through for two reasons: my friend, who agreed to go first, screamed throughout her entire turn. And second, I imagined what Woodstock would look like when I turned sixty--sad, saggy, sallow and swaddled in Depends™ undergarments! I settled for triple piercing my left ear with a sewing needle.

Today, the symbolic scars of teenage irreverence have faded. Instead my body is a vivid historical map of the past four years. Three pregnancies have left a spider web of stretch marks and my hair is growing back in strange patches from the last post-partum hormone imbalance. The exhaustion is seeping into my face. I hope it isn’t irreversible.

Recently, I found myself sitting next to an older woman, Margaret, at a ladies’ brunch. “Did you have children?” I asked her.

She nodded and smiled. “Four, actually. In six years.”

During the course of our conversation, I discovered she did not have a washing machine until the oldest one was ten. “Wow,” I gasped, “Moms today must look spoiled to you.”


“Oh, we all just try our best,” said Margaret. Joy was written all over her face; smile lines curving upward toward her sharp, sparkling eyes. A sense of relief washed over me… it’s possible to survive this stage of life and become a joyful person.

The more kids I have, the less impressed I am with myself. My patience, love, j oy, hope and humility are tested and I fail miserably. I am disgusted with the behavior I regularly exhibit. I’m rude to my toddler, abrasive to my preschooler and short with my husband. Some days I feel I should preface every conversation with an apology,

I don’t know why it is so easy to be cynical and pessimistic. On paper, my life must look enviable: loyal husband, decent house, t wo rough-and-tumble little boys and a smiley baby girl, local family who helps out, kind friends. And, I have a growing relationship with a living God. But joy comes laboriously.

We live in a violent, sinful world. I’m scared and worried. It shows on my face, the lines developing are furrows and frowns, not smile lines, like Margaret’s. Paul wrote to the Philippians (2:14-15), “Do everything without complaining or arguing so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation in which you shine like stars in the universe.”

I know God is bigger than the depravity of humankind. I know the heaven that awaits us is amazing, perfect and complete, without the brokenness, t he damage, t he dissension sin causes. I wish I could establish that as a platform for my joy, but my habit is to slide into bitter sarcasm.

Margaret didn’t. She quite literally “shone.” Not in the Hallmarky, beauty pageant sense of the word, but deep and peaceful, like a river of grace. I am hoping that Jesus can develop a fragment of that grace in me, so I am trying to smile, t o laugh more, to let that which irritates me melt away.

Praying for grace is dangerous, like praying for patience or humility. God gives you lots of opportunities. While out shopping recently, I paid with a credit card and the cashier asked for identification. When I handed her my driver’s license she said, “Oh, you look so fresh and young in this picture. How old were you?”

I grimaced. “That was four years ago, before I had any kids. I was twenty-seven.” And I was smiling.

Joy is a choice. I don’t want my kids to inherit my fear. The joy of the Lord is, will be, must be my strength, so I am going to smile until I have lines of joy tattooed on my face. And in forty years, maybe I’ll look like Margaret.

What’s The Matter With Martha?

I used to want a housekeeper. I used to be infinitely jealous of women who could afford to have someone else clean their bathrooms, mop their kitchen floor, and scrub their sinks. This was until I had one of my own. Well, I didn’t really “have” her; my mom sent her to me. Whether this was to dangle a golden carrot in my face or encourage me to sweep more often, I can’t say. But Carol came, soft-spoken, tidy, and determined, armed with a battalion of mops and a remote control vacuum. Several hours later, I returned home to paradise. How lovely, I thought. Several friends were coming over that afternoon and finally, I’d have a clean house to share.

Come they did, and together we had a grand total of thirteen kids under six. Less than half an hour after Carol left, five boys who had been digging in the mud, ran bellowing through my kitchen, up the stairs, across the carpet, and into the boys’ room where they crammed themselves into a closet, shaking dirt clods onto the clothes and toys. My friend’s toddler discovered an abandoned, half-drunk can of apple juice, which he spilled in a long slow stream from the coffee table, down the hall, and into the kitchen. On any other day, I’d have casually mopped up the apple juice and handed my boys the vacuum when their friends left. But today, I turned into a neurotic clean freak, chasing down and scolding the boys, and tracking the toddler with a soapy dishtowel. This is why I shouldn’t have a cleaning lady. I don’t want the emotional investment I have in a clean house to be a barrier to hospitality.

Did you know the Bible actually has a neatnik? The much maligned Martha of Bethany, sister to Mary the Mellow and Lazarus the Resurrected. In the gospel of Luke, we read that Martha invited Jesus to stay with her family. While she cooked and cleaned, Mary sat and listened to Jesus. Frustrated, Martha asks Jesus to tell Mary to help her. Jesus responds (Luke10:41-42), “Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details. There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Whenever we hear the story of these sisters, it’s usually hailing the grace and virtue of Mary, her attention to Jesus, her knack at prioritizing, and her tolerance for burned food and a messy house. Martha is condemned as the busy big sister, the control freak, the perfectionist who couldn’t “let go and let God.” This has always bugged me. I’m kind of annoyed that Martha gets the raw end of the theological deal. No one applauds her efforts, compliments her fig and honey compote, or admires her clean, plank wood floors. It’s as if she only made it into the text because we needed a bad example. No one seems to remember that she initiated the hospitality, and is doing her best to welcome the Son of God into her home.

What we fail to understand when we revere Mary and disparage Martha is Jesus wasn’t criticizing what either of them was doing. He chastises Martha for her derogatory comments about her sister, not for making him dinner. Jesus doesn’t say the details that concern Martha don’t need to be taken care of, but that the value she places on them is too high. She is so caught up in being a hostess that she has forgotten her guest.

We don’t live in a “Mary” world. As moms, we are “Marthas” by necessity. We can cook dinner, help with homework, fill a juice cup, nurse a baby, and listen all at the same time. Try to be like Mary and your laundry will pile up, cockroaches will move into your kitchen, and your kids will get rickets. Jesus is not suggesting that we quit doing what needs to be done so we can sit around thinking about God, but that we regard the essential details of our lives with a heavenly perspective.

Later in the Bible, Martha gets it right. When her brother dies, Jesus is the first person she turns to, the one she runs out to meet (while Mary, ironically, stays at home), boldly proclaiming her faith in spite of overwhelming grief. “I have always believed you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who has come into the world from God,” she says in John 11:27.

Let’s be like Martha, faithfully listening and responding to to the gentle voice that warns us not to be so caught up in the minutiae of life, that we forget the Life Giver. I don’t want to get to heaven and have God ask me why I was worried and upset about the details.

The Very Good Mother

The Very Good Mother
By Julie Colwell

There’s a church I run by every morning called The Very Good Church of Silicon Valley. Each time I pass by, I wonder why any church would claim such a title, crediting themselves for their own goodness. What, exactly, do they mean? Are they recognizing that they are imperfect and affirming their need for God? Do they just give it their best shot and trust God to fill in the gaps? Or is it the kind of “very good” that means better than as many others as possible? It must be a fairly elite congregation because they share a small building with three other churches that meet at different times on Sundays. I can imagine the conversation, “I go to the Very Good Church. Which church do you go to?”

“Well, we’re still attending the Barely Mediocre Church up the street, but when we lived up north, we went to the Particularly Righteous Church downtown.”

I want to be very good, and I’d really appreciate it if someone noticed. I try pretty hard. But what does a very good mother do? What would a very good mother do if her child were pushed at a playgroup? Would she interfere or let the child cope? And do very good mothers call up their very good friends when their children aren’t invited to very good birthday parties? Do very good mothers spend the night in parking lots to get into very good preschools? Do very good mothers always have very good children? And what makes you very good anyway?

In theory, mothers are supposed to be very good. We’re should love our kids, our husbands, and our responsibility as primary homemaker (whether we bring home a paycheck or not). Additionally, we ought to be filled with a host of virtues because if we aren’t, our kids will turn into little monsters, and it will be our fault. However, unless we had our own very good mothers, there are few role models to follow. Ironically, most female archetypes in American culture don’t even have mothers. If they’re not virtuous little orphans, they are victims of evil step moms. Consequently, I’ve tried to impress upon my kids that having a mother is a privilege, but they just roll their eyes.

Not much is said about the goodness of Mary, the most famous mother in the Bible. Although, as a pregnant unwed teenager, I’m sure her reputation wasn’t stellar. Who knows if Mary was very good? All we really know is that she was available, attentive, and ultimately obedient to God. She was one of us, and by accepting God’s invitation to be the mother of Christ, she gives us a boundless hope that one day every child might enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Not once did she suggest God selected her based on her own merit.

What a relief that God never calls us to be very good. Mark 10:18 says, “No one is good – except God alone.” The Bible says not to grow weary in doing good (Galatians 6:9). But unlike the threats I levy on my kids, Jesus never says, “Be good or else!” He calls us to be perfect, (Matthew 5:48), which he knows is impossible, so he gives us his goodness. What angers Jesus the most are people who claim to be very good independent of him. He has infinite compassion on those who acknowledge their sin.

Several weeks ago I was chatting with another woman during swim lessons. She had recently enrolled her son in a local Christian preschool, but was horrified when she picked him up early and discovered him singing a song with the lyrics, “I’m a sinner.”
“Can you imagine?” she said aghast. “At home we’re teaching him to be a good person not a sinner.”

Well, yes, frankly, I can imagine. My kids had no trouble learning to be selfish, greedy, and rude by the time they were in preschool. Perhaps they were advanced in the sin department, but I’m quite certain that they are card-carrying members of fallen humanity, just like me.

Paul quotes the Old Testament when he writes in Romans 3:10, “There is no one righteous, not even one,” and later in verse 23, “For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” We, the creation, are only good because of the perfection and sovereignty of our Creator. Any other measurement is doomed to subjective comparison and ultimately, failure.

What a liberating miracle it is to acknowledge our sin, our inability to be “very good.” If we don’t, the results are frightening: a cursed lifetime chasing the delusion of self-sufficiency and passing that legacy on to our children. Or, daily, we can chose to be like Mary, recognizing our deficiencies, but available and receptive to God. Instead of being “very good,” we can be purveyors of goodness; collaborators in God’s creative and redemptive work.