Christmas Eve

4:51 a.m. Andrew's crying, and he's crying hard. Fortunately, there's no fear of waking Colin. (We moved him into the office last night after another coughing/vomiting episode.  He's reacting to the antibiotic the doctor gave him, and now in addition to coughing his brains out, he's puking his guts up. Lovely.)

5:10 I make a bottle and arm myself with Tylenol. I'll try the Tylenol first. If that doesn't work, go for the milk.

5:25 I'm rocking Andrew in my arms. He jerks a few times, settles comfortably in my shoulder. I pray.

5:40. I try laying Andrew down to no avail. I give in and give him the bottle. 

6 a.m. Resolve to begin this day and pray some more.

I admit to feeling jipped. It's Christmas Eve, right? Isn't that supposed to guarantee a little reprieve from the day to day toughness of life? Doesn't God feel I deserve this? And there's that ugly word in our American vocabulary, "deserve." Talk about sending you into a spiritual tail spin.

I realize how much I label "suffering" is more likely "inconvenience." And I'm not so convinced that God's in the business of making sure that my life is as convenient as possible. Are my prayers going anywhere in days like these when my true intent is really, "God, make this day go smoothly," rather than, "God, make me more like Jesus,"? 

And then I'm reassured. God hears me, not because I pray right but because of the blood of Jesus.

 

Back by popular demand

Not quite. But thank you to some of my friends who've asked where I've been. I'm back. Well, no guarantees. I guess that's how it goes when you're the mother of five, two of whom have been sick for the better part of a month. The twins seem to have inherited my asthma genes. And so it goes that our days begin far too early with coughing, crying babies and slip away in the haze of breathing treatments. 

The holidays have wreaked near havoc on our already over-extended lives. First, Thanksgiving. Hours researching recipes for the PERFECT bird. For the first time, we hosted Ryan's family here at our house, and to be honest, all I had to shoot for was avoiding the annual call to the fire department. The turkey went in the oven around 9:30 a.m. with a shout out to the kids, "Pray for the BIRD!" The Lord does still answer prayer.

Christmas is three days away, and this entire month, we've been enjoying our traditional Advent readings, though it's never as picturesque as you imagine it will be. We're either both juggling babies on our laps, or one of us has disappeared upstairs for the bedtime routine of diapers and bottles. No matter the distractions, the kids look forward to reading every day. Even Camille, notorious for her inattention during family Bible reading, has virtually memorized every page, that is, with the exception of her answer to Ryan's question tonight. "To whom was Mary betrothed?" "I know!" Camille's hand shoots up. "The ANGEL!"

I'm hoping for some quiet moments in the days to come: to retreat from the relentless fatigue and anxiety of all there is to do to prepare for Christmas and to respond to the humility and grace of the Christmas story.

Election night

The votes are cast, and Barack Obama will be the next President of the United States. It's 11:30 p.m., and I should have been in bed long ago. The outcome is hardly surprising, and I could have read the results in tomorrow's headlines. But there is something historic about tonight, and I had to feel a part of it. It's a night I'll look forward to telling my children and grandchildren about.

Obama's speech tonight resounded with hope, and like many of those who gathered at Grant Park, my face was wet with tears. No matter what we think of Barack Obama, we can remember the words of another black man, a pastor from a generation ago whose personal faith in Jesus inspired a dream. That we've elected a black man to the highest political office signals something profoundly good for America. 

I didn't vote for Barack Obama. And neither did I vote for John McCain. The arguments matter little now. What matters is the future. 

Moral Clarity

In the New York Times yesterday, there was an opinion piece entitled, "What I Will Miss About President Bush." Six people contributed, and the one that stood out most to me was the piece by Ari Fleischer, the White House Press Secretary from 2001 to 2003.  "Mr. Bush saw the presidency as the place to call the American people to big challenges - in morally clear terms. As his spokesman, I knew that many people would be uncomfortable with how easily he made such moral judgments. I also knew that many Americans welcomed his tough, direct and unambiguous moral clarity."

All day yesterday, I let those two words, "moral clarity," turn over in my mind. Ryan and I had a conversation on a walk yesterday afternoon about a difficult situation he has to handle at work. Someone has lied and doesn't want Ryan ratting him out. Ryan's integrity, maybe in a small way, is nonetheless on the line. We talked about moral clarity, this ability to see right from wrong and stand on moral principles.

I don't know how often we can expect moral clarity from our Presidents. I wish it could be so, but it seems that the political game is played by compromise and concession. But one thing I do know is that I, a follower of Jesus Christ, must be a voice for moral clarity. And probably even more importantly, I've got to be teaching our kids these clear categories of right and wrong.

Hour of Clarity

Sundays are my favorite days. I've written about this before, but this was no more true than today. I realize that Sundays, especially the time of worship and teaching, is a rescue from the muddle of my week. During the worship service, I usually find a word in a song, a Scripture passage, or the sermon that anchors me in a truth that I desperately need.

Today, I had two words. The first was "wretch." I sorta wondered how much pain I'd spare myself (and others) if I more fully realized this about myself. Don't get surprised or humiliated by the failures. Just advertise that I'm a "wretch" and whenever anything more beautiful than that reflects through me, give all the credit to Jesus. 

The second was "power" and words related to it. And it chided me for being so strung out about this election. Power belongs rightfully to one Person, and He's not running for President. We're in good hands - Jesus is coming back as King someday.  

Tempting Faith

This is the title of a book by David Kuo, that I've just finished. This book is an important one for Christians struggling to understand their engagement in the political process. Over the last few days, I've been reading everything I can get my hands on to answer some of my own nagging questions like: In terms of politics, what hopes should we have for changing the world? How have important Christian leaders historically used their political power for good? (William Wilberforce, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King are the first examples that came to mind.) And what are the dangers of politics to which we as Christians should be alerted? (Here, I sought out Chuck Colson and Billy Graham). David Kuo himself speaks to many of of these questions.

He was an insider when the Republicans stormed Congress in 1994 and made the Contract with America. He later became an adviser to George W. Bush in the office for Faith-Based Initiatives. He's critical of the administration, but I don't think unfairly so. Kuo admires the deep personal faith of Bush. He believes that his passion for helping the poor was always genuine. However, Bush never put his political weight behind real policy for helping the poor. And what he saw from the inside of the White House was a string of empty promises (politically motivated as an means to court the evangelical vote) and double-speak to cover up the fact that he never delivered the goods on faith-based initiatives. 

This book is especially important for its discussion of power. Unfortunately, he talks about how Christians themselves are bought by this power. (He wasn't specifically referring to Bush so much as the pastors and Christian leaders who sought to influence the White House). Here's a look at some of his reflections on power: "The White House was also one of the most seductive places imaginable. Not just because of the perks, which are nice, but because of the raw power of the place hidden in a true desire to save the world. It is the ring of power from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. The longer anyone holds the ring the more he loves it, the more he hates it, and the more desperate he is to hold on to it. It becomes the most precious thing in his life. Priorities, loves, interest, life are lost in it. The ring owns, it is not owned."

I think reading this book helped me to wrangle less over the question, Who am I going to vote for?, and start the process of thinking more constructively about the power of the Church as an agent of change. I've got a lot more to say about this, but the kids are waking up, and it's breakfast time.

Life

This election has me tied in knots. And blogging is absurdly dangerous when it comes to talking politics. Here it is, forever in "ink," what I think regarding this election. I've said that I'm not entirely sure for whom I'll be voting. That's still true. (I'm leaning, yes.) But I may just bail on ever really revealing how I vote in the end. An act of cowardice? Maybe. But the truth is, I and you unfairly characterize people according to their political affiliations. Liberal, conservative, Republican, Democrat, have become our politely cruel shorthand for dismissing what someone has to say. I'm struck recently by what I'm reading in the book of Proverbs, wisdom to guide us not just in how we vote but how we critically engage in the process and respectfully disagree with others. Verses like Proverbs 18:13 (He who answers before listening, that is his folly and shame.), Proverbs 18:15 (The heart of the discerning acquires knowledge, the ears of the wise seek it out), Proverbs 18:17 (The first to present his case seems right, till another comes forward and questions him.) I myself am learning about what it means to be truthful in my characterizations, fair in my rhetoric, objective in my analysis, respectful in my disagreements.

In this election, protection of human life is of preeminent concern to Christians, and Christians are right to defend a culture of life in our country. I'm using my blog today as a platform to feature one such ministry doing this here in Chicago: Lydia Home.

We connected to Lydia years ago when we were members at Harvest Bible Chapel. I don't know exactly how it was that Ryan and I decided to involve ourselves in their Safe Families program, which is essentially short-term foster care, but in the summer of 2006, Juwuan came to stay with us for a week. His mother, a heroin addict, had gone suddenly into rehab. Juwuan (8) and his younger brother and sister spent the day at the rehab clinic waiting for someone, anyone to commit to caring for them. A state worker called in Lydia, and Tom Maluga started the placement calls. We agreed to care for Juwuan short-term until a more permanent home could be found for him. (Other families agreed to care for the brother and sister.)

Juwuan was a scrawny, agile boy with a wide smile and a tender heart. He was well-mannered and easy to care for. At the end of the second day in our home, he'd taken to calling me, "Momma." At the park, he could do a dismount worthy of Shawn Johnson from the swings. At home, he'd strap on Nathan's tool belt, take a wad of fake cash from the toy cash register, and saunter into the kitchen. "What needs fixed?' 

Juwuan left his home with nothing but a bag of dirty, old clothes: a random assortment of women's undergarments and over-sized t-shirts. He slept with the light on, and when I asked him why, he mentioned the nightmares. And the horror movies he'd seen.

His first night in our home, we put him and our kids to bed, and I curled up with a book in the family room. Hardly five minutes had passed, and I could feel his warm breath on my neck. I turned, and his crocodile tears started to fall. Awkwardly, I took this gangly 8 year old boy on my lap. "It's going to be OK." He sobbed and shuddered, and in this moment, I knew something of what it meant to be the hands and feet of Christ.

Juwuan left our home after a week. Others came (Jevonte, Jaylyn). Each has broken our heart in different ways. Each has taught us more about the love of Christ.

If you're in the Chicago area, would you consider taking a child into your home? Safe Families is experiencing incredible growth. Recently, David Anderson, the Director of Lydia Home, met with Mayor Daley who wants every Chicago police station and school and hospital to know about this program. This is a ministry to support life: life of the born children whose parents struggle with addiction, joblessness, poverty. Any of you can also support the ministry financially as well.

Find out more at www.safe-families.org.

Apology

How apt that after my last post (re:chronic sin issues), I have to now issue an apology. God is good. More and more, I realize what is unfortunately true about me: I can be disagreeable just for the heck of it. I try to sound smarter than I am. I am not always even-handed and fair with my own criticism but will criticize you squarely when you're not. 

The apology is this: I've offended a friend with my 2nd political post (Smart Turk, Dumb Christian), and I deeply regret that. It wasn't that we had disagreed on the issues. Both of us, I think, welcome healthy debate. It was that she had seen it as a direct criticism against her earlier comment on my first political post. To be clear, the second post was not at all intended as a direct rebuttal - that would give me credit for remembering something for more than an hour, which frankly, I'm not sure I'm still capable of. But looking back, I can see that she could have reasonably interpreted it that way and had every right to feel embarrassed by my words. I apologize.

It's likely true that I overstated in the second post when I said that Christians who are one-issue voters are intellectually lazy. This was an unfair generalization. It is more fair to say that as Christians, we should engage in the issues as critically as we can, but for many, our moral convictions may trump all else when it comes to actually casting our vote. That is a respectable position.

Thank you, friend, for letting me know that this had embarrassed you. I think our phone conversation today was a great example of Christ calling us to keep short accounts. When we've been hurt, we've got to speak up to guard against bitterness and unforgiveness. And when we do the hurting, we've got to be quick to admit our faults. 

 

Waves

It's never easy when we confront our chronic sins of behavior and attitude. I'm easily discouraged, wondering whether or not God will ever change these in me. Just this morning, I have that very question in mind: how is it that God changes us? What does it look like for God's word to gain potency in my life? I'm reading this morning about King Josiah, who at the age of 26, hears (for the first time?) the words of the Book of the Law, realizes his sin and the sins of the nation, and instantly repents. God affirms his action saying, "Your heart was responsive and you humbled yourself before the Lord." So Josiah had this definitive turning point (and I, too, had that at the age of 16). But life now is a lot more about the small choices of the everyday. What does it look like for God to really speak to me now, and how does it look for me to respond to Him? I'm wondering about this, and then I get a visual picture in my mind. I'm taken to an ocean scene where giant huge waves crash against a rocky shore. The rocks stand stubbornly against the waves and seem impervious to the onslaught of water. But they aren't as unmoved as they think. Little by little, as time creeps slowly by, the rocks erode and surrender to the power of the waves. And I think it's that way with my heart and God's Word. Daily, I keep soaking and saturating my heart with the truths of God's Word, and though I don't feel like change is occurring, I hope to look back in a year, or five, even twenty, and see that sins of pride, self-reliance, and the failure to love people well will have crumbled over time, eroded by the relentless voice of God.

Smart Turk, Dumb Christian?

I want to talk politics more. It's on my mind, and I suppose I wish I could have more thoughtful conversations with Christians to think through the issues confronting us in this election. 

I'm bothered by Christians who are one-issue voters. Abortion for them is the make-it, break-it deal as they determine their political leanings. I can appreciate their moral convictions, and I myself do not support abortion. But if abortion is the only issue we have to consider when choosing between candidates, we're never forced to critically engage in the other policy debates and the implications of the candidates' positions. It's a kind of intellectual laziness that I think is in no way Christian. It's not Christian to check your mind at the voting booth. That's why some of political emails and YouTube videos (that Christians themselves are circulating) are troubling. They either contain completely false information (i.e. Obama is a Muslim) or they prey on emotional gut responses (i.e. YouTube video of the Chicago labor and delivery nurse). Where are the Christians asking us to engage, not just our soul and heart, but our mind as we consider the candidates?

My biggest struggle, which reaches beyond just this election, centers on the question of character and competence. When judging the candidates, how much weight does one give to moral character (or personal faith), and how much importance does one give to actual job competency? In our country's recent history, we've seen examples of presidents strong in one area, weak in the other: Bill Clinton - a few (just a few) moral failings, but a president that has been judged rather favorably in terms of job performance. George Bush - a man of sincere personal faith, but a president who, in my estimation, has done more harm than good for the country. 

How does the Bible answer this question? Does character always outweigh competence? We say things like, "What you have, what you know, what you look like, these don't matter in God's economy." And they don't in terms of God's attitude toward us. He loves everyone the same, not valuing one more than another because she's prettier or smarter. It's also true that God often uses weak and broken people to accomplish His purposes (cf. 1 Cor. 1). He does that for the purpose of reserving glory for Himself alone. But this does not mean that education, eloquence, and even physical beauty are irrelevant? I don't think so. They can matter for the job you're called to do. They did matter for Esther, for Daniel, and for Joseph, if you recall. And if you're the president of the United States, it matters what you know, how well you communicate, and how well you can lead. These are essential questions of competence, not eclipsing the question of character but adding to it.

I don't mean to imply I think a vote for Obama is a vote for "competence" and McCain "character. I don't think we can make those kind of discrete judgments between these two candidates. But I do think the competence factor needs to be given more weight, especially in the Christian community. Martin Luther weighed in on this question hundreds of years ago: "I'd rather be governed by a smart Turk than a dumb Christian." 

Politics

For the past several weeks, I've been stewing about politics. I've been fairly invested in the political scene since the primaries. What else did I have to do in those winter months when I was either pregnant with twins (and spending lots of time on the couch) or nursing twins (and spending lots of time on the couch). For months, our kids thought Jim Lehrer, PBS news anchor, was a presidential candidate. 

Before the VP picks, I was not at all sure for whom I planned to vote. (And I'm still not.) And for as little as I've followed the conventions in the past, I did happen to catch Obama's speech in 2004. (Ah yes, I think I was nursing another baby at that time - Camille!) I recognized it as a historic moment (as did the rest of the nation) but could hardly have imagined that four short years later, he would actually be a presidential candidate. OK, so I'll out myself right here and say that I do like Obama. Perhaps I'm one of the naive fools captivated by empty rhetoric. Or maybe it's also true that I'm like a lot of other Americans who hope for change, and Obama, whether you consider him credible or not as a presidential candidate, is compelling when he speaks on this theme. 

I also like McCain. He is a true patriot, in many ways an admirable example of what are unfortunately eroding American values. My generation (and those younger than I) don't necessarily connect with words like heroism, sacrifice, honor, patriotism, and John McCain could perhaps return us to these American ideals. What's more, his record stands tall in terms of real reform initiatives and effective bipartisan efforts. We need someone to heal the bipartisan gridlock in Washington, and McCain plays well to that need.

So here's why I'm stewing. . .I'm not a Palin fan. (Gasp!) Please don't misunderstand. I've seen the YouTube clip on her speaking to her church in Wasilla. I respect her personal faith. I've seen her approval rating in Alaska, and I can respect that she's a decent governor. But I absolutely do not think that she is qualified to be President of the United States.

Phrases that come to mind from articles I've read: it would be "reckless" to vote for this ticket because of Palin, she is "preposterously unprepared," etc. (My personal favorite is the piece by Maureen Dowd from the New York Times on October 5th). I'll grant you that most of my sources are centrist to liberal (NPR, PBS, New York Times, and a conservative one for fun - WSJ). But my opinion wasn't formed necessarily by the liberal media but by her own poor performances in the media interviews and the debate. This is a woman who I'll grant is likeable and politically talented (loved her convention speech) and yet extremely uninformed on the issues. We are facing a global economic crisis, the nuclear armament of rogue nations like Iran and North Korea, a war on terror that we've got to win. McCain, I think, can face these challenges; Palin cannot. And with John McCain 72 years and counting, I just don't know if I can vote in good faith for the Republican ticket.

I haven't even touched on the major policy issues. No, I do not agree with Obama's positions on abortion. (They are abhorrent.) No, I do not agree that we should set a timetable to get out of Iraq. No, I do not want to see liberal Supreme Court justices legislating from the bench. But I don't agree with everything Republicans stand for either: we need better policies on education (No Child Left Behind has been an abysmal failure.) We need better policies that help the poor. And I don't agree with McCain's health care proposals. That's not even to mention what needs to happen globally: we need a president who can restore global trust in America, who can exercise both hard and soft power for the defense of our nation.

There's not enough time to speak to all the issues. Nor would I claim to be informed on them all. But as a Christian, I suppose I plead for even-handed and fair debate. These emails that circulate, calling Obama a radical Muslim extremist, are intolerable. As Christians, we need to be the most judicious of anyone in what we say and how we say it. Many of the accusations leveled against Obama are tantamount to libel, and the fact that Christians circulate this kind of unfounded nonsense is reprehensible. (I'm getting off my soapbox. . .now.) 

I keep hearing how "scary" this election is, and I agree that our nation and our world are facing enormous crises. I can also agree that this election will be a turning point, for better or for worse. But scared I am not. 

I won't vote this election because I'm afraid. I'll vote because I believe it my civic privilege and responsibility, and I'll vote with the most faith that I can muster.

Empty bottles

I'm in the middle of a writing project, and it's kidnapping ever spare second that I have. "What's for dinner?" the kids ask, and I forage in the fridge for the chicken sausages. (Healthy, right? At least they aren't REAL hotdogs.) But the quiet afternoons are blissful, and I look forward to getting the twins in bed and situating myself at my desk. I get lost in a blizzard of books and papers, and the clock stares me down for the hour and a half I have to somehow think of something meaningful to say. My prayers as I sit down are admittedly very hurried, sounding something like this: "God, don't have a lot of time. You gotta work quick. Praying for your words and your thoughts." And some days, like yesterday, the words are steady, the thoughts cohere, and I close the laptop feeling like something happened. Other days (like today) I feel tired and sluggish. The words limp along, my energy wanes, and I quit before the finish line.

Wanted to share another great read for kids: Winn-Dixie, by Kate DiCamillo. (I've already recommended The Tale of Desperaux and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by her.) She has a wonderful character in this book, Gloria Dump. Gloria lives in the house with the overgrown yard - the neighborhood kids think she's a witch. But Winn-Dixie, the dog for whom the book is titled, one day gets away from the narrator, Opal, bounds into Gloria's backyard and when Opal finally catches up to him, he's eating a spoonful of peanut butter at the hand of Miss Gloria. She and Opal quickly become friends. Opal herself is a lonely little girl; she and her dad, the Preacher have just recently moved to Florida. Her mom, an alcoholic, left the family years ago. 

Several chapters later, we come to find out that Miss Gloria Dump was herself an alcoholic. And here's the haunting image I just can't get out of my mind. In her backyard, she's strung up empty wine, beer and liquor bottles in a tree. One day she asks Opal, "What do you think about that tree?"

'I said, "I don't know. Why are all those bottles on it?"

"To keep the ghosts away," Gloria said.

"What ghosts?"

"The ghosts of all the things I done wrong."

A great book for talking to your kids about guilt, forgiveness, loneliness, loss, and redemption.

Lipstick?

I am a delinquent blogger. My last post was over two weeks ago. I haven't managed to form any coherent thoughts of late, I guess. And our days have taken a very predictable shape now that school has started. What on earth is really interesting to relate?

Bah humbug to coherence and being funny. Here's the gist of what's going on.

Audrey's now in 2nd grade. "We do a lot of reading and writing, Mom." And other facts of interest about 2nd graders: 2nd graders sit at desks, 2nd grader do timed math tests, and 2nd graders have spelling words like, "meadow." I don't know about Audrey, but I'm liking 2nd grade.

Nathan's in kindergarten. As Camille and I were working the other day on a reading lesson, Nathan notes, "You could be teaching kindergarten because we do this same stuff." OK, so kindergarten's not Harvard, but it's fun. Nathan told me about Evan the other day, a crippled boy in his class. "His legs don't work the way ours do." From there ensues a discussion, tied to our earlier reading of the story of the Good Samaritan, about being a helper. And I thank God for inclusion.

Camille's in preschool, our first to go. Last week, she told me about Michelangelo. They did the most creative project, painting on their backs underneath tables to simulate what it must have been like for Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We got a book for the library to learn more about Michelangelo, and she soaked it all up. As for the letter for the week? I show her the "w," and she stares blankly at the paper. "Y?" she answers quizzically. More work to do here.

Andrew and Colin: Colin has been officially crawling for a month. Andrew is content to sit and play with his toys. He's not as happy when Colin bulldozes him and steals whatever is his hand. They're at such a fun stage.

And it's getting easier. Never easy, but easier. Here's a glimpse at a typical morning. 7 a.m., everyone's up. I start feeding the babies their cereal, and Nathan unloads the dishwasher from the night before. Audrey takes cereal orders, and Camille demands Honey Nut Cheerios. "We don't have Honey Nut Cheerios," Audrey explains. Camille insists on Honey Nut Cheerios a few hundred more times, and Audrey says "Fine, you're not having anything." Meanwhile, Nathan's built the leaning tower of Pisa with the cups he's unloaded from the dishwasher. I goad him to finish the job. I take a break from the babes to pour the apple juice. Everyone wants straws, and I give in, a move I later regret when the apple juice bubbles over the rims of their cups and makes a sticky mess on the kitchen table.

I'm back to feeding the babes, everyone's got their cereal, everyone that is but Camille. "Where's Camille's cereal?" I ask Audrey, who explains she's not eating this morning because she wanted Honey Nut Cheerios and we don't have any. Nope, not an option, everyone's got to eat. Camille agrees to Shredded Spoonfuls. 

7:45 by this time, and I think, Great, we've got some time. Don't have to leave until 8:15. Mistake. I send Audrey to practice piano, and I work on getting the babes changed and dressed. From upstairs, I simultaneously wipe a dirty bottom and call down to Audrey, "Those are quarter notes, aren't they?" Audrey needs help with the metronome - I run down to adjust it, run back up before Colin's found the stairs. He's managed to pull the trash can on its side, and that's not the place you want to be putting your hand in the babies' room.

I forgot Andrew on my way up, so I'm back down to get him. I hear a muffled, "Mommy, can you wipe me?" Camille's calling for me. If I were Ryan, I'd yell back, "Wipe yourself!" but I dutifully run to the basement with Andrew in my arms, juggle him to one hip, wipe her with my free hand. I wash the offending hand (the other one I need) and run back upstairs. "Staccato with the left hand, Audrey!" I yell down as she continues to practice.

"Five minutes, and we gotta go!" 

We make it out the door on time, and if there's a spare 30 seconds, I brush my teeth. As for lipstick, well, who's got time for that?

'

Bull in a china shop

I spoke way out of turn tonight in our book club. A group of women has gotten together over the summer to talk about the book, Emotionally Healthy Spirituality. A good read, I think, and I'm taking from it some wisdom. I've learned things I didn't know about myself. Like, I'm really comfortable with anger, not so much with sadness or disappointment. I'm decent at conflict - seeking someone out when there's weird tension, trying to talk in through, but I'm more of an avoider that I think. God's growing courage in me - courage to be who He wants me to be, courage to disappoint people, courage to speak truth when it's called for.

But courage wasn't called for tonight. Compassion was more in order. Someone shares her struggles with trusting in God's goodness. She admits stumbling over the process of forgiveness, and tonight shares that what's most difficult about forgiving. It's acknowledging that God has not spared you from whatever offense it is that has caused such deep pain.

I don't remember what her exact words were, but I felt her accusing God of injustice and evil. My blood started to boil. I wasn't angry with her. I was angry at Satan, angry at the lies he keeps feeding God's people, that somehow God's intentions towards His people aren't completely good. 

I'm writing an issue for Today in the Word now, a study of Exodus. And what's become clear to me is that one of the most fundamental questions each of us has to answer if we want to walk with God is, "Can God be trusted?" Those of us raised in Bible churches know the right answer. But does our heart agree with our head on this one? When pain is real, it's that much harder to acknowledge God's goodness. But it's all the more necessary.

Realistic expectations.

We successfully returned from another road trip this past weekend. Successfully, I say, because there were no angry exchanges in the car, no hurdling over seats to squeeze cheeks and utter threats. Why was this trip different from the last? One reason: realistic expectations. 

Everything is better when I'm realistic about life and about myself and about others. 

I've been starting my days with thoughts like, "This day is going to be hard. There's a lot of work to do." The babies will be fussy, the house will be chaotic, and I'm going to be exhausted. Period. Don't expect more than this. And if God grants a quite cup of coffee in the afternoon with twenty peaceful minutes to read, embrace it as a gift. But don't demand it.

Second, I'm getting more realistic about myself. "I'm a screw-up," is what I decided my most recent mantra should be. Which has sent me into a tailspin theologically. I've started to wonder, What's the most important thing we are supposed to acknowledge about ourselves? Is it that we are unconditionally and fully loved by God? Or is it that we are fatally flawed at the core of our being, sinful as the Bible puts it?

For me, I find it helpful to remind myself that I'm going to screw things up. Yes, thank God, He's changing me, rooting out some of the ugliest parts of who I've been for these part 34 years. But I'm still a screw up. No longer should I be shocked when I fall short of my own expectations. Ideals are good. Goals are important. But the truth is, try as I might, I'm failing. Each day that I acknowledge that, I'm closer to relying on God's grace.

And if I can acknowledge my own shortcomings, perhaps I can give a little bit more grace to those around me. Let them fail me. Instead of anger or buried disappointment, maybe there could be patience. 

Anniversary

It's quiet at our house this morning. The babes are taking their morning nap, and Ryan took the older three camping last night. My mother-in-law called last night and left a message with a note of concern in her voice: "You won't be lonely tonight, will you?" The quiet is a gift, a lifeline. I fight the anxiety to spend it well!

Tomorrow is our anniversary - 12 years. How do 12 years go by so quickly? It feels like we've lived several lives in this short span - a lifetime ago it was that both of us went to work in the dark hours of the morning and came home exhausted. We lived then in such separate spheres: Ryan, studying for his exams, working; me, teaching, coaching, grad school. I remember how easily it could have all fallen apart, this marriage of ours. I remember God's mercy in preserving us and protecting us. There's no doubt there are three people in this marriage. 

When I married Ryan, I knew he was "the one" because he was the only man I'd every truly admired. That is true still today. I love this man, I respect his man, and I admire this man. Yes, there are faults and shortcomings. Read past blogs and you'll find mention of some. But what's most true is that I depend on Ryan for so much. These past seven months have been full as we've grown to a family of seven. I expected sleep deprivation and stress: I didn't expect the laughter. If for nothing else, God gave me Ryan to keep me from taking myself and life too seriously. 

 They leave for camping yesterday afternoon, and Ryan turns back to say: "If I call you, it's for one of two reasons. Either Camille has lost a leg, or you need to come and get her." (God bless her, Camille is hell-bent on testing every fiber of our parenting resolve.)

Or when the family conspires to cut my step-father's comb-ups. Ryan sends me a hilarious Dilbert cartoon, picturing Dilbert's boss with his own version of comb-ups. The subject line states wryly, "Guy on the left." That sends me into hysterical laughter for a good 10 minutes. 

When the family is coming apart at the seams, he asks, "OK, so who's getting voted off the island?"

For the serious actuarial type that he is, this guys is pretty darn funny.

 

Twelve years can race by, and you can still be in love with the same man. 

Birds and Bees

"Somehow, I didn't picture having this conversation over dinner." And neither had I. Earlier this afternoon, I'd seen Audrey in the basement, reading a book from our teach-your-kids-about-sex series (God's Design for Sex - Stan Jones). I thought it was the first book in the series, the one that sort of eases them into things like the proper names for anatomical parts, etc. It also introduces basic concepts of Christian marriage and family. We've already read this book together with all of our kids. But we hadn't yet gotten to book two, the one that tells about S-X. Book two is suggested for ages 5-8, and this summer, Ryan and I had agreed we needed to read it with Audrey.

She beat us to the punch. And right in the middle of dinner, she started talking about how a baby begins as small as a little dot. I asked, "What book were you reading down there?" She runs downstairs to get it, and I see it's the S-X book. Oh boy. Here we go.

"Let's read that book together after dinner." The other four get bathed and tucked into bed, and Audrey and I go upstairs to snuggle up with the S-X book. (Cozy, isn't it?) I'd never pictured feeling awkward about this moment. And honestly, I really wasn't. The book does all the hard work - you just have to read it. As we read the part on puberty and your body changing, she insists (looking down her shirt), "that's happening to me!" I explain that the changes the book was describing don't happen until you're closer to 12, 13, or 14. Then she looks at my chest and asks, "How long does it take to grow those?" "A couple of years." YEARS??" she asks incredulously and with great disappointment.

Moving on, the book describes S-X, and it doesn't mince words. (God forbid, my daughter's going to be the one at school setting everyone straight that S-X isn't just kissing and hugging!) We finish, and I say, "You will be curious about this and will have more questions. I definitely would prefer you asking me rather than your friends who may not know the right answers or God's way." She asks me a few questions, a little giggly and awkward. And we finish our conversation with a short prayer, that God would protect her and prepare her to love her husband, that she would be faithful to God and to her husband by choosing God's way, etc. 

August 2nd, sex talk, check!

Protection

Ryan put the prayer book by the bed last night. If you read my last blog, you might well imagine that I was hardly in the mood for prayer. But I opened the book anyways and starting reading aloud.

"Because you have made the Lord your refuge, and the Most High your habitation, there shall no evil happen to you, neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. They shall bear you in their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone."

The "retiring prayers," as they're called, are the same for the month. Monday's prayer is read every Monday in July, etc. So as I read last night (Monday), I was remembering having read the same words last Monday. . .the day of Ryan's car accident.

He was on 294, traveling 60+ miles/hour in morning traffic, and a car started fishtailing and swerved right in front of him, clipping his left front tire and sending him careening into the next two lanes. Miraculously, those lanes were empty. Providentially, his car did not slam into a concrete barricade (which extends through most of this construction zone) but in a grassy ditch.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, I prayed when I hung up the phone with him early last Monday morning. I know we're not always spared tragedy in this life, but I'm grateful for this rescue.

"For he will give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways."

Road Trip

We made it to Ohio this weekend, our first road trip as a family of seven. Getting ready began a week earlier - battery run last Saturday for the car headphones, trips to the library on Monday and Thursday for movies and CDs, laundry and suitcase packing Wednesday, Thursday a catch-all day to get the house clean and final items into the car. We loaded everyone up early Friday morning and set out as the sun was rising over Chicago. Those early morning hours always make for a peaceful drive. Two hours later, we were ready for our first stop to eat breakfast. Only 15 minutes of crying from Colin right before we pulled into my parents. I was disappointed. Wasn't this trip going to make for an interesting blog?

Oh, just wait. We leave to come home today, and Camille is in hysterics before we've even loaded up the car. Not a good start. We try to buckle her in to her carseat, but the kicking and wailing demand some sort of response. Ryan takes her into the house to promptly spank her. She returns only slightly subdued. We pull out of my parents' driveway, wave our goodbyes, and I ask Ryan, "Where is my iPod?" He answers, "On your seat." "Nope." "I put it right there, on your seat." We fumble around, stop the car, fumble around some more, find the iPod jammed carelessly in a bag. He blames the kids. We've made it at least half a block by this point. Nathan yells from the back, "Something's wrong with my screen!" The DVD player we've borrowed for the trip is our sanity. We pull over (again), I jiggle the cord to discover the only problem is the screen is in black and white. We blame the movie, I buckle in again, and at this point, a moth is hurling herself against the windshield on the inside of the car. Ryan puts down his window and successfully shews her out. 

By this time, we're finally to the highway. I'll spare you the gory details of the rest of the trip. Here are snapshots: family stopped at McDonald's, Ryan MIA on a business call, Jen nursing twins in the front seat of the van; Jen hurdling to the back of the van to squeeze Camille's cheeks together and utter violent threats about the spanking she's going to get if she doesn't stop crying;  babies crying in unison, Jen listening to one, two, and yes, three consecutive episodes of her favorite podcast, Manic Mommies with her iPod and earbuds and contemplating how she can make it home alone from Rensselaer, Indiana.

It wasn't my best of days today. 

Prayer

I can't believe I've been a Christian for so many years now and am just now learning about the spiritual discipline of praying the divine offices. The churches in which I grew up would have probably shuddered at its mention. I was raised a good Baptist, prayed the sinner's prayer at 6, got baptized, learned my Bible, and imbibed the don'ts of Christianity. We were never encouraged toward the practice of spiritual disciplines such as fasting, solitude, celebration. It was in college, then, that I was introduced to authors like Richard Foster, Henri Nouwen, Dallas Willard, and the practice of historic Christians. Some people get really nervous when you mention names like that. Like the publisher for which I write. You cannot credit any ideas from men such as these. They've become far too controversial in some Christian circles. And if you want my two cents on that (I guess that's why you're reading my blog, huh?), I think it's just an easy way of keeping at bay ideas like God is real, God is personal, and you can really hear His voice.

But alas, I digress. Back to the practice of the divine offices, also known as fixed hour prayer. Historically, Christians have set aside times in their days to acknowledge God and to recenter their days on Him. I'm reading a book which talks more about this practice (Emotionally Healthy Spirituality), and I was also introduced to the idea by Phyllis Tickle, a guest preacher at Mars Hill Bible Church in Grand Rapids (whose podcast we frequently listen to). 

Tickle has herself edited a contemporary prayer book which leads one into the practice of fixed hour prayer (The Divine Hours). In essence, the book is a compilation of written prayers and readings from Scripture. Ryan and I have taken to reading the morning, evening and retiring prayers together (we're on our own for lunch!). I'm loving this for several reasons. First, I'm giving God more than my first hour. I'm called back into His presence throughout the day by this practice. I find I'm less likely to forget who I am to be and Whom I'm called to serve. Second, my prayer life was getting unfortunately stale. I found myself saying either the same thing or saying nothing. I needed some prodding to venture out in different directions of prayer. This book is guiding me in that way. And third, I love that Ryan and I can do it together. For as "spiritual" as we may appear to some, it's never been easy for us to regularly pray together. We aren't uncomfortable doing so by any means, and it's most definitely our first place to turn when we seek wisdom and guidance for our lives, our family. But, we never have been consistent about prayer together each day. This, we hope, may anchor us in that practice.

Here's a prayer from this last week which has been meaningful to me: "Lord God, almighty and everlasting Father, you have brought me in safety to this new day; Preserve me with your mighty power, that I may not fall into sin, nor be overcome by adversity; and in all I do direct me to the fulfilling of your purpose; through Jesus Christ my Lord, Amen."

Personal space

I want it. I need it. This morning, I'm sitting at my computer, and someone's at my elbows as I type (that little 4 year old someone isn't tall enough to peer over shoulders yet). "Give me a little room, Camille." Later this morning, I'm in the shower, and Nathan bursts through the bathroom door. "Can Mommy have a little privacy while she's showering?" He retreats but not without asking the question he came for. Dinnertime, two fussy babies finally calmed, and Camille saunters over and pleads with her big brown eyes: "Can I sit on your lap?" Now, bedtime nears, I sneak into the office to check email and blog if I'm lucky, and the kids migrate around me. "Ry, this is when I need you to take care of getting the kids ready for bed." He insists, "That's what I'm doing." No, actually, he's at his computer, and I need him barricading the door!

Better luck next time.

After dinner tonight, we called a family meeting to discuss some new "rules" meant for rescuing this house from utter chaos. We talked first about our most recent family reading from Little House in the Big Woods. "How many toys did Mary and Laura have?" "What did they play with?" "How did they spend their days?" 

You get the point. The kids were meant to figure out that not everyone has had the surfeit of toys they do, and not every kid in history or even in the world today expects to play from sun-up to sun-down.

So for the rules:

1. If you want to eat breakfast in the morning, you should be dressed, your bed must be made, and your room should be clean. It is not mom's job to make everyone's beds and help dirty laundry find its way to the hamper. 

2. No toys out of the playroom unless you ask permission. These kids have an entire room dedicated to their play. That's a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me. They aren't expected to clean it on a daily basis. BUT, if they choose to get out every toy in that playroom, cover every square inch of the floor with their CR-P, subsequently deciding there's no space to play and come wondering upstairs looking for new territory to DESTROY, they should think again. 

3. Similar to rule #2, the family room is a quiet room in which to read or do some other quiet activity. It is an adult space and shall not be cluttered with toys. Mother has generously granted permission for each child to bring one toy to play with in the family room. ONE. 

4. Per rule #3, the family room must be tidied before bed. Furthermore, extraneous shoes should be carried to one's room and properly arranged in the closet.

Militaristic, dictatorial, ah, yes, the descriptors might be apt. But let me be honest. We've got a house full of five, count 'em, FIVE kids. The only way any of us, namely me, stays sane is to keep some semblance of order. I'm done with feeling "selfish" when I ask my kids to clear out of the bathroom when I'm showering, to stop taking my shoes out of my closet, to keep out of my office, to wait five minutes to ask a question as I finish my phone call. I used to feel that my boundaries were unreasonable. Goodness, if they had a question for me and wanted to peek their head in the shower to ask me, whom was that really hurting? But then it turns into demands all day long. I'm on the phone, and no one seems to have an ounce of patience to wait to be acknowledged. They want to play dress-up (wonderful, I love it), and insist on using the mirror in my bathroom. I relent only to later discover my bathroom is littered with glittery purses, princess shoes, and spiderman accessories. Not OK. It's not OK anymore. I don't have the time or energy for this. And it's only going to get harder. Pretty soon, we're going to have two toddlers in this house, wreaking havoc.

Just say no. It' s my new theme. 

Twins?

"Twins?" The babies got a lot of attention when we were in California. One older gentleman, whom we met walking on the beach, stopped us as he passed by. "Twins?" He went on to tell us about his own grandchildren and ended the conversation by asking if we were from the area. "No, just visiting from Chicago." "Oh," he sighed disappointedly. "I'm not going to see these boys grow up. They're exceptional boys, really. I can tell."

Twins definitely enjoy some sort of "cool" factor. And we get lots of questions.

1. "Are they fraternal?" Andrew's got a full head of hair, delicate features, and a slight frame. Colin's our bald prize fighter. They looked like complete strangers at birth. Now I think they'd pass for cousins. Fraternal, yes.

2. "Are their personalities different?" Things haven't changed most since they were first born . Andrew cooperated flawlessly with labor and delivery. The doctor said I literally "laughed him out." He's cautious and calm, happy to lie on the floor sucking his thumb. He's not quick to smile or scream. He's dependably even. (I think he gets that from Dad.) Colin, on the other hand, has a stubborn streak. He was delivered by C-section, an hour after his brother, with the umbilical cord looped around his shoulder and grasped tightly in his right hand. He knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. He's quick to smile and giggle, an easy audience for the big kids. When he's mad, it's full throttle scream in 3 seconds flat. Are they different? Quite.

3. "Are they on the same schedule?" Clearly the person asking this doesn't know my neurotic tendencies. Yes, yes, yes! I synchronize them as much as possible. If I could find a way to get them peeing and pooping at the same time, I'm sure I'd try that, too. 

4. "Are you nursing them?" I answer yes and brace for the question sure to follow. "At the same time?" Yes, again. I see the mental gymnastics at work. I wonder how that works. Without being graphic, I'll tell you this much: nursing pillow, football hold, big couch. 

5. "Do they sleep in the same crib?" Not anymore. They came home from the hospital, slept in the same crib for about three weeks, and then moved to their bouncy chairs for sleeping (reflux issues). Now they're in the same room, separate cribs. They don't often wake each other. Andrew's loudest cry hardly wakes me in the next room and certainly doesn't disturb Colin. Colin's screaming, on the other hand, is not to be muffled by closed doors, pillows over the head, and even small fans. Somehow, Andrew manages to sleep through the wailing.

I'm thankful they're so different, so easy to love for different reasons. 

Catching up

Making Sundays a day of rest is a fierce act of the will. I'm tempted to do a million things today - put some of the clean, folded laundry away, round up more dirty clothes and throw them in the wash, straighten shoes by the door, unload the dishwasher. Work never entirely disappears on the Sabbath. There are always hungry mouths to feed. And while my body longs for a long nap under the covers, I also see a quiet moment to spend with Audrey. We're at the table "journaling." She's keeping a journal for the summer. Her most recent topic was, "I am happy when. . ." She writes, "I am happy when I don't get yelled at." I ask her, "Did you get yelled at the day you wrote this?" She says no, and I thank God for the short accounts children keep.

Our vacation was wonderful. I came back exhausted. Traveling with two babies, let's be honest, is hardly a vacation. But how can I complain when the days were cheerfully sunny, I read a novel in its entirety, and Starbucks was within walking distance? I joked with Ryan that the fatigue of sharing a room with two babies on Illinois time could be measured by the size coffee I ordered each day. The week started with tall half-caff lattes. By the end of the week, I was tempted to order up a venti triple shot.

We made wonderful new friends on the flight to CA. A kind face peered around my shoulder as the plane was about ready to take off. "Any time you need a break holding one of those babies, you let me know!" And so it was, an hour later, that our friendship with Chris and Sherry began. Chris is an Allstate agent and was traveling for the same conference. They have two older sons, both out of high school, and they craved some warm baby skin. We, of course, were happy to oblige. We saw them a little throughout the week and discovered, to our jubilation, that they were also on our return flight. Again, Sherry paced the aisle with a fussy Colin, calming him, endearing all the passengers to this squeaky baby. We convinced them to spend the night at our house the night we arrived, rather than start for home in downstate Illinois at 9:30 at night or crash at a hotel. Our big kids had already been tucked in their own beds that night by Grandma and Grandpa, so it was the next morning that Chris and Sherry also met (and fell in love with) Audrey, Nathan and Camille.

Our weekend was full of fun as my step-sister, Kathi, and her husband, Herb, visited. Saturday, we hunted for a dress for her daughter, Elizabeth's wedding. We started at Lord and Taylor at 10 a.m. and left Nordstrom at 8 p.m. with a few stops back home to fill our bellies and feed the babes. I'm happy to report the hunt was a success. Kathi returns home today with the perfect dress in hand. 

Work-ation

I've mentally been making a list for three weeks now. Then I actually started writing things down. A list in my planner. A list on my laptop. Sticky notes in the kitchen. And now we're finally packing our bags. California, here we come.

Ryan has "work-ation" at a ritzy resort in southern CA. At first, I begged off going along. Even if my mother-in-law could take the big kids, I'd have to bring the babies. That sounded like a lot of work. 

Two things changed my mind. First, a friend whose husband's parents used to live in Dana Point. When she hears we'll be staying at the St. Regis, her jaw drops. We check out their website, see pictures of the pool, and she introduces me to the concept of the cabana boy. Me in a chaise lounge, reading poolside and cabana boy changing diapers. I start to warm to the idea of this trip.

The second (and definitive) thing to change my mind was a simple math equation. (Actuary husband would be so proud.) Go with two, stay home alone with five. Yeah, I'm going.

We leave tomorrow for five days. I'll be honest. It's been heck to pack for this trip. Our biggest outstanding dilemmas are as follows: do we have room for the breast pump? And will we even need it when babysitting at the resort is a hefty $18/hour, 4 hours minimum, plus a $10 fee? And do we take both strollers? One is a simple frame for the infant car seats, the other a legitimate walking stroller. If we get lucky, we just happen upon two extra (free) seats in the airplane, and our babes sleep soundly in the carriers. Unlucky and we're stuck with two carriers, two crying babes on our laps, two strollers, not to mention the rest of our obscene luggage. 

Big kids are already off to grandma's for the night as our flight leaves early tomorrow morning. We had a sour goodbye. I wanted the house clean before we left. We'd been working days on getting the playroom tidied, but when I went down there tonight to check on progress, they were playing a recently invented game of "prop the chairs upside down against the couch and slide down." I screamed. 

Audrey asked me later, "Does this mean you won't miss us when you're gone?" 

For the record, I will miss them. At least a little.

Sleep

I woke up this morning at 5:07 a.m. And I'd gone to bed just a little after 10 p.m. No babies in the middle of the night. It's a beautiful thing, sleep that is. Every night as I fall into bed, I think to myself, "This is my favorite part of day!" And it's been perfect sleeping weather this week. We've left the windows open and enjoyed the cool night air. Thankfully, it's the middle of the week so we haven't been jarred awake by the sound of party-ers gathered at the frat house a couple of doors down. No kidding. Some young punk of a kid, just out of college, inherits his grandfather's house when he dies, and now it's party central. Late some Saturday night, I just want to fling open the front door to see them all doing lines of coke in the middle of the living room. That or they've got their own crystal meth lab up and running. I called the police a couple of weekends ago. Either I'm getting old and crotchety or I'm just sleep deprived. Maybe both. But I figure when you're awoken out of a deep sleep by young twenty somethings yelling at each other in the middle of the night in the middle of the street, that's a violation of some inalienable right. 

Our older kids know that it's the death knell if they, for some reason, need us in the middle of the night. My, how self sufficient they become when the sun goes down. Several nights ago, though, Camille opened the door to their bedroom and started screaming for me. "MOMMY!" I was convinced (mistakenly) in my sleepy state that I had a baby at my breast so I elbow Ryan out of bed.  He shuffles down the stairs. She holds up her white blankie. "Is this a white rabbit?" she asks in between sobs. He assures her it's not, and she returns to her bed only then to ask, "Where is my blankie?" "In your hand." And she falls back to sleep.

Dad

I grew up knowing that my dad worked hard for us. Right before my freshman year of college, my dad lost his job. The pressure must have been enormous. How would they pay private college tuition? Once, during that time, I saw my dad in a dream, flipping burgers at McDonalds.

We grow older and give ourselves license to analyze our parents and their failings. But my father did what he set out to do, what his own father had not done for him. He held a steady job, he paid the mortgage payments on time. He provided. And he did it at great sacrifice. He gave up the career that he loved most - teaching - so that he could sit in an eight-foot square cubicle and push paper.

My husband, too, lost his father at 18. And while he may not talk about his own father much, I can imagine the great man that he was. Ryan himself has turned out to be such a fantastic dad. He races out of the office to get home to us by dinnertime. He coaches Nathan's tball. He's teaching the kids about money, doling out allowance and keeping track of interest. (Well, he IS an actuary, you know.) And he's up with two hungry babies, night after night. Enough said.

Like everyone else, I have my moments of complaint. Yesterday, for example. "You don't listen!" I say into the phone. I'm driving home from Saturday morning book club, and he's informed me that he's just put the babies down for their morning nap at 10:30. 10:30? What? "9 and 1," I remind him impatiently when I get home. "Everything revolves around the morning nap at 9 and the afternoon nap at 1." 

I'm up in arms over what's essentially miscommunication and later chiding myself for losing it over something so minor. Thankfully, in the midst of the anger, I didn't let myself say what I was really thinking. Accusations of selfishness. Of laziness.  Of uninvolvement. Because I don't mean those things. 

What I mean to say is that I'm married to the man who's still my best friend, a man who has his priorities in order. A man familiar with investing and sacrificing himself for his family. He's the first and last man I can say I've truly admired. Happy Father's Day.

School

It's officially summer. Audrey finished her last day of first grade this morning. She was up and dressed early, looking for me to paint her nails an iridescent blue. You know it's an extra special day when she, of her own accord, has put a headband in her hair. She had a great year at Edison, our local public elementary school. Last year about this time, we found out I was pregnant. (Surprise!) Audrey had been attending a private Christian school in Wheaton which we absolutely loved (claphamschool.com). I was on the board, throwing myself headlong into curriculum and whatever else they'd let me do. To most people, it seemed crazy to drive her thirty minutes to some start-up school. But we loved it, and in many ways, I can say that our year at Clapham changed our life. When news of the "baby" hit, we had to rethink things. I wasn't sure I was up for the commute. We decided we'd homeschool, if only for a year, to get our feet back on the ground again. Then we'd revisit the idea of returning to Clapham. I ordered our books, even shopped Ikea for what I thought we'd need. And a week later, we found out it wasn't just one baby - it was two! When I said to Ryan, "Looks like homeschooling's out for us," he returned a puzzled look. "Really? Do you think?"

We chose the public school this year, for too many reasons to detail here, many of which were very pragmatic. It's less than ideal in some ways. But the reality is, we can't hack a long commute in the car and neither are we sure  that spending upwards of $40,00o/year to privately school five children is the best use of our resources. 

I'm sympathetic to other parents who have even fewer options than we do. I think of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, living in one of Chicago's worst neighborhoods. The public school is out. Kids are throwing chairs by second grade. A more academically sound magnet school draws them out of their neighborhood, a community where they feel called to put down deep roots and extend God's love. And the neighborhood Christian school isn't inexpensive. So go the stories for so many families. You want the best for your kids, and in some way, the best feels out of reach. For us, in this season, what's out of reach is school as we want our kids to experience it. Should I reconsider homeschooling? We've thought of it. We basically calculated that a full-time nanny that we'd hire so that I could homeschool would cost less than three children in the local private Christian school.

For next year, Audrey and Nathan will be back at Edison. For all its failings, we're going to choose to thank God for a school which is safe, whose teachers are genuinely invested in their students, and which, I won't lie, is a stone's throw from our front door.

Summer

Ryan's guilting me into blogging tonight. "You haven't blogged in a while," he comments tonight. I acknowledge as much. "You know, if you don't blog every two or three days, people are going to stop reading." Dutifully, I open my laptop and try to figure out what the heck I should blog about.

The days sort of blur together. And that's maybe the hardest part about where I find myself today. Guiltily, I sometimes think of what we'd be doing if we didn't have the twins. The pool, the zoo, the park for sure. We've always squeezed the life out of our summer days. 

This summer will be different for sure. My friend is considering buying a Little Tikes pool, one decently sized. It's inflatable and comes with the water filtration system and a cover which locks. She too has a baby at home, and like I, fears what a boring summer afternoon will do to her eldest daughter. And for the bargain price of $150, I might be persuaded.

Why do we fear boredom for our kids? Why is my impulse so great to entertain my kids? Why does guilt nag at me when I call them from their play to clear the table, sweep the floor, or put the lid back on the crackers? As a mother now of five, I'm trying everyday clarify what it really is that I'm called to do (and not do) and then live into that. I've sworn off the job of cruise director.

I did get a little Bible reading done this morning. I like this translation of Psalm 119, from The Message: "I watch my step, avoiding the ditches and ruts of evil, so I can spend all my time keeping your Word. I never make detours from the route you laid out; you gave me such good directions." Every day, I know what needs done: I've got to love and serve my family (and dinner on the table is a good thing, too.) Discerning what to do is easy; doing it is harder. I know too well the ditches and ruts to be avoided. Anxiety. Complaining. Irritability. Selfishness.

For maybe the first time in my life, I want to do something well the first time. No regrets. No looking back and wishing it had been different. And so every day counts. Every mundane, nothing's new, kind of ordinary day .

Schedule

I feel incredibly guilty. Should I really be blogging in the middle of the afternoon? Camille and the twins are napping, Nathan's resting (after some half-hearted protests), and I have half an hour. I contemplate my options. Fold laundry? Work on our summer homeschooling schedule? (And poor Nathan. I've been building up all the schoolwork I plan to have them do this summer. He asked me a couple of days ago,"Will there by any time to play this summer, Mom?") I'm bagging dinner prep and ditching the housework in favor of a little time to write.

It's day four of our new "schedule." Always some new hair-brained scheme going on at the Michel household, some surefire strategy for whipping someone into shape. A couple of months ago, it was the day I declared, "No more binkies!" I hadn't been confident that the twins were eating well, or for that matter, sleeping well (without my constant rescue of the fallen binky). The pacifiers disappeared, and everyone was on strict orders not to give the babies their binkies. We had a lot of crying those first few days. But I gotta tell you. It worked. They started nursing better, they learned to put themselves to sleep (and back to sleep), and I wasn't running myself ragged up and down our flour flights of stairs.

Ah yes, back to the new schedule. I start the day by waking the babies up at 6 a.m. (OK, who am I kidding? They're already up.) Early birds, like the rest of us. I feed them, and by 7, they're ready for another quick snooze. It's time to get everyone else up (rephrase that -  Audrey up. Nathan and Camille have already found me hiding in my room). A quick shower and breakfast and Bible reading with the big kids. 8 a.m., I wake the babes, and we walk Audrey to school. Home again, babes eat, and at 9:30, it's time for the morning nap (not me, the babes). Camille and Nathan play while I catch up on some paperwork and phone calls. 11ish, babes are up, they eat, big kids eat, and we all play and read books before nap at 1. Today, Camille went down for her nap (after "Big Sister for Frances"), and I had some time for Nathan to read to me. "Flap Your  Wings" - a great little story about Mr. and Mrs. Bird who hatch an alligator egg in their nest. You know it's good when Nathan says,"I think we'd better finish this one!" That brings me to 2:30, time to wake the babes, feed them, change diapers and rally the troops to get Audrey from school. My biggest decision to make in the next half an hour - do we attempt the library, all SIX of us, after we pick  Audrey up from school?

Stay tuned.

Mom

My mom has her mastectomy scheduled for this coming Tuesday. I remember clearly the phone call I received from her only a week before the twins were born. "I found a lump. . .biopsy. .. cancer." The proverbial shoe fell. 

My mom is an extraordinary woman. Yes, like all other daughters out there, I get unduly annoyed with stupid little things about her. How is it that when she comes to visit, I revert to my bratty, adolescent ways? But truth be told, my mom handles life with such optimism and hope. And what life has dealt her hasn't been easy. She lost both parents and her husband before the age of fifty. She grieved the suicide of her firstborn, my brother, who took his life at the age of 25. Most people don't survive that kind of loss. And I know she'd credit her faith in Christ as her only sustaining force.

Now she's fighting breast cancer and doing it with such grace. Despite her chemotherapy treatments scheduled bi-weekly, she's still managed to visit us every month since the twins were born. At her strongest during those visits, she's making breakfast, doing my laundry, and mending and ironing clothes. And even at her weakest, she's managed to hold a baby. Per the usual, she sees the best in all situations. Chemo took her hair but with it, a few extra pounds, too. She's almost gleeful for her new trim figure. Weeks ago, she called. "Jen, I bought a pair of pants this weekend - SIZE 6!" . .

This last visit, her goodbye was tearful. "I enjoyed every minute of the week," she said. "Mom, I was so crabby!" I admitted. It had been an exhausting week - but no excuses. At times, I'd been just plain mean. "You try to do too much," she responds. There it was again, the love of 1 Corinthians 13: "Love believes the best. . ."

I know my mom and I are different in so many ways. But what's really true is that I admire many things about her: her unshakeable faith, her selflessness, her pledge to look ahead rather than back. 

Thanks, Mom, for these gifts you've given. And God's grace to you in the week ahead.

Sweatpants and Roseanne Barr

I hate sweat pants. There's no cruder evidence that you're an unapologetic housewife. Not the June Cleaver kind - that would demand a button down blouse, a skirt that swishes when you're pulling the cookies out of the oven, and a waist the size of my pinky. No, I'm talking more in the genre of Roseanne Barr. 

So I had a Roseanne Barr kind of day. I wore my grey lounge pants (the kind with a stretchy waistband which allows for generous cookie consumption) and last summer's VBS t-shirt (my name inscribed in puff paint). I must look like I'm throwing in the towel. I've completely lost touch with my blow dryer, and even my $40 concealer from Mario Tricoci feels overworked and underpaid. 

I look forward to the weekends when Ryan is home. I might get a chance to linger in the shower, shave my legs, and scrub my heels. I'll hopefully get an unhurried cup of coffee and a few quiet minutes alone in the morning. I'll find time to sit at my desk and make sense of the paper that's been piling there throughout the week. I might even read the paper and put on lipstick. 

These are the small graces in my day.

Filter

This whole thing is a crazy idea. Blogging, I mean. First, sleep deprivation does the craziest things to you. Most recently, I'm discovering that my "filter" is gone. You know, the filter that asks you helpful questions before you open your big fat pie hole. Questions like: "Is this really helpful to say?" "Aren't you being a little unkind? Unfair maybe?" Yeah, those kinds of questions. So, here I am, exhausted and a little set on edge, and everywhere I turn, I'm opening my mouth to say something either I don't really mean or I mean but didn't intend to say. Blogging is sure to be dangerous in this frame of mind.

I think there was a "second" point - can't remember now what it was. And of course, it's 6:04 a.m., and I hear a baby crying. I'll have to come back later to tell all the gory details of Camille's 4th birthday.

Great Books

So I cried as we finished the final chapters of, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane tonight. Audrey was lying on her bed (and sucking her fingers!), Camille was tinkering at her "desk" on the floor, and Nathan was snuggled next to me on Camille's bed. My voice started to quiver, and before I could help it, I was in a full-blown sob. The kids gathered close around me, sort of staring in bewilderment. Nathan kissed me on the cheek. Camille said, "Mom, stop talking like that," obviously annoyed at my voice, and prayed later that "Mommy wouldn't cry." Audrey smiled knowingly - she got the poignance of the ending. (I won't reveal here what happens - go find the book at your local library and read it to your kids!)

I love a great children's book. This, and another by Kate DiCamillo, called The Tale of Despereaux, are recent favorites. She writes a elegant story but one that is readable for young children. (And who couldn't love an author who uses the word, "perfidy" in a kid's book?) A particularly moving picture book (and I cry absolutely every time I read it) is Now One Foot, Now the Other by Tomie dePaola. Now that we're on the subject, I'd name these as books we come back to again and again: James Herriott and Beatrix Potter and their animal stories, P.D. Eastman and David Milgrim and their early readers, stories illustrated by Jerry Pinkney, The Children's Story Bible by Catherine Vos, to name a few.

My friend, Lynne, herself a twin mom, keeps reminding that if the kids are fed and bathed, it's a good day. (And let me tell you - I have the most profound sense of accomplishment when my kids' nails are clean and trim.) But I would have to add one more item to her list - have we shared a book together?

Audrey is herself a voracious reader. She learned to read at 4 1/2, and I still remember the day when she sounded out the word, "thermometer." Nathan is reading better and better every day, and I know we'd make even greater strides if only they published Star Wars readers. Let's be honest - Camille's lucky if she knows her alphabet. I do have to brag that she finally learned in recent weeks to write her name. (They're officially admitting her to preschool next year.) It did take a bit of convincing her that her name wasn't C-A-I-L-L-M-E. "That's how I do it," she kept insisting. And who can argue with that? 

I miss reading. I'm looking forward to the day when I can enjoy more than a page and a half before falling asleep. Speaking of sleep. . .

Groceries

Groceries delivered to my door at 8 a.m. on Memorial Day. Could life really get any better? This is my third delivery from Peapod. I finally decided that paying a babysitter at the rate of $15/hour to get to the store made a lot less sense than paying Peapod $7 to bring the groceries to me. Generally, the groceries are more expensive, but I'm also not giving in to that last minute impulse to stock my cart with M&Ms.  

Life now with five kids is all about reinventing the way we do life. Sometimes I feel apologetic for the help I do get - groceries delivered, a babysitter's help during the week, friends and family chauffering my kids to their activities. But I've got to be honest. I need it. It's not that any one day is impossible. What's hardest is this sense that life never lets up. In many ways, every parent feels like this. You're on 24/7. And my fear, I suppose, is that someday I'll either collapse from complete exhaustion or, before that happens, lose my marbles. So I accept the help, less and less apologetically, because I know that even though I could probably do it myself, I couldn't keep on doing it myself, day after day, week after week. 

Hope

I'm in a better frame of mind tonight. Worship does that to me. So does being with God's people.

Had to include some verses from a hymn we've sung the last two Sundays: On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand.

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,

And cast a wishful eye

To Canaan's fair and happy land,

Where my possessions lie.

O'er all those wide extended plains

Shines one eternal day;

There God the Son forever reigns,

And scatters night away.

No chilling winds or poisonous breath

Can reach that healthful shore;

Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,

Are felt and feared no more.

When I shall reach that happy place,

I'll be forever blest

For I shall see my Father's face,

And in His bosom rest.

I am bound for the Promised Land. . .

I know this sentiment could very well typify what some people really disdain about Christians, as if we're all just "pie in the sky" kind of people. And I think that's a fair criticism of a lot of Christians. But let's face it. The best thing going for being a Christian is HOPE. Hope that there's more than the muck of this life. Hope that Someone's in charge, Someone who knows what He's doing, whose intentions are good. Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope for personal growth and real life change. Hope for redemption of the worse situations.

Call it cloying sentimentality, this Christian notion of eternal hope, but I've got to be honest. I don't know what any one day would look like without it.

The maze

I got lectured by my mom last night. She starts out, "Jen, you've gotta give Ryan a break." I ask, "What do you mean?" "You work him like a dog. He never has a moment to himself. And you've got to realize, that he's a diabetic. That takes a huge toll on his body. I know he's young, but he needs rest." 

(OK, for starters, you don't pull out the diabetic card like that. Completely unfair.)

But, let's think rationally about this.  Well, Ryan did help me peel sweet potatoes in the morning before heading out with the big kids for swimming lessons. When they got home, Mom and I and the girls went shopping. Meanwhile, he put the babes down for a nap, played ball with Nathan in the yard, and mowed the grass. We got home, I fed the babes, and in the balmy afternoon sun, he played more games with the kids. Then came dinner (which I made), baths (which he drew and I finished), and for the grand finale, he feel dead asleep, first on the couch, then prostrate on the bed (still wearing his baseball cap and Asics). Mom generously did the dream feed for him, and I roused him just enough to get him in bed sans shoes. 

The evidence is yours to evaluate. But you might guess that I'm just a little bitter (incensed?) at the notion that somehow Ryan works like a dog, and he deserves more breaks. Breaks? Who gets breaks when you've got five kids? Everything is work. There seems to be no letting up for either of us. We both work all week long and continue working outside"normal business hours." It sounds like I resent it, and truth is, most days I don't. But somewhere, lurking inside me, is this apparent readiness to claw the eyes out of anyone who would suggest that somehow Ryan works harder than I do.

I've got my litany of reasons why not. Nursing two kids? Can I just stop there? So this morning I wake up a little bitter - at mom and however unfortunate, at Ryan, too. My mind turns on sentences and paragraphs that all begin with, "I. . ." or "My. . ." It's a dangerous place to be. It's a surefire road to resentment and bitterness. It's the "I" that crucifies marriage.

And so I pray and open the Scriptures this morning. It's a habit I just can't kick. And there, I look for a way out of the maze of "I" and "my." 

Joining the 21st century

I don't read anyone's blog. Truth is, if you send me a link to your homepage, I might not even check it out. I guess I tell myself I just don't have time for that. Justifying my complete insensitivity? Maybe. Even as I write now, I'm starting to hear a baby cry. It's 6:26 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Last night went something like this: Ryan and I give the babes (Andrew and Colin, 4 months) their "dream feed" at 9:30 p.m. At 2:30, Andrew starts crying. I run downstairs to warm bottles in the microwave (a practice my mom most recently informs me might cause permanent brain damage - but it IS faster.) I hand a sleepy Ryan the bottle and the crying babe, and he trudges down the stairs to the office. Nothing like a middle of the night feed and an episode of Prison Break. Meanwhile, I wake Colin and discover he is completely soaked and stinking of pee. Did I really forget to take off his cloth diaper before bed? Had it been Ryan who had forgotten, you better believe he would have gotten in trouble for that one. Now I only have myself to blame. So I strip him completely down, he cries (it's freezing!), and we finally settle in for his bottle. No burps, I lay him back down and start pumping.

Can I say that the only thing that keeps me going when it comes to pumping is my iPod? Hello - welcome to the 21st generation, Jen. I've discovered the world of podcasts. One of my favs- ManicMommies. Profane at times, I admit, but it makes me laugh. I've decided that may be one of my top priorities in this season of life - just keep laughing. (Thanks to my witty husband, who makes that all the more possible.) Last night's podcast was an episode of Fresh Air. I was in and out of consciousness while learning a little about Richard Nixon - scumbag, I guess. Reminds me of my absolute political naivete when I was a student studying abroad in France. We were discussing Watergate in a class, and I claim that Nixon was a democrat. In my family growing up, if you did something bad, you were of course a democrat.

Yes, I'll probably have to talk politics in this blog at some point. Hopefully, I'm a little better informed now at the age of 33 than I was at 20!

Back to the babes, yes, I think one continues to cry, and that means this blog has to end here really darn quick. I'm starting a blog, certainly not because I have free time on my hands, but because I want to first, make some sort of coherent sense of these very long days as the mother of five (Audrey-7, Nathan-5, Camille-4 (next week!), Andrew and Colin (4 months). I want to remember them, and let's face it. A babybook is not likely in the twins' near future.