Was it Worth It?

I'm sitting here in a quiet house with my feet propped up and soft music playing in the background, thinking about the days of being a young mother.  Back then, I certainly could not have had the opportunity to do this. There would have been a baby in my arms, or a baby that just left my arms, or a baby crying to be in my arms.  The music in the background would have been Old MacDonald and my feet would have been crossed with another child riding horsey on my leg.

Moms sacrifice from the very beginning, don't we?

We sacrifice our health...each morning we get up with a feeling of dread because we know within the next few minutes we'll be doubled over as our bodies try to reject that little foreign object, violently.

We sacrifice our bodies...our bodies transform from looking like the number 8 to looking like the letter D.  We have to learn a new way to balance ourselves, a new way to sit, and a new way to get up, if we can get up.

We sacrifice our appetites...if it's not nailed down, we eat it, with a pickle.

We sacrifice our sanity...who knew that a butterfly landing on a flower could make us cry. And that by the last few weeks just about anything "he" says makes us feel as if someone is wailing away on our nerves with sandpaper.  Who knew.  And all this before the little package even arrives.

But haven't we all seen a smile appear when we ask a mother, "was it worth it?"  Was it worth all those weeks of sickness?  Smile, yes.  Was it worth all the mood swings?  Smile, yes.  Was it worth all that pain?  Smile, yes.

We've all recieved messy dandelion and buttercup bouquets picked by little, chubby hands.  Some of us were given rocks.  Whatever the gift, it was thought of as beautiful in the mind of that tiny person, and is as valuable to us as jewels.  The expression of joy on that small replica of ourselves was worth it.

Most of us could wallpaper our houses with all the yellow, crayon sunshines and smiling cloud pictures.  We could throw in some love notes with the letters all different sizes, some letters backwards, where the m's have too many humps and the E's have too many sticks.  Add to that a few papers with glued on cotton balls and macroni, a sprinkling of glitter, and some unknown particles thrown into the mix and we have completed the whole house in art.

All of us have dealt with their broken hearts, drama, sports, hairdos, proms, cars and report cards.  Our hearts rip into when they stand with a silly grin on their faces as they are dressed in school color cap and gowns, holding up their diplomas, and we grieve as in death when they walk away from us to enter a whole new life.

We look around and think, "wait a minute!  I'm not done!" And they're gone.  Somehow we've stumbled through illnesses, crazy schedules, work, heartaches, hurdles and wonder how many times we did the wrong thing, how many opportunities gone, and how many ways did we mess up. But then we look up, see that adult face that will always be the face of our baby, and think "I did pretty good."

Yea, this thing called Motherhood is pretty awesome.  It can make the weak or faint hearted become an unrelenting beast for the protection of our little cubs.  It can make the selfish and self centered realize there is someone more important than ourselves.  It can make a Christian become a warrior of prayer for the soul of our babes.

So, as I continue to sit with my feet propped up, I smile and think, "Yes.  It was worth it."

Psalms 127:3  Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward.

Proverbs 31:25-30  Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.  She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.  She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.  Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.  Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.

Thanksgiving Blessings

As I sit here this morning, sipping my coffee, gazing out the window at the frosted trees and grass, I'm thinking of my day ahead.

I will hurry through my morning getting dressed, fixing my hair, and adding a little bling to my outfit.  I'll finish putting all the food in crockpots, stuff the turkey and prepare it to be the centerpiece of the table, I'll put a pretty tablecloth on the table that will be dotted with food later, and I'll drag extra chairs out because my little family has outgrown my table.

As I'm finishing up, I'll hear the door open and my family come in with the cold still lingering on their clothes.  Things like "where's the food!" and "man, it smells good in here" will be shouted, little girls will be giggling and screaming "MIMI!" "POPPY!", as they run through the house, and the baby will be passed around collecting kisses on those chubby cheeks. 

As I go through my day, I'm going to look extra hard for all the blessings I can find that Jesus has  placed for me before my day even began, store them up in my memory, and tonight while I sit down, totally exhausted, I'm going to go through each one and give thanks to the One who is the giver of all things good.

Happy Thanksgiving from my precious family.

As I was reading this morning, I came across the verse in the bible that says "the last shall be first, and the first last."

I always get a mental picture of little kids in elementary school lining up in the hallway and there's lots of pushing and maneuvering to get that "first" spot. Children waving hands in the air proclaiming, " I want to be first!" "Let me! Let me!"

This verse has always caused a question mark to pop in my head. I've heard many explanations, I've listened to opinions, and I sort of got it, but that pesky little question mark was still around.

Then, as I was reading through my prayer diary, I was going down the list of people in my Sunday School class, and there in black and white was a name that answered my questions. I'll call him Joe. Joe is a young man that is faithful to church and faithful to bring a smile to someone's face each Sunday.

However, there's something a little different about Joe. He's mentally handicapped.

Every Sunday Joe has something, or rather a very long list of somethings that he wants us to pray about with him. We've prayed for his birthday, which he reminds us of every Sunday, we've prayed for his teeth because he has a dental appointment in 6 months, we've prayed for every member of his family, we've prayed for bible school, the state fair, and Dollywood.

We've heard Joe give testimony to the fact that he's good, he loves Jesus, Jesus is his friend, and that he doesn't rob banks.

Joe definitely isn't a "first" in society.  Joe wasn't the first in his class, he wasn't the first in academics,
he wasn't the first in athletics, he's really not a first in anything in our eyes, but I believe he is a first
in someone's eyes, and that someone is Christ.

It doesn't matter to Jesus what goes on in Joe's head, it matters what goes on in his heart.


So, when we're in heaven and time is no more, I want to look Joe up. I figure he's going to be at the first of the line.

Matthew 20:1-16

Flowers and Butterflies

Happy Mother's Day to all you ladies who have been blessed to become mothers!

Whew!  To get that tiny human from the protection of our bodies into our arms is a grueling experience, to say the least.  There is no pain comparable.  Yea, yea, yea, we've all heard the stories from men about the pain of passing a kidney stone and how horrible it is.  Have you seen the size of a kidney stone?  Have you seen the size of a baby?  End of argument.

That excruciating, crushing, near death pain is forgotten in an instant, though.  The second that child is placed in our arms, we go from screaming to cooing, from agony to kisses and from a death grip on our husband's throat to gently stroking the sweet form in our arms.

Ahhhh, motherhood.  It's all flowers and butterflies from here on out....right?  Well, it depends from which perspective you are looking.  When you're living in the moment, surviving on two hours sleep each night, staggering and running into walls from exhaustion, you may not see the butterflies, more likely you're seeing stars, but when your kids are grown and you sit in a quiet house reminiscing about your babies, you don't really focus on the sleepless nights, the tummy aches, and the incessant crying.  You focus on the flowers and butterflies.  You remember the soft touch as their tiny fingers wrap around yours.  You remember the fluffy, downy head and the chubby cheeks and those huge eyes that take in everything around them.

I think back to the days of three little boys and one teenage girl.  Have mercy.  How did I do that?  At the time I was just trying to get through the days with enough clean clothes for everyone, the laundry was never ending and I'm pretty sure it reproduced when I wasn't looking, but as I'm older now, I can see the flowers and butterflies when my teenage daughter was constantly lending a helping hand getting the laundry done.

At the time, I wondered how I was going to get my daughter to volleyball practice, my youngest to the elementary ball game, my middle son to the junior high game and my oldest son to the varsity game, plus get dinner and not forget to put my shoes on as I went out the door.  But now I see the flowers and butterflies as I think about the anticipation of playing the games, the fun we had in our large van with everyone singing along to the radio, the long talks we had on the way home and constant barrage of fast food.

The energy and planning it took to have an "all nighter" at the Workman ponderosa with about fifteen to twenty rambunctious boys was overwhelming...the cooking (I'm talking pots large enough to fit a small pony into....have you ever fed one teenage boy, much less a tribe?)    The furniture was pushed back against the walls, there was food scattered all through the house, mud on the floors, occasional blood, video game tournaments which included lots of yelling and my husband and I in bed with pillows over our heads.  But now I see flowers and butterflies when I run into those young boys who are now grown men and they hug me and start talking about the fun times at my house, when I get a call or a text from one
of "my boys" asking me to fix some chili like I used to or wanting the recipe for it.  When my son runs into one of "my boys" and my son says that this boy said to tell me that he loves me.  That is definitely some flowers and butterflies.

I just want to encourage new mothers, young mothers, tired mothers that it is worth it.  Every exhausting minute is a life time of memories.  Every second is time that you make an impression on a little mind that will someday be making grown up decisions.  Every glass of spilled milk or every trail of muddy footprints is an opportunity to teach love and patience.  Even when you're so tired that the bedtime story puts you to sleep, it's a precious memory.

It's all over so quickly it seems like you just imagined it all.  When you're older, sitting in a quiet house pondering on what used to be and your thoughts are interrupted by a grown man stomping in the door with kids in tow, and yells, "MOM!".......it's flowers and butterflies.

Proverbs 31:25  Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.




                                                          My flowers and butterflies.

                                         

                                           

Why Was the Stone Rolled Away?

Let's face it, the work for the Lord isn't always fun.  Be honest.  Sometimes it's boring, sometimes it's monotonous, sometimes it's difficult, and sometimes it's not appreciated.

Look at Paul, he was thrown into prison how many times?  Noah was laughed out of town.  Jonah was on the wrong side of a fishing story. And Thomas looked into the eyes of the Saviour and still had some doubts.

How many know the name of Adoniram Judson?  It's not a name that's on our tongues very often, or probably not at all.  Adoniram Judson was a missionary to Burma in the late 1700's to mid 1800's.  He went there to do the work of the Lord, to convert souls, to lead them to a Saviour, to show them eternal life.  I'm sure he went into the work with the same mindset that most of us do, "this will be great!"  However, it took Judson four years to just learn the language.  It took him twelve years to see his first convert, he was imprisoned, his wife passed away along with one of his children.  I'm sure many times he wondered if it was worth it, but, by the time he died, he had translated the scripture into Burmese, established 100 churches and seen over 8,000 souls saved.

Now, let's travel back a couple of thousand years.  Jesus, who made the cripple walk was now falling and staggering up the hill to Golgotha.  Jesus, who said, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" was now carrying the burden of the wooden beams of his death bed and the sin of the whole world on his back.  The men and women who were given new life just saw their Hope give up his.

We can only imagine the upheaval of emotions surrounding this day, but a few days later, when the chaos had turned to shock, when the crowds had dissipated and real life began to set in, there was work to do.  It was time to go to the grave to prepare the body, to anoint the body with spices.  Not many volunteered for this job, it wasn't a pleasant thing to do, but someone had to do it.  You didn't see Peter, the one who jumped out of the boat to walk on water, volunteering.  Thomas, who still wasn't sure who the Son of Man was,  now couldn't believe it was all over.  James, his brother didn't jump up, nor did John, Jesus' most beloved friend.  I don't know, maybe it was one of those "it's a woman's job" things, but the fact was, it was an unpleasant task that had to be done, so Mary and Mary Magdalene gathered the necessary items and headed down the road toward the place where Jesus' body lay.

Jesus' body was put in the tomb that had been purchased by Joseph of Arimathea.  The burial places were usually hewn into stone and the entrance was covered by a large circular stone door that was placed in a groove that had been chipped out of the stone in front of the opening.  This circular stone could then be moved away from the opening along this groove when needed and was usually held in place by smaller stones.
 
Now, we've all heard this story hundreds of times, and though no one really ever said it, it was kind of assumed the stone was rolled back so that Jesus could get out of the tomb.  It's funny how things like this just enter one ear and fly out the other one without connecting to the brain in between.  When we stop...think....and ponder, we absolutely know that Jesus didn't need that stone moved, because, you see,  when the women arrived at the tomb, the angel rolled the stone away and Jesus was already gone.  So, what was the point?

The women were on their way to do a job and you know their hearts were just not in it.  They were dreading what lay ahead, they were doing something that no one else would do.  They probably wished they could be anywhere doing anything else than what they had volunteered to do, but there they were, walking down a dirty road, scuffing up dust clouds with their feet, mostly walking in silence and hushed tones, until they came upon the unexpected, the unexplained, the undeserved.  The stone was rolled back so they could see.

Just like in everything that was done from the first cry of that tiny baby in the animals' stall, till the last cry of "It is finished!" it was all done for you, for me, for the disciples, for Mary and Mary Magdalene, and for the generations until the end of time.  Every single word, every single action was for you.  Even the very thoughts of God Almighty are for you.  Psalms 139:17 says, "How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!"

So many times we walk along scuffing our feet, going about the humdrum tasks that we think no one notices.  But there's always One that notices.  There's One that is keeping a record.  There's One that smiles down on us with unexpected, unexplained, undeserved blessings.

PSALMS 139
 O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me.  2 Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.
3 Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways.  17 How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!" 18 if I should count them, they are more in number than the sand:

Happy Thanksgiving

As I sit here this Thanksgiving morning, with the Christmas tree sparkling in the corner, I'm thinking of all Thanksgivings from my childhood, as a newly wed, as a mother and now as a grandmother.  What precious memories of cousins running through Grandma's and Papa's house, sitting down to dinner with my in laws, feeding my babies mashed potatoes with a little taste of gravy mixed in and watching as they experience real food, and now I'm thinking about my grandkids bursting through my door and screaming "MIMI!"

I was talking to my son one day about how much fun it was as a kid to go to my papa's house and all my cousins would be there.  I don't remember what the adults did, but I know that the cousins had a blast running through the yard to the woods and then through the fields, usually ending up in the loft of Papa's barn where our imagination took us to far away places.  I was telling him how sad that that part of my life was over.  As we were standing at the window looking out at our yard, fields and woods and what he said to me next made me put a whole new perspective on the memories of times past.  He said, "Mom, now THIS is Papa's place." 

He made me realize that although there was some sadness in memories of times past, I was passing on to my children and grandchildren the fun times, times of sitting around the table laughing, kids running through the house, the yard and lots of love being passed around. 

So, this morning, I'm going to think on all those Thanksgivings past, but not with sadness and heartache, but with a new direction of making Mimi's house the fun place to go.  The place where memories are made.  The place, when I'm gone, that they tell their children and grandchildren of all the happiness made at Mimi's and Poppy's house.

Mister Little Mouse

It's a strange day today.  All I wanted to do is go in my kitchen, as I do every morning, get a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.  Is this too much to ask? It's a simple request.

So I go over and put some bread in the toaster, walk around to the dishwasher, pull out a clean cup, walk to the Keurig and put in my favorite coffee pod, set the cup on the base, pull the handle, push the brew button, and wah lah!...coffee brewing.  After it finishes, I add my sugar and cream and take a sweet sip of my caffeine nectar.   I hear the sound of  "pop" as my toast has reached perfection, so I turn to retrieve my toast and smear some butter on it.  As I take my first step, my eyes catch up to the direction I'm going and .........AHHHHHHH!

Little Mouse, why are you sitting all humped up in front of my refrigerator just staring at me with those beady little eyes????  How long have you been staring......watching......stalking.....

After I scream and nearly drop my cup of coffee, I stomp my foot (well, what else would you expect me to do?).  Little Mouse scurries under my fridge and I tip toe to my toaster.  Okay, I'm feeling some  relief, you know, the whole outta sight outta mind sort of thing.  Feeling pretty good about myself, I take my pretty little plate of toast and my steaming cup of coffee into my living room, sit down on my favorite chair, prop my feet up and settle in to watch a little news while sipping on my tasty cup of caffeine.

I reach down to get my piece of buttery toast, put it to my mouth and raise my eyes.......AHHHHH!
Little Mouse is sitting in front of my chair across the room staring......watching......stalking.......

I jump up, toast still in hand, and Little Mouse runs under the chair, but I can still see him peeping at me under the chair.  So I do the only thing I know to do.  Stomp.  As I lay my toast in the plate, I bend to pick up my weapon of choice....my shoes.

He runs over to the tv stand and I see him starting toward the grandkids toys behind the stand.  "Oh, no you don't, Little Mouse."  Casting all fear aside, I cross the room to fight to the death.  No one messes with my grand kids' toys, not even Little Mouse.

Alright, so maybe I'm not fearless.  Thoughts of "what if he runs up my leg" and "what if he attacks" begin to pass through my mind, so I stop.  It's a stand off.  It's a flashback of the OK Corral.  With shoe in hand, I make my move.  I stomp.  He starts scurrying....I scream.....he scurries.....I throw my shoe.  Then.....OH MY LORD......he starts crawling up my curtain!  AHHHHHHH!

As I'm screaming, I throw my other shoe and pray I don't bust out a window.  It's a direct hit!  He falls to the ground....he's laying there twitching, and for a second I think, "Aww, Little Mouse is hurting and I need to baby him." 

Regaining my senses, I attack again.  Needless to say, Little Mouse will not be playing with my grand kids' toys.  No sir.....not in MY house.....huh uh.....this Mimi's bad to the bone.

So, now Little Mouse is in the resting place of all other little mouse relatives that messed with this bad mama, out in my field...where I threw him from my dust pan like throwing a shot put, turned ran in the house, slammed the door and shivered.

Whew.