shadowwonder

I constantly have crumbs on the floor of my house.  And dust balls.  I do not vacuum them up, even though it makes me feel like a bad mom.  I just look at them and then think about something else.  This is because I am either too tired, or I have things to do that feel more important.   I do not like cooking for my family; I much prefer picking up dinner and serving it at home.  This is *not* frugal and often feels like poor stewardship.  But I am doing it anyway.  At least for this stretch. My dislike of cooking applies especially to breakfast on school mornings.  On occasion, my kids eat cereal (unwillingly), or Sister Shubert's sausage rolls, or whatever my husband lets them choose on the way to school--usually at Dunkin Donuts or Weigels (local convenience store).  This is neither healthy nor frugal.  But it is what we do. There are many occasions when I would prefer a great work-out to a family meal.  I indulge this preference on occasion, with my husband's encourage

Well into the second decade of mothering now, she still struggles to see evidence of the seeds she labors to plant. She talks about compassion, then watches one child’s steely-hearted dismissal of a sibling’s sorrow. She prays for their unselfish kindness, then hears today’s version of the dispute over the front seat. She asks for gentle patience—offers them a glimpse into her own struggle—then loses count of the opportunities they take to bicker over petty annoyances. It’s this part of parenting — the unexpected, unrelenting, sometimes unwanted invitation to navigate the day-to-day; the countless encounters with what looks like less-than-love;   the exhaustion of waiting-and-watching-and-wondering-and worrying over whether the seeds will sprout; the hushing of a quiet question: “this seed-scattering, this watering, this careful tending of their souls’ soil:   is it all for naught?” Yes.   It’s this part of parenting that digs deep, dis

Forgiveness.   When I’ve contemplated doing it (not as often as I should), I’ve always thought of it as releasing my offender from my own wrath/punishment/revenge and instead trusting God’s (more just) dealings with him/her.   I’m pretty sure teaching in the church has reinforced this idea—that the reason we forgive is because we aren’t responsible for our offender’s consequences.  God, however, is. But I’ve noticed something: such a release isn’t really a release.   For it creates an opportunity (which, sadly, I’m all too inclined to take) to relish the idea of my offender’s experiencing consequences for his/her behavior.   And not just any consequences, but those coming from the powerful hand of God Himself.    “Ha!” says my (dark) heart, as I “release” my offender from my own scrawny-by-comparison attempts at righting the wrong.   But Frederica Mathews-Green offers a different definition of forgiveness.   She asserts that forgiving someone involves relinqu

It was a steamy Friday in mid-August, the end of the first week’s worth of the busy-ness that is the school year.   Still lamenting summer’s end, I already struggled with motivation.   Only 8 and ¾ more months to go.   Junior high baseball workouts had begun, and the parents gathered for a quick meeting while the boys wrapped up their practice.   Moms and dads chatted in the stands, catching up after summer break until the coach called the meeting to order. As he filled us in on what the fall season would involve, we watched the players do sprints along the warning track.    After lining up at the left foul pole, one boy took off running towards the right foul pole.   Ten seconds later, the next started his trek.   Quickly, each kids’ foot-speed became apparent.    One boy kept a pace similar to the runner in front of him; another threatened to catch his teammate.    This wasn’t just cardiovascular training. It was mental toughness.   Motivation.   Face-saving.   No

I've written more than once about how I’m inclined to struggle with being anxious , and how I sense that this is a sin . This prompted an interesting discussion with a friend, whom I’ll call Ruth.   For her, the idea that a loving God would label anxiety as “sin” made her uncomfortable.    She doesn’t believe God is that harsh. I can understand her perspective:  A tendency towards anxiety seems so innocuous.   After all, i t could be argued that one person’s anxiety isn’t hurting anyone else (although I’m not sure I would support that particular perspective).   So  I can certainly see how using a loaded term like “sin” in reference to anxiety seems not only severe, but maybe inaccurate.   Ruth may very well be right on target. But for months now, I’ve been revisiting that conversation in my mind. I think I get her point:   we don’t like the word “sin.”   We’re understandably hesitant to use it in reference to someone else’s behavior.   And I suppose

We sat by each other at Floyd Casey Football Stadium—probably about this time of year.   But the unmerciful Waco autumn weather felt more like July.   At least the sun had set, granting some relief. I can’t remember what we talked about over our popcorn and Dr. Peppers.   Maybe we mocked the Milli Vanilli songs we’d listened to countless times that summer, or laughed (again) about the Caddo “C” Julie Caldwell and I mistakenly finger-painted on a camper’s sleeping face in our midnight attempt to aggravate our Osage friend.   We probably tried (unsuccessfully) to make sense of the strangeness we’d encountered in our James Joyce class.   Whatever was said, I’m certain it included laughter—Troy’s specialty. Partway through the game, the Flash photography girl appeared, so we called her over to take our picture.   Laughing, I mentioned that my eyes would probably be closed like usual.   But just before she snapped the shot, Troy reached around from behind me and, with his finger