Fussy

They say that, of a Sunday, it’s harder to find volunteers to work with bed babies than with any other age group in the church.  I can’t imagine why.  What could be more satisfying than cuddling a soft, happy, smiling, cooing, drooling infant?  Not much that I can think of, unless it’s calming a little one whose smile has faded.  Now, I realize that this may be the very challenge that keeps most people away from “Room A1,” but I welcome the challenge of comforting babies who are upset.  Flushed cheeks, red gums, and squeezed up, watery eyes?  Bring it on.  I’m your girl.

I haven’t always felt this way, though.  In fact, just a year ago, I was the hand-off queen where other people’s babies were concerned.  I loved playing with the happy ones, feeding the hungry ones, and rocking the sleepy ones.  I didn’t even mind changing the dirty ones, but when those tricks didn’t work, I was at a loss.  I didn’t have a clue what they needed or how to give it to them, and I felt sure they knew it.  At the first opportunity, I passed my fussy charge off into more capable hands.

Then came Dax. 

About six months old when we first met, handsome little Dax was at once a bundle of energy and opinion.  Anxious to be about big boy things, he didn’t have time for his bottle, couldn’t be bothered with a nap, and seemed determined to discover whether my new Pantene conditioner really would allow hair to twist, tie, and stretch without breaking.  When I joined the nursery staff, we were outnumbered three or four to one, depending on the Sunday, so there was no passing Dax to someone else at the first sign of trouble.  All of the more capable hands were full.  

Fortunately, Dax was patient with me, throwing me a bone now and then in the form of rosy-eyed, come-on-you-can-do-this smiles that were so brief I thought I’d imagined them.   As I worked him from one position into the next, alternately singing and humming old hymns, I wondered what the problem could be.  Was he teething?  Did his tummy hurt?  Was he just missing his mommy? 

Finally, I realized that my arms were tense and made myself relax.  Once I did, Dax got a big handful of my hair, and, in one swift motion, rolled himself, my hair, his pacifier, and his monkey, up into a tight ball of knit and denim against my stomach.  I waited for him to shift again, but he didn’t.  He just lay there, peeking at me sideways from under the edge of a blanket, his eyes droopy, an impish grin holding a shaky pacifier in place. 

My heart melted.  Afraid to move, I told him what a funny little guy he was and promised to start wearing ponytails.  Remembering that I was a Sunday school teacher, I told him that Jesus loved him and that even though I had no idea what he needed or wanted and wouldn’t always understand what he was trying to tell me, Jesus knew.   

Dax can crawl now, and they tell me that he will be promoting soon.  I must admit that I have shed a few tears over it and am soaking up every moment that I have with him.  As he dozed off in my lap last week, I looked back over all that God has taught me through that boy and his little friends, and I realized that I am a lot like the babies I care for.

Though I like to think of myself as being complex and tend to assume that everything I experience is unique to me, I’m really not all that complicated.  Like everyone else, I have needs that must be met.  I hurt and seek comfort.  I get weary and need rest.  I make mistakes and need help, but most importantly, I am utterly dependent upon God for everything.  Normally, this fact brings me indescribable joy and peace, but sometimes, I get fussy.  When things aren’t going the way I think they should, I trick myself into thinking that just because I don’t understand what God is doing, He must not understand me.  Not true.

The real trouble is that while God speaks my language, I don’t speak His.  Not only does He understand exactly what I am going through, but He also knows what purpose my present circumstances and trials will serve in the future.  He would probably explain it to me if He thought I could understand it or that it would do any good, but I couldn’t and it wouldn’t. 

Though I am growing spiritually and learning more about God every day, as a human being, I just don’t have the vocabulary or the capacity to understand things that are simple to God.  So, He communicates with me on a level I can understand by way of His Holy Spirit, providing for my every need, rejoicing with me when I am happy, consoling me when I am upset, cleaning me up when I get dirty, whispering encouragement when I am confused or afraid in the form of whatever Scripture I have bothered to learn, and holding me tightly through it all.  His presence is enough, and when I finally give in and let go, I realize I am in the most capable of hands.

 

Lucky Dog

Chico, our Chihuahua, is a quirky little guy.  A creature of habit, he loves his routine.  In the morning, he wakes the kids up, jumping onto their beds, licking their faces, and trying to “dig” them out through the fluffy comforters on their beds.   When Hope finally gets up, he follows her to the laundry room for a treat. 

After school, he waits on the comfy chair for us to get home, rolls over for scratches when we do, and runs to the back door to go out.  At bedtime, he drinks the last bit of milk from my cereal bowl, goes outside one more time, turns a little circle just inside the door (we have no idea why), and scurries into his bed by the fireplace.  Now that I think about it, I’m not sure whether we have trained him or he has trained us.

This winter, Chico taught Hope a new trick. 

Our windows being on the north and south sides of our house, we rarely get direct sunlight, a fact that frustrates our Chihuahua, who gets the shivers.  We do get direct rays through the back door by the dining room, but they land on cold tile.  One day, Hope forgot to push her chair in after breakfast, leaving it in a ray of sun to bake.  Desperate to get warm, Chico found the spot, circled a few times on the upholstered seat, and lay down, claiming it for himself.  

As the sun moved, so did Chico, settling and resettling until his sunshine finally slid onto the floor.  Frustrated and cold, he went to find his girl, batting her foot and turning circles until she got up and followed him to “his” chair.  Seeing the problem, Hope laughed and moved her chair back into the sun.  It has become a new routine.  Every afternoon, Hope pulls her chair out and helps Chico follow the sun.    

Lucky dog.

I think we could all use a little help staying in the light.  For me, what I consider to be out and out darkness isn’t that hard to avoid.   Murder, drunkenness, brawling, and the like are not really my scene.  I wouldn’t go there even if I didn’t know Jesus.  However, shadows give me fits, those pesky gray patches of sin with boundaries too vague to trace.  They blow in on the winds of apathy and overtake me when I least expect it. 

Cozy in the warmth of God’s blessing and favor, I get arrogant and lazy sometimes.  The enemy talks me into believing that I’ve done well enough to take a spiritual break.  Ignoring the Holy Spirit’s warnings, I lay down my armor and close my eyes. 

Before I know it, a chill takes hold.  I open dull eyes to find myself lukewarm, engulfed by attitudes I never saw coming, pride, jealousy, greed, anger, malice, etc.  When I open my mouth, slander, gossip, and criticism pour out.  It’s a nightmare I can wake from, but it takes a lot of prayer and effort.  

I could avoid it all together if I would just let others help me now and then, but I'm a little quirky.  I tend to confuse loving rebuke with insult and wise instruction with criticism. The problem is mine, and I realize that, so I do appreciate those brothers and sister in Christ who are willing to take one for the team where I am concerned, enduring my silence, feigned indifference, and thoughtless responses from time to time (I hope it doesn’t happen more often than that!).  If I owe you an apology, let me know.  Seriously.

I know that it is neither convenient, nor easy to speak the Truth to someone who doesn’t want to hear it, and I thank you for loving me enough to do it anyway.  I hope you feel the same when the Holy Spirit prompts me to return the favor, knowing that I don’t think any less of you.  I know better than anyone that it’s not easy to follow the Son.     

When You Least Expect It

Nobody got much sleep in the Sanders house last night, not after 4:00 A.M. anyway.  That’s when the screeching began. 

An extremely light sleeper, I was the first one to wake up with a jolt.  At first, I thought it was Chico, our Chihuahua, wanting out of his carrier a few hours ahead of schedule.  Lucky for him, it wasn’t! 

Disoriented and achy from lack of sleep, I frowned and listened as Todd slept on, his breathing easy and deep. 

BEEP! 

Fully awake now and irritated about it, I realized that the piercing tone was the warning beep of a smoke alarm with an almost-dead battery, though I couldn’t tell which one.  Without hesitation, I shook my sleeping hubby, who had not replaced the smoke alarm batteries at the six-month mark like he was supposed to.  It seemed only right. 

Splitting up, we stood under each smoke detector in turn and waited for the beeps, which came minutes apart.  It was a slow, maddening process.  The last one we checked, the one inside Hunter’s bedroom, was the one complaining.  

We yanked it from the ceiling, waking Hunter up in the process, and then lay in bed for an hour waiting for the alarm clock to go off. 

It did.  Just as I was drifting off.

But, I’ve had my coffee now, and I’m better.  I know I could’ve changed those batteries as easily as Todd. In fact, I thought about it over Christmas break, but didn’t do it.  I didn’t see the need.  Nothing was beeping at me yet.  You understand.  When something that is supposed to happen doesn’t happen, you start to think it never will.

For instance, as Christians, we’re supposed to be looking for and preparing for Christ’s return.  Why don’t we?  I think we’ve been lulled into a false sense of permanence, thinking of this world as our home just because that’s where we’ve been spending our time.  Jesus hasn’t come back yet, so we don’t really think it will happen in our lifetime. 

It could, though. 

In fact, Jesus could come back today.  The part of me that wants to get to Heaven faster gets excited at the thought, but the rest of me panics.  I guess, by human standards, I do alright, but I am ashamed, really, at how little I would have to show for my time here on earth if Jesus should return today. 

Now that I think about it, though I’m still frustrated about waking up to the piercing beep of the smoke detector, I’m glad it wasn’t a trumpet blast. 

Stick It

There she stood in the center of the church foyer, all forty-eight inches of her, blonde head thrown back, soft arms outstretched above and behind her, a gold medal smile on her lightly freckled face.  Surrounded by dozens, she was noticed only by a few, her mother, an elderly woman waiting for a ride home, and a handful of enthusiastic three year olds applauding for all they were worth. 

“Do it again!” a little boy cried, hopping up and down with anticipation. 

Curious, I paused to watch.  Carrying a purse, Sunday school artwork, and a small stack of Bibles, the little girl’s mother sighed.  No doubt she had caught this act before.  Nonetheless, the woman smiled and waited patiently for her daughter. 

With careful and deliberate steps, the little gymnast walked ram-rod straight into the corner of the room, turned, and took a deep breath.  Suddenly, thrusting her chest forward and her back end out, she struck the same pose as before.  Looking like the most adorable little hood ornament you have ever seen, she had apparently “stuck” another incredible imaginary landing.  I clapped with the three year olds and met her mother’s appreciative gaze.

All afternoon, I thought about the scene and wondered whether the little girl might actually become a seasoned and successful gymnast someday.  I hope she does, and I hope she enjoys it just as much then as she does now.  She stands a good chance if she learns an actual routine and keeps getting the kind of encouragement I witnessed. 

A little encouragement goes a long way.  

I understand the rising popularity of Christian satire. I’ve read part of Stuff Christians Like, and I follow Jon Acuff on Twitter.  The man cracks me up, and I believe, as he does, that Christians should be able to laugh at themselves.   However, I don’t believe that we should laugh at or openly criticize one another, especially when there are non-believers and seekers in the audience.  Lately, it seems that “satirists” with far less skill, experience, and discernment than Jon Acuff are doing more damage than good with their careless words.   

There is a distinct difference between satire and criticism.  Satire encourages us to take a look at ourselves; criticism strips the Body of Christ bare before the world.  Satire encourages us to course correct; criticism condemns us.  Satire takes the sting out of loving rebuke; criticism shames us.  Satire can be done in love; criticism is selfish.  Not sure where your words fit? Check your motives.  Are you striving to encourage, instruct, and disciple others with your words, or are you venting frustration?  Who is glorified by what you say?

Here’s the truth.  None of us are perfect, and we won’t be until we get to Heaven and Jesus finishes the work that He began in us.  In the meantime, the rhythm of God is different in each of our lives.  He is busy teaching and molding us according to our gifting and circumstances, but we don’t learn the same lessons at the same time and so have to be careful about assuming that others should already know what God just taught us. 

So what if you know the whole routine and all they know is how to “stick” a landing?  They’ll get there (and so will you) if we take the gloves off and learn to clap and encourage instead. 

French Fries and Ice-Cream

When I hear young mommies and daddies talking about the way their kids act when they get home from an extended stay at Grandma and Grandpa's house, I have to laugh. I've been there! It doesn't take long for kiddos to realize when the barbed wire is down. Out from under the watchful eyes and alert ears of Mom and Dad, they revel in late bedtimes, candy for breakfast (I exaggerate, of course...I hope!), and the visceral thrill of saying "no."

 

I still remember the time we left our oldest, Hunter, with my parents for a quick anniversary get-away. I called to check on him before going into a movie to put my anxious heart at ease. My dad answered and told me that he had taken Hunter to the mall for lunch. I smiled at the thought of my one-year-old sitting up like a big boy at the food court, eating his usual chicken nuggets and fruit cup. "He ate everything," my dad chuckled, "a whole order of fries AND an ice-cream cone!"

 

Staying with grandparents is fun, but it doesn't take long for kiddos to tire of the freedom that brings with it fuzzy little brains, sticky cheeks, and a solid rock of guilt somewhere in their middle. They are almost always (notice that I said "almost") ready for mom and dad to come home, schedules, boundaries, and discipline in tow. Though they may buck these things at first, I think that deep down, kids know that they feel better when they get to bed on time, cut out the junk food, and use nice words. 

 

I know I do! 

 

I've been a Christian for almost thirty-six years now, and I like to think I know a thing or two about being one. That's a real problem because I tend to get puffed up and proud and don't spend time with God like I should.  Confident that I know what's best, I test the boundaries fairly often, unaware that I have stepped away from the Father. 

 

Before I know it, I'm out of control, not in an oops-I-just-robbed-a-bank way, but in a wow-I-shouldn't-have-said-that kind of way or a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do kind of way.  All I ever have to show for my rogue moments are bad memories and a solid rock of guilt in my chest. I think the worst part, though, is knowing that other people saw me acting the fool.  Embarrassing!

 

Apparently, I can't be trusted on my own.  In fact, I’m positive that I am going to need the Father's help every moment of every day for the rest of my life.  Good thing He'll never leave me! 

 

Getting Rid of Go-go

As a young girl, I never could get into the whole baby doll scene, changing diapers, fake bottle-feeding, ventriloquist burping, etc.  I think it’s because my dolls never responded to me.  They never spoke my name or hugged my neck. Maybe if I’d had one of those mechanical baby dolls that talk and move their heads, I could’ve immersed myself in pseudo-mommyhood with a little more abandon.  Maybe not. 

Many years ago, my daughter Hope got a mechanical dog named Go-go for Christmas.  Go-go was programmed to respond to a list of command sequences.  With just a few hours of study and a pound of batteries, you could get Go-go to do almost anything you wanted. 

Hope played with Go-go non-stop for a couple of days before the incessant, monotone barking suddenly stopped.  Both relieved and confused, I went to Hope’s room to see whether she needed more batteries. 

I found her toe-to-toe with Go-go, shoulders and pig-tails drooped.  Go-go was stuck in an eerily unnatural pose like some kind of taxidermied animal.  When Hope turned to me, I saw that her eyes were beginning to fill with tears.    

Utterly disillusioned and dejected, she whined softly, “I want her to run to me.”

“Sweetie, that response isn’t in her programming,” I explained gently.  Plus, the dog didn’t have any legs, just wheels, a fact that had apparently escaped my daughter’s attention.   

Without a word, Hope carried Go-go to her closet and tucked her away in the “for garage sale” bin.  I didn’t argue with her.  I knew how she felt.  She wanted a pet that would obey and show affection of its own volition.  She wanted to love and be loved in return.

You know, I have to laugh when I hear people talk about Christians as if we are all the same, like mindless, mass-produced talking dolls or wheelie-popping mechanical dogs. It just makes no sense.  Why would the infinitely creative Almighty waste His time making unthinking, unfeeling robots void of free will when He could enjoy the intimacy of a real and dynamic father-child relationship? 

No, God desires unsolicited affection, heart-felt devotion, and genuine worship freely given.  He wants us to run to Him.

Nothing Worse

When I was just a little girl, I asked Jesus into my heart.  I remember lying in my bed and knowing that I needed Him.  Though I don’t remember the words that I spoke or the exact date, I remember praying sincerely, asking Jesus to forgive me and to take over my life.  However, because I was so young, the years that followed are a bit of a blur to me at times.  

I know that I learned Scripture as a child and that it meant something to me, and I remember feeling the Holy Spirit’s presence just as real as I felt my parents’ hands in mine.  But then, life happened, and I had to make choices for myself.  Through trial and error, I learned that endings aren’t always happy, sin has consequences, and people aren’t always who they claim to be.  

Life is complicated.  It dulls the senses, and doubt creeps in when you can’t feel the Holy Spirit as keenly you used to.  I’ll admit that there have been times that I’ve wondered whether what I experienced as a child was real, even as I was seeing God’s hand on my life and depending on His wisdom for guidance, for my very breath. 

In those moments, I envy people who accept Jesus later in life.  To me, it seems they struggle less with doubt.  Maybe it’s because they remember what life was like before Jesus, and I don’t.   For me, it’s almost as if my life didn’t start until I became a Christian.  In one sense, I guess that’s true, but there are times that I long to feel God’s presence as I did when I was a child.  

A few days ago, my son and I were talking about the reality of Heaven and Hell, and he brought up a good point.  He said that Hell is scary for anyone to think about, but that it is even more frightening for a Christian to think about because Christians know what it is to have a personal relationship with God.  To live without Him after knowing Him intimately would be the most excruciating torture.  As I was absorbing what he’d just said, Hunter asked, “Can you imagine?”

Later that day when I was alone, I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be separated from God, not for eternity, but just for a moment, hoping for a glimpse of the imaginary line in my soul where I leave off and He begins.  Searching my heart, I tried to dull or mentally “cross out” all evidence of the Holy Spirit in my life, systematically ignoring all knowledge, peace, discernment, purpose, etc. that I knew came from Him so that I could see clearly what I would be without Him.  Frankly, what was left was pitiful and sad. 

For the first time, really, I knew the depth of the void the Holy Spirit’s absence would leave in my heart.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was completely bereft, as if my husband or one of my children had died.  Pain squeezed my chest and prickly heat stung my cheeks as I forced myself to hold the thought.  When I finally let it go, relief washed over me like warm bath water.  

This little exercise might seem silly to some, but those who were saved at a young age and struggle with doubt might understand.  The truth is that it brought me a lot of peace.  The Bible tells us that the Holy Spirit will let us know whether we are saved (1 John 3:24), and my imagining his leaving confirmed for me His presence.  It helped me to see His shape, in a way, and understand a little better the change He has made in my life.  I realize now that, deep down, I have known all along that I was saved, even when the enemy was busy tinkering with my mind.  I’ve known it as surely as I know that I am a mother. 

My relationship with God is as real as my relationship with my children.  I think it’s the out-of-sight factor that trips me up sometimes—that, my sin, the lies of the enemy, and the static that life creates—but when I turn to my brother and friend Jesus for companionship and encouragement, when I run into the arms of my Heavenly Father for comfort and strength, when I turn to the Holy Spirit for direction and discernment, I know exactly to whom I am turning, just as I could easily pick my children out of a crowd blind-folded.  I know their shapes.  I recognize their voices.  We have history and connect on a heart level, and I know how it feels to be near them. 

Because I know God like that, I can put doubt to rest for good.  Just as He promised, He is with me.  I must say, after my little experiment, that I am relieved beyond words to know that I’ll never have to be separated from Him.  Those who don’t know Him may argue, but I know there’s nothing worse.