Gifts of Music and Memory

I love music.

Photo Credit: TiiaBear

In the car, in the kitchen, while I walk, when I worship. 

And nearly every kind. I can appreciate a banjo as well as an intelligent rap and just about anything in between.

I’m amazed that God would use elements as formulaic and functional as math and physics for a composition so artistic and enjoyable as music.

His brilliant combination makes music a powerful tool.

Think of the lyrics you know by heart. You have words from entire songs--perhaps entire albums-- tucked away in your brain. With a few starting notes you can recite the words without much effort. 

It is no coincidence that in biblical times children—yes children—could memorize the entire book of Psalms because it was their song book. The soundtrack of their heritage. Add melody to words, repeat regularly, and over time 150 chapters of scripture and history get locked into memory. 

One-hundred-fifty chapters! 

I have trouble remembering phone numbers…except for Jenny's, “8 6 7 - 5 3 0 ny-eee-I-een.” See what I mean?

I’ve tried to harness this gift for my kids. We’ve set verses to such ridiculous melodies, none of us can forget even if we tried. We’ve also listened to artists such as Ellie Holcomb who has set scripture to music.

But it “cuts both ways” as Gloria Estefan sang.

We’ve had the radio going in the car a lot because… well, I love music. However, while I admire Megan Trainor’s message in “All About that Bass,” I cringe when I hear my boys singing about “booty.” Call me a prude but hearing them sing Bruno Mars’s jam, “Up-town you-know-what,” is also troublesome for me.

So I took a cue from a friend and decided this year on the drive to school we will hear a monthly theme song. An entertaining song with lyrics that don’t embarrass me, or them, if they start mindlessly singing them at family gatherings.

With school starting in August, I chose an oldie by Scott Krippayne called I’m Not Cool. Even if it is cheesy, I still get a little choked up when I listen. It speaks to adolescent insecurities which apparently die hard.

The tune is catchy, and I hope the message sticks. The artist laments his complexion, clothes, and car and then declares, "I’m not cool, but that’s okay, My God loves me anyway!”

There was a little eye-rolling from the boys, but we stuck with it through August.

For September the boys chose Impossible by Building 429 which champions the truth “That nothing is unreachable, when we trust the God of miracles.” I like it, but a month is going to be a challenge. I may have to adjust the schedule for a new song every week.

So I’m on the hunt for songs with solid lyrics that my boys would like.

If you have a recommendation, I’d sure be grateful if you’d share it. I’ll head straight to iTunes and add it to our playlist!



(Unless it’s something like THIS SONG. I think that song, catchy as it is, will ruin the theme song project forever! Thanks to Andee for digging up that gem.)

Multiple Choice Parenting

We were having a summer, and all of the sudden it was the first day of school. 

At least it seemed that way because I didn’t really create any preparatory ramp-up to get ready for school.

None of us are into school-shopping, so I rummaged through drawers and made sure they had at least five t-shirts without rips or armpit stains. We bought school shoes in July so it didn’t feel like “school shopping.”

The boys are pretty much over shopping for school supplies too. So I had them sort through last year’s supplies, and then went alone to buy the remaining items on the supply list.

We didn’t even start going to bed early as we have in the past. Instead we squeezed in as much summer as possible.

And then, WHAM! The first day of school.

Two out of three students are
are unenthused about a 7:30 photo shoot.

They couldn’t believe it was actually time—already!-- for reading, writing and ‘rithmetic.  
 

So I added to my growing list of Parenting Decisions to Second Guess: Perhaps I should have given them a bit more notice to prepare them for the start of school.

 

And all my second guessing brings me back to my own school days.  

 

Remember the ACT test? I had a severe case of test-taking anxiety in high school. I second guessed every answer I chose, which made it hard to finish within the allotted time. But there was a little nugget of a rumor which was my multiple-choice-test-taking salvation.

 

Choose “C.” 

 

If you don’t know the answer, choose C. 

 

If you get the five minute warning and still have questions to finish, choose C…all the way down your bubble sheet. C. C. C. C. C.

 

The theory was it wouldn’t really affect your score. And apparently it didn’t since I received the exact same score three times.

 

Sometimes I still default to this theory, and I feel like I’m parenting by multiple choice. I look at the multiple choices and I wonder:

 

Should I… 

1.    Indulge their desire for brand name clothing and equipment for the sake of helping them feel comfortable in the awkwardness of middle school? OR prove to them that neither the clothing nor the equipment make a good person or a good athlete. Uhhh…I don’t know. I choose C.

 

2.    Allow practice schedules to fill our evenings and risk communicating “SPORTS ARE LIFE” OR cultivate life lessons about practice, team work, and time management. I don’t know….C.

 

3.    Sign up for one sport per season or two? ...C.

 

4.    Squeeze in a music lesson too? Piano or guitar? …C.

 

5.    Algebra or pre-algebra. Ummm… C.

 

6.    Read a morning devotional in the car, or right before bed? Or both?  C.

 

 

I don’t know the right answers. Minutes tick by, and there's no time for second guessing.

 

I pay attention to the questions, I evaluate each answer, but I’m always a little bewildered.

 

Sometimes C is the right answer, but probably only 25% of the time.

 

But just like when I took the ACT, I’m banking on the fact I’ve already answered some questions correctly.

 

We’ve fed, clothed, sheltered, and loved them. Maybe it wasn’t organic, name brand, new or perfect, but we’ve done that much, and that is the right answer.

 

We’ve told them the truth. Sometimes it's hard, and there are truths they aren’t ready to hear yet, but telling the truth is the right answer.

 

Whether we’ve “crammed it down their throats” or done “too little too late” will remain to be seen, but I know for sure we have pointed them toward Christ. And that is always the right answer.

 

So as I’m scribbling in all the C bubbles on the peripheral parenting questions, I’m thanking the Lord for the grace He’s given to answer a few questions correctly and counting on His lavish forgiveness for the ones I may get wrong.

 

The Essence of a Childhood Summer

I don’t want to mention the s-c-h-word just yet, but there are sure signs that summer vacation is winding down. 

For instance, our final baseball tournament is in the books. Like ballpark franks on a grill, we sizzled on the bleachers and watched a lot of baseball.

Those little boys in grass stained baseball pants—the ones who made sand castles in the dirt at first base--they grew up. They’re pitching fast, hitting hard and the grass stains are gone because the knees have been ripped right out of the pants due to a nasty slide.

After the tournament, I fell asleep counting pitches. And it didn’t take long…one, two three strikes and I was out.
The next day we slept in. For the first time in several weeks we had nothing on the calendar. Ahhhh. A day to relax.

Only apparently we forgot how because no one knew what to do with themselves at home all day.

Finally, around 5:00 when I was about ready to start supper, the boys remembered that cooperation is less exhausting than bickering and, by some miracle, they started to assemble a fort in our trees.

Well, “fort” is what they used to call it. Back when they were building sandcastles at first base. Now that they’re able to name and aim their pitches, they call it a “blind.” And it’s outfitted for all their fall hunting adventures.

When they finally ran outside to put the finishing touches on it by weaving the snipped cedar branches to create an authentic camouflage, I was glowing with pride.

Ahh, yes! I thought as they ran outside. This is what summer is for. Creativity! Mental exercise! Physical work. Repurposing junk lumber and pallets. Hands-on learning!! This is the essence of childhood!  
They’d been working for over an hour when I went out to admire the modifications. I took my camera to prove my maternal interest. I wanted to subtly affirm this brotherly cooperation, creativity, and construction.

But when I arrived the work was at a stand-still, and they were slinging words in a verbal BRAWL.
I tried to snuff out the argument, but I was too late. No one was receptive to diplomacy or reason by that time. Two boys quit and went inside to the reprieve of the Wii while one boy stayed and finished construction.

And I spent the next half an hour trying to recover from emotional whiplash.

I thought they’d been learning. Discovering. You know…the whole essence of childhood delusion?

Then I realized, just because they’re arguing doesn’t mean they’re not learning. And I supposed it could be argued that such family feuding is also part of the essence of childhood.

Because in reality they’re still learning. Learning how to argue, compromise, and negotiate. No one said it was effective, but sometimes you have to know what doesn’t work in order to find something that does. For instance, one brother had decided to copycat every phrase his brother said in the argument.

Stop it!

Stop it!

Stop copying me!

Stop copying me!...

Needless to say, it accomplished nothing.

But I suppose it was just another learning experience of sorts. Another hypothesis to test when vehement yelling hasn’t worked.

Whatever it was I’m starting to think the bickering and fighting is just as much a learning experience as the fort. And eventually experience will prove what the writer of Proverbs meant when he wrote, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”

Incidentally, a copycat also stirs up anger.

And it’s a great reminder to me that I can teach and talk until I’m fresh out of words, but some lessons have to be learned in the field. Or in the trees building a fort…I mean a blind.

Plunging into Hello

Photo Credit: Jenni C

For the second time in two years I was the new girl. I was mighty scared that when the recess bell rang all the first graders would sprint toward the playground, and I’d be standing alone. Again.

I couldn’t stand the thought of it so I decided to do something. And quick. The girl at the desk in front of me had two long, beautiful French braids. In my Laura-Ingalls-loving mind, that was a sure sign of congeniality, so I tapped her back right between those braids.

She turned.

"Will you be my friend?” I whispered.

I felt ridiculous. My face flushed. But she nodded, and I followed her out to recess.

Thirty years later, surrounded by five children and a multitude of acquaintances, I felt mighty alone again. With all the chaos, loneliness didn’t seem possible, but the demands of family and self-inflicted expectations had exhausted me. I needed a friend to lead me to Jesus in prayer.

I’d never actually done the one-on-one prayer thing before, but I knew it was the only way to survive and finish that chapter of life.

So I did something that felt socially weird. At Bible study I sat by a woman I admired, and right before our Bible study video started I feigned confidence and whispered, “Hey, would you be willing to get together to pray with me sometime?”

I braced for a reasonable rejection. Something like Hmmm, I’m traveling quite a bit lately. Or, Sounds wonderful, but I’m sooo busy. 

Instead she answered, “I would love to.” As I turned back toward the TV screen, I thought I saw her wiping tears. Then I started wiping mine.

Last year I attended a conference alone, and of all the things I worried about, the one that haunted me was a scenario from junior high. 

The dreaded cafeteria.

What if I had to weave through the trays, soda fountains, and tables to sit by myself? A veritable announcement to every observer, “I have no friends here!” 

Fortunately, I found delightful women to chat with at meals. 

But then I saw her. One woman at a table for two. Living my junior high nightmare.

Don’t be weird, I warned myself. Maybe she’s relishing solitude. So I walked past her only to discover “my people” sitting on the back side of her booth. 

After setting down my tray, I poked my head over the partition and invited her to sit with us.

Turns out she wasn’t relishing cafeteria solitude, and our table of three became a table of four.

But I’m not always so socially courageous.

During that exceedingly awkward “greeting time” at church, I find it easier to rifle through my purse in search of nothing. While waiting in line at Wal-Mart I’m more comfortable frantically texting than talking with someone in line. And I can become engrossed in a menu, doctor’s office literature, or a map in order to avoid eye contact with anyone at all.

It feels like a game of Social Chicken--each stranger daring the other to make the first move. And the worst possible outcome happens when neither person acts: the enemy of our souls wields loneliness and insecurity to frighten us into isolation.

And sometimes the only thing worse than feeling socially awkward is feeling alone.

As I’ve staggered around between the illusion of isolated safety and a nerve-wracking introduction, I’ve discovered the fastest way through an awkward “hello,” is to hold your nose--figuratively speaking of course--and plunge straight in: extend a hand, offer to help, ask a question, or simply say “Hi.”

Sure, it may feel embarrassing or uncomfortable. Maybe even stressful.

Yet God can use loneliness, insecurity, and even the uncomfortable weirdness before that first “hello” as an invitation to friendship. And once you take the plunge you just might find you’ve greeted a friend, a prayer partner, or a sister in Christ. 


What is your awkward hello story? How did it turn out?

 

When a Father Made Me Cry at the Pool

They say you remember trauma more acutely than pleasure. If the memories of my first high dive experience are any indication, it’s true.

My boys did not inherit my high dive angst.

I was in fourth grade. No one made me do it, but it looked fun. Something akin to flying. So, in my least favorite faded-red swimsuit, I leapt to my near-death.

A nanosecond after my limbs smacked the water, my head throbbed with pressure of chlorine water forced up my sinuses. I remember “rearranging” my swimsuit while I was still ten leagues under.

When I finally surfaced, I clung to the concrete ledge gasping, coughing, and crying.

Last summer I cried at the pool again. But this time it wasn’t me jumping off the high dive.

On that day, a little boy stood wide-eyed and dripping near the high diving board. He smiled as he watched the big kids twirl and flip, head first, feet first, laid out, and curled up. Almost as if they’d achieved flight!

His dad had come straight from work to the pool to watch a few minutes of swimming lessons. Scurrying between the board and his dad the boy seemed to be asking, Should I do it? Should I do something brave and scary?

His dad encouraged him. “Yeah! Try it.” The boy did the shivering shuffle over to the ladder, climbed up two steps, stopped, and went back to his dad. His dad knelt down and smiled, “You don’t have to,” he reassured him, “but if you want to try, I’m here to watch you.”

Finally, he climbed to the top of the high dive. With knees knocking from cold and fright, he bobbed at the end of the board.

Far below friends and lifeguards hollered advice: Just go! Plug your nose! Hurry up! It’s fun! I’ll buy you ice cream if you do it! It doesn’t hurt! (Whatever!)

His dad encouraged him. “You can do it.” But there was no bribery or threats about ice cream. He just waited.

Finally, bolstered by his father’s presence, he barely stepped off the edge and fell to the water. No flips. No twists. Just a brave little boy, smacking the water. He came up sputtering. Pulling at cockeyed goggles. Dog paddling to the ladder. Suppressing sobs.

His dad squatted by the ladder and lifted him out. Pressing his wet head into his father’s dry shirt, the boy let the sobs go.

And that was when I cried.

To me, it was a picture of God’s dealing with me.

How many times has God invited me to jump into fun, brave, and scary adventures: a college transfer, a move, foster care, a new job. The courageous people who’ve already jumped seem like they’re having so much fun! Or doing such meaningful work, or learning such important things.

With God’s kind permission I dip my toes in the water and do a little research. It’s cold, but not icy.

This location is good, and so is that one.

My work is meaningful, and I could also do that job.

Parenthood is important, and so is foster care.

Ministry is fruitful here, and also over there.

Everyone poolside is calling out advice, warning, or impatience. Hurry up and do it already! You’ll do great. That will be hard. Are you crazy?

So I pray. Lord? Should I, or shouldn’t I?

And my loving Father answers, “You can, but you don’t have to. If you do, I will be with you. If you don’t, I still love you. And I will be with you always. Either way, My grace is sufficient for you.”

Sometimes I’ve climbed back down the ladder and wondered what could have been. What would that mission trip, that move, or that job have been like?

On rare occasions, I’ve jumped and freestyled my way to the other side of the pool.

But most times I’ve come up sputtering wondering what in the world the Lord was thinking by letting me jump.

Then I remember that poolside father. The one who reminded me of my Father God.

He’s helping His scared and gasping child out of the water. Soggy and sobbing, I fall into his arms. It felt like failure. The move was rough. The job required more skill. Foster care was demanding.

But my tears tell me I did something hard. My water-slapped skin tells me I still have sensation. My draining sinuses tell me I was all the way in.

I drape my soggy self around Him, and I realize My Father loves me whether I jump or not.

7 Reasons I Can't be the Umpire

Umpires for Little League seem to be in short supply around here so a couple times per seasons the parents are required to ump. Although this sounds efficient, it’s probably not the best solution—at least in my case. 

 

When it was our turn to ump, I contacted a whole list of umpires potentially available to cover parental umpire duty. They were all unavailable. In circumstances when it's more work to get out of work, I can tend to get over confident. Pshhh, how hard can it be?

So out of curiosity I asked the boys, “What would you think if I umped your game?”

Zach and Spencer gave me a please-be-joking stare, but true to form Levi addressed it: “A girl umping baseball? That’s just weird.”

With no substitute umpire lined up, I started to get a little nervous. To assuage my umpire angst, I thought I'd test my skill by volunteering to run the scoreboard. I lasted for three batters.

Talk about an intense job! You have to watch and record every pitch, batter, run and out! And any of my bleacher buddies can testify that paying close attention at sporting events is not my strong suit.

Lucky for Levi, just hours before the game we found an available umpire, and I promised to never ump his game.

After my scoreboard trial, I'm pretty sure no one else wants me to either. Here’s why:
 

1. Steee-rike! It sounds so accusatory. I prefer “Whoops. Hey, it’s no biggie. You get two more chances!”

 

2. Foul ball! Was the hit disgusting and stinky? Why ya gotta be so rude? I’d rather whisper to the batter, “Pssst…good news, I don’t even think you can strike out on a foul ball!”

 

3. Batter’s out! Do you hate the batter? Why do you take that tone? How about, “Batter gets another try after these next 11 batters.” Baseball is a game of second and third chances.

 

4. No time for second guessing. Second-guessing is one of my spiritual gifts, and the split second decisions and finality of the umpire’s call don’t allow for it. I would prefer to watch a replay, phone a friend or poll the audience. I’d turn toward three sets of bleachers and shout “Hey parents and spectators! All in favor of calling a strike say ‘Aye.’ All opposed?” Admittedly, it would slow the momentum of the game. And no one wants baseball to go any s  l   o    w     e      r.

 

If a wild pitch can imprint our fence,
imagine the damage potential for human flesh!

5. Wild Pitches. If you’ve watched three minutes of little league (not the little guys on ESPN, but the regular kids), then you know there are MANY wild pitches. Last week a wild pitch flew straight toward my head. Even though there was a batter, catcher, umpire, and 15 foot back stop between the ball and me, I still squealed like a scared monkey. 

 

6. The bat. Scary!! The thought of it whistling by my ear 176 times per game makes me nauseated. At this level, the odds for taking a bat to the skull seem a bit too high and the helmet a bit too flimsy.

 

7. All the action at home plate. Swinging, catching, and sliding. My cat-like reflexes have used up all nine of their lives, and chances are slim that I could dodge the ball, the bat, or the cleats. 

 

So thank you, Little League, for the vote of confidence. I really wish I could (fingers crossed), but I think we’re all better off taking our cues from Levi. If you need anything else, I’ll be in the concession stand.

 

 

A Post-Mother's Day Reflection

Super-mom forgot to supervise.

Did you ever imagine motherhood would be a ride like THIS?

I always wanted to be a mom. I’m just not always the mom I wanted to be.

Here’s a little confession: I actually remember telling someone I wanted to be a supermom. I know…


But somehow confessing, recounting, and laughing about it redeems the weirdness.

The supermom I wanted to be drove a minivan. She had long hair that didn’t tangle when she drove with the windows open. She sewed adorable dresses from 4-H patterns as her daughters quietly played nearby her purring Singer.

I imagined I’d be pretty crafty too. When Kurt and I were huffing and puffing our way through Lamaze classes the teacher asked the class, “What are you most looking forward to about having children?” My inner crafty-mom spoke up--out loud in class--and said, “I’m looking forward to helping my kids make play-dough.” That's what I was most looking forward to.

Wish I was kidding.

I imagined taking every opportunity to teach my children all the things I wished I’d learned early in life. Including Spanish.

And in the evenings I planned to sweetly lead my children in bedside prayers. I’d gracefully teach them about the Love of Jesus and use those “hard moments” as “teachable moments.” I’d harness the power of music to help them hide scriptures in their hearts.

And then I became a mom.


A locking steel tool box is a good fort.

I tried to be the mom I wanted to be, but things have rarely gone according to plan.

I wrecked the minivan three times. Yes, thrice. For the record, the Chevy Venture didn’t handle so well in snow. Its one redeeming feature was the unobstructed aisle down the middle that gave me a straight shot from the front seat to the back to catch puke in a bucket on a road trip.

My long hair tangled in the wind, so I cut it short, and so far none of my sons has asked for any homemade article of clothing.

These days when I’m feeling crafty, I toss my boys a hot glue gun and send them out to the gravel driveway with the instruction, “Find an extension cord. Have a good afternoon.”

I once bought a Barney video in Spanish, but eventually passed it along to a friend whose children actually spoke Spanish. I’m still holding onto hope our Spanish Barney days provided an advantage if they ever try to become fluent. 

I used “hard moments”--make that “hard seasons”--as opportunities to model all sorts of apologies. 

I did harness the power of music to imprint Scripture on their hearts thanks to Steve Green and his Hide ‘em in Your Heart CDs. But the verse they’ve quoted back to us most often is from the Rolling Stones: “You can’t always get what you want.” 

The weird thing is that when it comes to motherhood, childhood or life in general, the Rolling Stones got it mostly right:  

You can’t always get what you want,
but if you try sometimes,
you just might find,
you get what you need.

The writer of Proverbs, however, put it more succinctly: Many are the plans in a man’s [or woman’s] heart,
but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails. (Prov. 19:21, NIV)
And that’s a solid truth worth hiding in our hearts. 

We may “plan the work and work the plan”—children quoting verses out the minivan windows in multiple languages in their homespun clothes--but it is the Lord's purposes that prevail. Thank Heaven!

I’m not the mom I always wanted to be, but with time, and by God’s grace and patience, I’m becoming the mom He planned. And so are you.

Happy (late) Mother’s Day, Mom’s. Let's embrace the bumpy ride.