As the Deer Panteth...

As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after Thee.

The words to an old praise song taken from Psalm 42. I love the way the King James-ish words sound--there’s something comforting about them. And of course, the desperate crying out to Jesus—that hits me.

Especially as a mom, there are times I so long for Jesus it brings tears to my eyes. I often fail to be the mother I want to be, yet I try so hard to do everything I know I should. And even when I think I’m making the right parenting decision, often doubt creeps in. Especially when it comes to discipline.

We have attitude issues in this family, and not just the kids. Both my husband and I struggle at times, which makes it even more difficult to discipline the one who glares at us with eyes full of rebellion. How do we tell him to get his attitude on track when ours can be less than Christlike?

A helping of long-ago advice comes to mind:

It’s my job as a parent to teach my children the truth. The truth doesn’t change, even if I fail to live up to it.

Yes, I know …

But still, disciplining a child’s heart is difficult, full of doubts and regrets, hopes and fears, all mixed up into a soup of confusion.

What can I do but pray? Or more honestly, what can I do but run to my Savior, begging for help and comfort, clinging to Him like a child myself?

I long for You, dear Jesus, like a deer that panteth for the water.

As the deer pants for the water brooks,
So my soul pants for You, O God.
2My soul thirsts for God, for the living God;
When shall I come and appear before God? Ps. 42:1-2 NASB

Little Victories

“Thank you for your kids.” The exact words my two oldest kids’ art teacher, Mrs. Drillovich, said. “They’re so nice and well-behaved. I can tell you’ve done a good job.”

Really? I could feel my cheeks breaking into a smile, and the urge to hug my little angels flowed into my arms as we walked to the car. “I’m so proud of you, guys,” I said. “Thanks for being so good.”

“Wanna race?” my daughter Gabby asked Benjamin, ignoring my smushy words. And they took off.

The squabbling began immediately.

“Hey! I wasn’t ready!” my daughter whined as she ran. “It’s not fair.”

The battle escalated as they got into the van. “Mama, Benjamin cheated.”

“You always cheat, Gabby.”

So much for well-behaved kids.

As I go through my days as a mommy, I find life is like this. Little victories, followed by hours of struggle. I want those victory moments to last. I think it’s my latent desire to have a peaceful home where the kids obey, the dishes are done, and a slow-cooking pot roast fills the house with the aroma of love (and a together me).

Funny, but life with kids doesn’t seem to be like that. When Mrs. Drillovich gave the compliment, besides the rush of joy, I also felt the weight of the responsibility that training kids to be respectful, responsible, and productive involves:

>Constant reminders to my daughter to "act like a princess" at the table
>The repetitive "training" I give Benjamin to encourage him stop teasing
Gabby
>The multiple anger-managment sessions with Christian
>The hours of hugs and “wead-a-book” time with Abigail to help her feel loved and secure

These mommy labor hours (and so many more) are what brought about that compliment. And I still relish it as a reward for hard work.

Yet, the compliment also reminded me of one other very important point. It’s only by God’s grace that my kids behaved well in art class. So rather than strive and struggle, I must remember to put all my parenting into His capable hands, running to Him, in prayer and the Scriptures, with each defeat and praising Him with the victories.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17 NIV

Rescue Me

Rescue Me

I live in a soggy state. I guess that can have two meanings. My state of being is soggy. That’s definitely true. Haven’t you noticed that having kids makes you wet? Runny-nose wet, squirted-juice-box wet, “uh-oh-I-had-an-accident” wet. Yeah, my state of being is definitely soggy.

But I was actually talking about Washington State—where I live. We’ve had tons of precipitation that has flooded many of our waterways. The other day on the news I watched as rescue swimmers jumped into a rushing river to help three stranded teenagers to safety.

I’m a rescue worker myself. Aren’t you? My kids don’t need to call 9-1-1 to reach me. One cry of, “I stuck, Mama!” sends me running to release a jammed baby from her high chair. “I need to go potty and my pants won’t come down!” will also nab my attention—and my fingers in quick response to undo a sticky snap or wedged zipper.

And then there’s that screaming cry that implies physical pain. Last night at church my four-year-old son got himself stuck. When my husband followed the sounds of his wails through the foyer and down the hallway, he discovered a chubby flailing arm sticking out of the ladies’ bathroom. Those doors are heavy, and Christian had somehow gotten his arm lodged. My husband bounded to the rescue, released the victim’s stuck appendage, and brought the little guy to safety. Face red from crying, Christian’s sore arm wrapped around his rescuer’s neck in a relieved hug.

Sometimes my rescue missions are a bit less dramatic than those, like when my seven-year-old daughter’s heart requires the healing that only a snuggle from mama can give. Or when my older son needs me to halt my busyness, look him in the eyes, and actively listen. “So you feel like you have too much schoolwork today? That would be hard.” “You get frustrated when the little kids take your Gameboy? I’m sorry. I wouldn’t like that either.” Then end with tickles, because he’s never too old for tickles.

I like being a rescue worker. It’s a privilege to “save” my kids from their “dire” circumstances, but sometimes I need rescuing too. This week was hard. A lot of yucky things happened—I made a mistake on a manuscript I was editing; my latest chapter of my novel did not go well; I had a night of insomnia; I felt a cold coming on; my son and I weren’t getting along; and well, I just felt grumpy.

In times like these I long for someone to sweep me out of the muck and helicopter me to peaceful tranquility. I’d like to say that happened, but it didn’t. Rather than a sudden rush of peace, like my hugs and quiet conversations with my kids, God was simply there with me. And trusting that the week would end, I’d eventually feel better, and that despite my whacked-out emotions, the truth is that God already has rescued me—by loving me unconditionally because of His unmerited grace—helped disloge my stuck and troubled mind from the crisis at hand. And brought me back to a place of gratitude and joy, kinda like Christian's red-faced hug.

Self-denial--Really?

Last night I got together with a good friend at Starbucks. Having tried a variety of the chairs and tables at that particular Starbucks, I knew the best table to choose--the one that has a cushy seat on one side and a regular seat on the other. It's next to the wall, nice and private, and away from the speaker for when the music gets too loud.

So I used my influence to get her to agree to that table... "Does this one look okay?" (as if I had no opinion). She went to get her drink, and I sat down in the regular seat, leaving her the cushy one.

When she got back, she smiled. "You left me the soft seat, that was very unselfish of you, but I guess with four kids, you know a lot about self-denial."

We laughed, and I said something about mommyhood taking self-denial to a "whole nother level."

It does. Doesn't it? Really plunges the depths, testing our ability to give and give and give ...

I have to admit, sometimes it's really hard. Little things like never owning your very own Diet Coke. Honestly, sometimes I don't want to share it. "It's MY Diet Coke, and you can't have it! Mine! Mine! Mine!" I feel like that at times, but I usually end up sharing. Same goes for chocolate or a new perfect pen or even a just a few quiet minutes alone. Stuff that used to be all mine, now is shared with eight grubby little hands.

Self denial also hits on an emotional level. When my older kids pierce me with angry, painful attitudes, I don't always think, "Yea! What a great teaching opportunity. I'm going to help them learn a life lesson." No, more often, especially when I'm tired or overwhelmed, I'm tempted to indulge myself by throwing good discipline out the window and lashing out in sarcasm or manipulation.

How do I keep from getting sucked into this yucky cycle? Well, I learned a really great thing about self-denial. I do it not to somehow change the kids' behavior or make myself look like a good mom. I deny myself simply because that's what Christ did. It's not out of a sense of duty or guilt, but because I love Him, and His love, joy, and peace fill me up. If instead of focusing on the things I'm giving up--Diet Coke, chocolate, or an indulgent self-centered attitude--I focus on serving the Lord, self denial becomes a joy rather than a sacrifice. And when I serve out of joy, those grubby little hands don't bother me. In fact, there's nothing I'd rather do than serve them.

"Serve the Lord with gladness." Psalm 100