On Throwing Paper Airplanes in Church

I should have known something was up when I picked up my Sam from youth choir rehearsal one day last fall, asked him how it went, and he said, "IT WAS AWESOME!"

Not that he doesn't usually enjoy youth choir. He likes it fine, but IT WAS AWESOME! isn't his usual response.

So I wondered what made it so amazing, so different. I knew the choir had rehearsed in the sanctuary for their upcoming musical, not in their regular spot in the choir room, but surely that wasn't it.

Sam sits in this sanctuary just about every week,

often with the same enthusiasm he demonstrates when I make him put away his clean underwear and socks.

So on the drive home, Sam told me the reason for the twinkly eyes and sudden zeal. I should tell you that the Dana Carvey church lady in me just about had to pull out of traffic and search the minivan for smelling salts!

It seems that his mother had been a ding dong and dropped him off an hour early (in my defense, they changed the time,) so with an extra hour to spare, he and the other sixth grade boys with ding dong mothers had found some worthwhile pursuits to while away the time.

Pursuits like climbing to the top of the balcony and throwing paper airplanes.

"It was so fun!" Sam said. "You wouldn't believe how fun it was! Oh, and you got double points if you hit the baptistery!"

I nearly choked on my tongue.

But that wasn't all they did.
Nope.

"That sanctuary room is amazing! Have you ever thought of how many hiding places it has?"
"No, I don't think I have."
"There's the pews of course. Dozens of those. I counted them one Sunday when I was bored, but I don't remember how many there were."


"But the best place is that little nook in front of the organ. You know, behind that short little wall? You can hide there and NOBODY will find you. You could do ANYTHING and nobody would know!"

"But you know the best part?"
"I can't imagine."
"The secret slide!"
"What secret slide?"
Sam explained it, but allow me to show you.
See how the pews are arranged theater style, descending toward the front of the church?


Well, take a look at this...


Now come closer.

Yep. That's the secret slide.
I doubt it works for adults, but it might. I haven't tried it.
Come to think of it, I could have been brave and given it a try if I'd wanted to. Nobody was in the room when I was taking pictures.
Sam says it's real slippery and slide-y. You just lie on your back, push off with your hands, and whatever you do, don't raise your head up. Those pews have sharp edges.

The whole time I was listening to Sam , I have to admit, I was having a fight with myself.
Part of me was thinking I should probably thump him on the head. Launch myself into a lecture about sacred space and reverence.
The other part of me secretly wondered what time of day might be best. Just when might no one notice a forty-something woman putting down her purse, taking off her shoes, and slipping under the center of the very back pew?

In case you're wondering, the forty-something secret slider won my internal debate.
You know who convinced me?
The sanctuary itself.

You might not notice it at first, even if you're sitting right there in a pew, but the worship room of First Baptist Church, Greenville, is designed to make us feel as if we're sitting under a huge tree together.

See the branches and limbs hanging over? The mammoth trunk rising up behind the pulpit?
Can't you imagine a crowd sitting under a tree, listening to Christ tell his stories? The children wouldn't sit stone faced. They'd play!
I can't imagine a better place.
But not during worship, of course. That might just earn you a thump on the head. :)

So what do you think? How do we manage teaching our kids reverence without worshiping the things of our sacred spaces? I'd love to hear your thoughts about finding play in church!

Have a beautiful, wonder-full weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Thanks to Renée Turner for the paper airplane photo, licensed through creative commons.

Mommy Fail # 3,500,687 and the Lizard Who Saved Me

It all started with this lizard.
I found him on the internet Saturday afternoon, when I should have been cleaning out my closet.
The video was titled "The Jesus Christ Lizard," so how could I pass on that?
Won't you watch it?
It's by National Geographic, so you can count it for your science lesson of the day.
(Don't worry. It's weird and funny, and it's short too.)


Crazy, huh?
My sixth grader and I love to introduce each other to wacky things on the internet, so I sat Sam down and made him watch it with me.

"That's cool," Sam said, "but I don't get it. Why do they call him the Jesus lizard?"
Was he not watching?
"Because he walks on water, silly."
Sam's mouth dropped open. "WHAT? JESUS CAN WALK ON WATER?"
"Yeah," I said, "you know that story."
"COOL! I didn't know that."
"Yes you do. Remember? The disciples are out on the boat, the wind is gusting, and they're starting to panic."
Sam looked at me blankly.
"You know, and then Jesus walks out."
"No, I don't think I've heard that one."
"Yes you have!"
"No Mom, I think I'd know if I'd heard a story before."
"Yes you have heard it. I've read you that story a million times."
"Nope. Maybe to Ben or Sarah. Not to me."
"Well I know you've heard it in Sunday school then."
"No. I don't think so."

How could that be?
I finished the story, telling him how Jesus walks across the lake and the disciples think they see a ghost, and then Jesus tells them, "Calm down! I'm here. Don't be afraid." And then I say how Peter, dear Peter, who can't stand to be apart from Jesus, says, "If it's you, tell me to walk out to you," and Jesus does. I tell Sam how Peter's doing just fine until he takes his eyes of Jesus and starts to look at the wind and the waves, and he starts to sink. I tell him how Jesus reaches for his hand and asks Peter why he doubts. And then they get in the boat together and all the disciples can't get over the crazy thing that just happened.

"Cool story, Mom."
"It's not just a cool story," I stutter. "It's a great one about trusting God. About not panicking when you're in the midst of something that's overwhelming you."
"Uh huh," Sam said, looking impressed. Then he patted my head and left the room.

I sat there, stunned.
How could he not know that story?
I've been teaching Sunday school to kids for several years now. I thought through the curriculum, searching for the story. No, I don't think we have covered that one. At least not lately. I know we can't tell all the stories, but this, this was bad. Teaching the stories was not just the church's responsibility, but it was mine as a parent. How did I miss that one?

What other stories have we not taught him?
When he was younger, I'd read to him from The Beginner's Bible every night. The stories were short and right for his age, and we both loved it. I hadn't done that in years.

I remembered the scripture about teaching our children, the one in Deuteronomy,
Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.
Deuteronomy 11:18-19

Yes, I know that kids today need those sacred stories to make their way in the world.
I started thinking of all they deal with, even more than we dealt with as children ourselves.
I thought of the everyday turmoil of adolescent friendships, the things kids do to try to look cool, the dangers that television and internet and American culture bring into our house, our lives. I thought of drugs and alcohol, sexting and pornography.
There's too much out there. They need to know the scriptures, the stories of God's love for them. But it's such a big job. How can we manage it?

And then a curious voice spoke into my storm.
"Calm down! I'm here. Don't be afraid."

Ha!
I'm so hard headed. This is exactly how God works with me.
Jesus spoke to me in the middle of my freak out, from the blue-green lake on p.382 of The Beginner's Bible.
I had taken my eyes off him, and focused on the storm. I was Peter, in my own little whirlpool, throwing up my arms and looking at the waves.

Last night before bed, Sam noticed that The Beginner's Bible on my desk. "You know, that walking on water story might sound a little familiar. Maybe I just forgot."
"It's okay," I said. "At least you know it now."
"Yeah. But even if I didn't, it'd be okay. It's cool that Jesus can do stuff like that, but He did tons of other important things too."

Yes, Sam.
Yes, God. Thank you for teaching me.

Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all! Before you leave, I'd love to hear what you do to help grasp His hand when you start to go under. Do you return to scripture? Let a friend speak God's words to you? Meditate? What helps you connect with God in the middle of a storm?

Love, Becky
Photo by nealoneal, creative commons

Wreck

*
A couple nights ago, Sam wanted to ride his bike down by the river.
I was shocked, but I tried not to show it.
"Great!" I said, and whispered a thank you prayer in my head. "Maybe your dad and I will go with you. Tanner could use a walk anyway."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Mom. You don't have to come. It's not like it's going to happen again. That'd be crazy. Besides, I just want to see if my blood is still there. I bet it is. It was everywhere."

It really was.
Last Sunday afternoon, Sam had a massive wreck down on the river path.
He and his dad had gone for a leisurely bike ride, and as they rounded a curve, a little boy stepped onto the path. Sam swerved to avoid hitting him, flew over the handlebars, and skidded on his side and arm across the asphalt into a bank of dirt and rocks.

It was bad.
Sam is my careful boy. His older brother Ben could lead The Ramsey Family Tour of Emergency Rooms of the East Coast and France, but in Sam's eleven years, he's never broken a bone. He's never had a single stitch.

Sam was screaming, writhing in pain. Rocks and pebbles were embedded in his arm, until Todd jumped off his bike, and in his shock, brushed them off. More blood started gushing. Sam saw the holes and began to panic.
"I hate God!" he shouted, as Todd wrapped his shirt around his arm. "Why did He let that happen? Why? He could have stopped it! I hate Him! I hate Him!"

Luckily, Todd had his cell phone. I met them at the edge of the path. As Todd put the bikes in the back of the van, I tried to calm Sam down.
"It'll be okay," I said. "We just need to get you cleaned up, and it'll heal just fine."
"CLEANED UP?" Sam screamed. "You're not putting anything on it! And I'm never riding that bike again. Or coming down here either!" He began to cry again. "Why did God let that happen? I pray all the time and He never listens."
I let Sam go on, saying what he needed to say, wincing at his crying out to God. Wishing I could make it better.

I wanted to tell him, "God didn't put that little boy in your path. He didn't look at his watch and time it that way, just to teach you that you can survive this." But I didn't say that. He needed to cry it out. Spread his pain before God.

I'm aware that some people believe that God sends hardships to test them this way. We lose people we love, we suffer great disappointments in life and grieve over losses. Personally, I don't believe God sends these things.
A little child wanders into a bike path. Bad things happen.
But God can help us navigate the pain. And as God helps us heal, as God absorbs our cries and our prayers, God can write His own story into our story. He can draw us nearer until we feel His embrace. Thankfully, God can help us heal.

It's remarkable to me how the human body heals. And the spirit too.

"It takes some courage to get back on the bike," I told Sam as he strapped on his helmet.
"I guess," Sam shrugged. "Really, Mom, it's silly for you to go."
But Todd and I followed anyway, claiming that we needed the exercise, trying to make ourselves believe that's why we were going.

The walk started fine.
Sam would ride ahead, circle back to us, and go again.
But then he didn't circle back. Where was he? Surely something hadn't happened.
It started to get dark on the trail, and we walked faster. Where was he?
We started getting nervous, calling out his name. What had happened?
Finally, when we were on the brink of panic, Todd's cell phone rang.
"What is there to eat in this house?" Sam asked.
He had finished the trail and ridden home.

After Todd and I returned home and finished ranting about how scared he'd made us, and that he should have told us he was going home, Sam said he was sorry. Then bit his lip, the way he always does before he reveals something important.
"I have to tell you, I was a little scared too. It was getting dark, but I just prayed the whole way. God helped me go fast."

Thank you, God. For healing of all kinds.

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Do you feel okay about getting angry with God when bad things happen? What do you think about how God tests and teaches us? Would God send us pain, or just work through it with us? We can really learn from each other, so I hope you'll share.

Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all!

Love, Becky

PS. I just remembered that Beki over at The Rusted Chain is doing her Fingerprint Friday, a blog party to celebrate the presence of God's fingerprints in our lives. I suppose this post qualifies--thank goodness for God's fingerprints even in our pain--so I'm jumping in. Hop over here to find more fingerprint treasures!

*Photo by K. Praslowicz (Sjixxxy), creative commons

Loaded Suitcase

Last Tuesday, the UPS man left a big box on our front porch.
How exiting, I thought, tearing it open. I hadn't ordered anything.

It was a suitcase. Who had sent us a brand new suitcase? Why?
I opened the envelope tucked in the front and read the title.
Million Miler? According to the note, my husband had logged over a million miles on Delta, so the airline was rewarding him with a suitcase and a card.

"Where's my gift?" I harrumphed. "I'm the one who deserves the present."
For over twenty years of parenthood, Todd has worked for Michelin. It's an international company, and most positions required him to travel. A lot of travel. Over a million miles, apparently.
That's a lot of dinners out, while I'm home making macaroni and cheese.
A lot of quiet evenings in the hotel, while I was changing diapers, staying up with sick kids, refereeing arguments. That's a lot of solo homework duty, of managing the drama of adolescent friendships, of navigating the fears and tears, not to mention all the household drudgery he's missed.
Where's my present, Delta?

As I dragged the suitcase through the kitchen, a memory popped into my head.
It was a Saturday night and Todd had just come home from another trip overseas. We had gone through our family ritual of opening his carry-on bag, pulling out the sack of pastries he'd bought at the airport 19 hours ago, the magazines for Sarah and me, the candy for Ben and Sam. We sat down at the table to eat dinner together, to celebrate Todd's homecoming, after a week and a half away.

As we passed the food around, Ben spoke up.
"Evan's dad asked where you were at soccer, and I said you were on a trip again. He said that he just couldn't do it. If he had your job, he'd have to quit, cause he loves his kids too much to have to travel with work."

Todd's face fell. I could see the pain in his eyes as the comment hung in the air.
"What a thing for him to say" I barked.
"Yeah," said Sarah. "Daddy loves us every bit as much as Mr. Johnson loves his kids. Probably more!"
"I know!" Ben said. "I didn't say anything, but I wanted to tell him that it's just how Daddy's job is. He can't help it that he has to be gone sometimes."

The memory dissolved, and I looked at the suitcase.
I'm sorry, Todd.
My flurry of resentment and envy hijacked my brain, blocking the view of the beauty in my own life. Of all that I've been lucky enough to experience. The closeness we both have with our children. The treasure of being present in so many everyday moments.

The resentment and envy felt familiar.
It reminded me of the mommy wars, the judging words I've heard fly between moms "who work" and those who stay home. I've participated in that too, from both sides at different times.

I've heard women say, "I just love my kids too much to let somebody else raise them," and I've nodded along.
What loaded words.

When I was back at work full time, waving goodbye to my 4 and 6 year old, the same words wounded me.
I'd insist on helping my four year old get dressed, even though he could dress himself, just for an excuse to touch his little body, to smooth his hair, to straighten his shirt. I didn't love him any less than anyone else. I needed to work. I wanted to work.

Yet, at times, the envy and resentment I felt towards others blocked the view of the beauty of my own life.

God, help me battle envy and resentment. Give me the strength to resist the attraction to negativity, to turn my focus to the beauty you have given me in my present circumstances. Help me, once again, keep my eyes on my own paper, Lord. Help me remember to live in my blessings--and to celebrate them!

Are any of you wise or sensible? Then show it by living right and by being humble and wise in everything you do. But if your heart is full of bitter jealousy and selfishness, don't brag or lie to cover up the truth. That kind of wisdom doesn't come from above. It is earthly and selfish and comes from the devil himself. Whenever people are jealous or selfish, they cause trouble and do all sorts of cruel things. But the wisdom that comes from above leads us to be pure, friendly, gentle, sensible, kind, helpful, genuine, and sincere. When peacemakers plant seeds of peace, they will harvest justice.
James 3:13-18

What about you?
Do you ever battle resentment? Do you long to live where the grass is greener? What helps you in your struggles?

Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Photo by Robert S. Donovan, creative commons

Mommy Scorecard

Flickr photo by Tasayu Tasnaphun, creative commons
I was standing in the parking lot at Target, melting into the asphalt as Sam ran back to the car for his wallet, when I realized that a young woman was talking to me.

"I hate those things," she said, nodding at the stick figure family decal on the back of somebody's SUV. She must have thought I was staring at it.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "Mommy scorecard."

Mommy scorecard? I'd see those decals all around town, stick figure mommies and daddies and lines of kids. Sometimes they'd tote soccer balls or wear ballet tutus, and cats and dogs always trailed behind.

Now, before we go any further, please don't think I'm stick family hating!
If you want to celebrate each member of your family, I say, why not! Peel and stick away!
It's just that for me, mommy scorecard strikes a spinal chord.

Too often I've sneaked glances at other people's papers as I've lived out my life. I've pulled up next to them in the parking lot of life and checked out how we compare. Did we have the complete package, the happy couple, the full set of kids? Smiles on their faces, pompoms and flutes in hand?

When I was a younger mom, home with a two year old and a newborn, while Todd traveled constantly with work, people would see Ben spitting up on my shoulder and Sarah tugging on my jeans, and say, "I don't know how you do it, night after night by yourself."
I'd paw a foot at the floor and do my best Aw, it's no big deal, and then casually see if I could work in a comment about the grad school class I was taking or the volunteering I had to do. It made me feel good for a moment, for someone to recognize my hard work and exhaustion, the perfect picture I was trying to project. But I'd always end up feeling a little empty when the conversation was over.

We want people to see us as complete and successful.
Sometimes we tout our own completeness and success and possessions loudly-we sneak them into conversations or wear them like sandwich boards- because underneath it all, we're scared. We know the truth, that we're broken, we don't really have it all together. Life isn't the perfect picture we want to paint.

As I tuck the scorecard in my purse, I also wonder about those of us who don't match up to the picture on the window, whether through choice or circumstance. The single person, the couple that doesn't have the urge to go forth and multiply. The pair that wants children desperately, but life is cruel and won't cooperate. The families that fall apart.

I hope they know the truth that I took years to find. That God loves us as we are, whether we match the world's ideal or not, whether we do the volunteer work or just sit in front of the TV. That our sad little efforts to mold ourselves to the perfect picture in our heads won't make God love us any more than God already does. He only asks us to do what Galatians advises.

Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that... Don't compare yourself with others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life.
Galatians 6:4, The Message

Do the creative best you can with your own life.
That's a tall order, but one I think I can handle.

What does doing the creative best with your own life mean to you?

Have a wonder-full Friday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Life and Motion Sickness

Are you adding a note or a person?

Flickr photo by DorkyMum, creative commons

Are you adding a note or a person?

I woke with a start, out of breath, trying to get a foothold on reality.
What did it mean?

In my dream, Ben was graduating from high school. We were all there, dressed in Sunday clothes, ready to take our seats in an arena I didn't recognize. But then I was on the main floor, trying to figure out which line to get in. There were masses of people everywhere, all moving in different directions, seeming to know where they were going.
I was lost. Where was I supposed to be?

"There you are!" called a voice. It was Catherine, my friend from high school and roommate my first two years at State. "Daddy brought the bookcase," she said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "I've got to run to Bio, but you gotta go up and see it. I don't know how he got it in the elevator but it looks great in the room! See ya!"

The dream went on, zipping all over the space time continuum, until I woke with a gasp in the dark. Where was I?
Faint lines of light had turned the wall in front of my bed into a fuzzy sheet of notebook paper. I rubbed my eyes. It was light from the street lamp outside, let in through the blinds. That's right, I was at my parents' place at the beach.

I began to get my bearings. Sam had spent a few days with my brother and his family. I'd picked him and cousin Luke up on Wednesday, and now we were at my parents' place at the beach. We'd head back Friday afternoon. It was Thursday, right?

I laid my head back on the pillow and tried to slow my racing heart.
What a crazy dream. Was I the mom or the graduate? I even showed up halfway through as mom of three year old Ben, chasing him as he ran across the brickyard, clip clopping in his cowboy boots, his yellow hair flying. I looked to my right and 20 year old Sarah materialized beside me, reaching her hand out to grab at the nape of his flannel shirt. Then I was student Becky again, and Ben was a just cute little kid, probably some professor's son. Maybe I'd have kids one day.

No wonder I woke exhausted. I'd flip flopped my way through the entire movie, trying to figure out where I was, where I was supposed to go, what I supposed to do.
Was God trying to tell me something?

I closed my eyes and remembered who I was.
I'm Becky. Mom to Sarah, who's taking a trip at the moment to check out graduate school. (Graduate school? How could that be? She's about to start her junior year in college, and it's good thing she's thinking ahead. But could she be that old? Could I be that old?)
I'm mom to Ben, who is about to start his senior year in high school. Next Thursday I'll go with him and watch the photographer help him with his tux and take his senior picture. In a few weeks he'll start working on college applications. The year will fly by, just like Sarah's did.
I'm mom to Sam, who starts middle school this year. Middle school.

How could life be moving this quickly? What happened to the years?
I'm still the same person who brought those babies home, one by one, gingerly walked up the steps to the porch, still feeling my stitches, holding them close, smelling their baby heads.

I'm thrilled for them, for all these new adventures, but I'm feeling a little little motion sickness as life whips by. It's all a little discombobulating. What will their lives be like? What will my life be like?

And then a prayer comes to mind.
It's Psalm 23. I find this strange.
Isn't that the psalm that shows up in dark times, in bunkers as bullets fly, in hospital rooms, as the family gathers around the bed?
But God, my brain protested, this isn't a dark time. It's a happy time, a time of growth and promise and newness. For my kids and for me too. Why?

And then the psalm spoke to me.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and staff-they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me, all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.
Psalm 23, NRSV

Yes, the Lord is my shepherd, guiding me gently down my path, whether I think I know the route and when the path seems strange and new.
He helps me find quiet places when life is confusing and loud.
When I feel lost between roles, He draws me back to the center of his heart. He reminds me that yes, I'm Becky, mother to these kids, the holder of my life, my work, and my calendar, but I'm also his child. He carries me close, he cups my head in his hand.
He walks beside me, through all the newness, ready to comfort me, ready to celebrate this life with me.
Truly my loving cup does overflow.

Is time moving quickly for you? What gives you peace when life moves too fast?

Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Sewing on Patches

Flickr photo by mollydot creative commons
Hey friends. I'm writing you from my daddy's office in my parents' house, which is a little freaky because as I type, fifth grade Becky (complete with stop sign glasses and crocheted bicentennial vest) is staring at me. I shall not be wigged out. I shall not be deterred.
So where were we...
Sam and I are taking a mother son get-away for the weekend to celebrate the end of the school year and to soak up the kind of heavy duty loving that only grandparents can give!

We had a great drive home to Raleigh yesterday. Sam set up his IPod to play all sorts of old people (Elton John, Billy Joel, and Michael Jackson) plus a young favorite of both of ours, Ingrid Michaelson. You probably know Ingrid. She's a fabulous entertainer (watch this after you finish reading this post) and I'm still spanking my own hiney because she came this spring to The Handlebar, our local place for live music, and I couldn't get my act together to simply buy the tickets and show up! I tell you, I drive myself crazy sometimes.

So anyway, you may know the song she's most famous for. It's this one.



Sam and I sang it straight through twice in the car. LOUDLY. (Actually I sang loudly and he joined in every now and then, when nobody was in the lane beside us.) After it was over, Sam asked if we could pretty please listen to a different song.
"Just one more time. Okay?" I begged, and he rolled his eyes and laughed. Then he patted me on the head and pushed play.

I couldn't help it. I just love those lyrics:

If you are chilly, here take my sweater.
Your head is aching, I'll make it better.
Cause I love the way you call me baby.
And you take me the way I am.

Isn't that the best kind of love, a love that takes us the way we are, with all our quirks and weirdness? Ingrid loves whoever it is back, because really, how could she not?

Whenever I hear a song that touches me or read a novel that stuns me with its beauty and truth, I know I need to take a closer look. I have this idea that when a story or a song or a movie pulls on my heartstrings, that means that it's resonating with something ancient and holy within me. It's almost like our souls are embedded homing devices, set up to detect the qualities of God's nature and passion in our world (His truth and beauty, pain and sacrifice,) and draw us back to their ultimate source: a God who loves us relentlessly.

Does this make sense to you, or do you think I've been staring into the sun too long?

So when she sings

I'd buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair
Sew on patches to all you tear

I hear it and I sometimes think of a child wanting to return the favor to a God who patches us up, time and time again.
You know what I mean. The Bible (and probably your life too) is full of those stories. I think of God calling out Adam and an Eve, right after they'd disobeyed Him with the fruit and were hiding in the bushes, wondering what to do next. God had said that if they ate of that tree, they'd die the same day. But would they indeed have to die? No, this God couldn't bring Himself to follow through, killing off all humankind. Instead God loved them, even in their shame. And not only that, but before God ushered them out of the garden, He sewed them clothes to wear, to comfort those frightened, naked jaybirds.

He sewed on patches, even though they tore the whole thing up.
If that's not superhuman love, (or superior-to-human love :) I'd like to know what is!

Have a terrific weekend, friends! I hope it's full of loud, happy singing.
But before you go, I'd love to hear what has moved you lately.
And do you think my theory holds? Does the art that touches your heart have anything to do with God?

Love, Becky

Messy Life

Lately I've been thinking about how messy life is, for everyone.

Maybe it's because my sweet girl moved home from college this week and her stuff is EVERYWHERE, only because there's no place to put it except the attic, and I'm scared to go in there. Remember the scene from Star Wars where the gang falls in the huge trash compactor and some kind of garbage squid-monster pulls Luke under, and then the walls start closing in? That's my attic. Plus it's already at least 110 degrees in there, and I'm a wimp.
So I think for now we'll be content to have a microwave by the fireplace. At least we can make s'mores without heating up the living room.

The shoe tree by the piano, however, is not quite as useful.

Nice.

So, back to the larger subject at hand...
I once taught school with a fine lady who had this quote hanging above her chalkboard:

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." Plato

At the time, I thought it was a perfect message for teenagers. After all, who else is fighting harder in life, battling to figure out what they want their lives to be about, what they'll speak up for and what they'll let slide, when they'll choose to summon the courage to go against the flow, and when they'll just close their eyes, shush that inner voice, and let life happen? Even the happiest teen is in a messy struggle, and their bodies and changing faces show it.

But lately I'm thinking Plato was right. His words really apply to everyone. I might just need to paint that quote on my living room wall, hang it at the food court at the mall, plaster it across the Town Hall, and hire an airplane to fly the message all over South Carolina and the world.
Everybody is fighting a battle of some kind.

It seems like lately I see the messiness of battles everywhere I go.
Moms and Dads watching their children struggle, unable to relieve their pain or solve their problems for them. Or the battle of want-to-be parents, positively dying to birth the children they already love, feeling the stab every time they see a baby. People who feel alone, invisible. Men and women trapped in the busyness of life, and others who long for the busyness our society requires to be considered a worthwhile person.

Being friends with several writers like myself, I see a lot of messiness. It's a messy business, involving great, seemingly unending periods of waiting. Waiting, which allows you plenty of time to question everything about yourself, your skill, your purpose in life. You wait to hear if your work (in other words, you?) is okay and acceptable. You wait, hoping that the part of your heart that you sent to them for their approval will be allowed to sing in public, rather than throb in your desk drawer. The trick, for me at least, is to use that waiting time to find both meaning outside of work and meaningful work. But still, it's a struggle. Some days I'm better at it than others.

Everyone is fighting a battle. Even the people I think are perfect.
I've always envied one particular friend of mine. She grew up knowing she wanted to be a doctor, and by golly, she did it. She has a wonderful practice and teaches at a med school as well. When we were college roommates, she had a long line of would-be suitors, and I remember one kneeling beside her as we put on our running shoes to go for a jog. "Gosh, even your teeth are perfect!" he said, gazing into her eyes.
I nearly gagged and had to leave the room before I bopped him on the head.
My friend lives a wonderful life, but I'm sure it hasn't been without times of personal pain and struggle and messiness.

Plato, was so right. Kindness (and love) is the answer.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. What struggles are you seeing over and over where you are? What acts of kindness? Have you caught those commercials where one act of kindness /goodness leads to another and then another? I'd post one, but I can't remember what product the commercial is advertising! (I guess I'm struggling with memory too!)
Lately it makes me really happy to see people being kind to cashiers. Dealing with the public is such a hard job, and it's fun to see kindness spread.

Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

PS. That quote reminds me of another, from The Message.
So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It's your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.

How a Dozen Mice Saved the Day

Last Sunday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
In spite of a very nice morning at church, a bad spirit seemed to hang over our house. Todd had gone to France AGAIN without me, and grouchiness reigned with just me and my boys. Hormones were reeling, feet were stomping, voices were yelling, doors were slamming. And that was just me!
"We need to get out of the house," said my eleven year old.
"Why?" I asked him, clinging to my crossword puzzle.
My eleven year old gave me a look. As if I didn't know why.

"I've got an idea," he said. "But it might seem kind of babyish."
I put down the crossword. The child never wants to look babyish. We must do whatever he says.

We did it, and it turned our beast of a day into sunshine! Into happiness!
I thought you might like to hear about it, and then maybe you can share what you do to break a bad mood. Maybe I could even put together a file of your ideas, for the next time Todd leaves me for France.

So what did we do? We went on a mouse hunt on Main Street in downtown Greenville.
Are you acquainted with Goodnight Moon? It's a children’s picture book about a rabbit getting ready for bed, and there's a mouse hidden in each scene. A young man in our town thought it might be fun to take this idea and make a scavenger hunt for kids on Main Street. He raised the funding and commissioned Zan Wells, a local sculptor, to make the individual mice. You can read more about his project here.

So we headed downtown and got started.
With all the grumpiness, we hadn't noticed that it really was a gorgeous day.

Sam had printed off the sheet of clues, and away we went.
Here's mouse #1!

They were tricky to find.

They could be anywhere. Down low...

Or up high.
Do you see it?

Take a closer look.

And here's the last one.

At the feet of General Greene.
He's quite the patriotic mouse, as you can see.

At the end of the hunt, we enjoyed some hot cocoa at the real treasure of Greenville, Falls Park. Fresh air and chocolate--the sure way to recapture the goodness of a day.

So how do you do it? What do you do when a dark mood sets in?

Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. Enjoy a walk around downtown Greenville!

If I Knew You Were Coming...

I'd a baked a cake!
Oh yeah. I did already!
It's the most glorious chocolate cake I've ever eaten, if I do say so myself. But I can't take any credit. It's a simple gâteau au chocolat, and all the glory goes to France. Well, France and Carole Clements and Elizabeth Wolf-Cohen, the writers of French.

my best loved cookbook of all time.
If you like French food, you MUST get this cookbook. I use this book at least a couple times a week and it never fails me. Ever.
My favorite recipes, besides the cake? The scalloped potatoes, the quiche Savoyarde, the zucchini and tomato bake, the chicken and pistachio pâté, the provençal beef stew, and the pear and almond cream tart.
But the cake. Oh, the chocolate cake.
It will make you want to slap somebody in happiness.
Or kiss your dog on the lips.
Or strip down to your undies and do interpretive dance.

Beware of the power of this cake.

Guess why I'm making it.

This little cutie pie is coming home from college for the weekend.
Hurray!
We will eat cake. We will clasp hands and do ring around the rosies in the kitchen.
Then we will do her laundry.
I can't wait.

Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky