Her name.

This is my dear, precious, best, bosom friend, Anna. In this picture we are juniors or seniors in high school, squeezing each other in the frigid football stands of a marching band competition. She played the piccolo, I played the clarinet.

And here we are with our other sister-friend, Rachel, around age 4 or 5. Anna would still rock those gold shoes and wacky hair bow today. Shamelessly.

Anna has been my friend since my memory begins. We were neighbors, children together, up on Chestnut Mountain. Way out in the boonies where no one else was. We slid down rocky creeks in just our Hanes Her Ways and picked blackberries along the road that was cut through the woods on our mountain. We swam in the muddy lake and got stung by yellow jackets in the summer. Our playground was a seemingly endless forest with fabled bobcats (often heard but never seen) and maybe even a bear or two.

She was home schooled for some of her elementary years and then joined me in 5th grade at our little public school. It absolutely made my year that my best friend was going to be in my class. We were inseparable into middle school. 

Middle school. As tragic as middle school is by itself, Anna also endured the loss of her mother to cancer. Carol was a beautiful, gregarious, welcoming, and artistic woman. It was devastating. Anna spent many nights with our family during that time, some of which I would wake to her crying. An awkward seventh grader myself, I would have no clue what to say. My mom was alive. 

With our mamas, Anna and Carol on the right.

We weathered middle school together, became women together. We liked some of the same boys and got in trouble for talking too much in freshman biology class. We both drove little white Toyota Corollas.

In late high school, boyfriends and youthful indiscretion (read that: underaged drinking of cheap beer) distanced us. Anna pursued the artistic gifts from her mom through photography. I pursued shallow popularity. A really cool thing happened, though. On the very last day of our senior year, it was like all of that had never happened. We fell right back in step. That tends to happen with true friends.

On Senior Day.

We continued on into different colleges, but remained very close. Anna obtained a degree in black and white photography and then another in art history. I chose elementary education. She was there for me when I finally realized the futility of partying and when I transferred schools because I just wanted to come home. 

She was there when I remembered Jesus. She was there to affirm that, yes, he is in fact the greatest in all of existence. And that's not to say she didn't have her own struggles with God. Her faith was deeper. Her's was wrought out of anger when he took her mom. The pain that she felt as a middle schooler, I have yet to experience.

She was there when I met Jim. She was there in the tiny apartment that we shared, already crying happy tears as I walked in the door because she knew he had proposed that day. She stood beside me on my wedding day as my maid of honor, holding my 800 pound bouquet of lilies and roses.

I watched her, in proud awe, as she boarded a plane to study art in Italy. She came home a different person, worldly-wise and fresh with adventure. Her strength, independence, and bravery are some of her greatest attributes. 

She shed more happy tears when I announced that I was pregnant with James. She stood outside the delivery room and was one of the first in to see us.

    

She remains one of his favorite people.

So when we found out that we were pregnant with a girl, we began the daunting task of choosing a name. (It was easy with James Walker Thompson the Fifth, for Pete's sake). But then, all of the sudden, it became clear. Of course she should be called Anna. 

Favor. 

Grace. 

My beautiful friend.

Anna is now finishing her graduate work in seminary to become a counselor. She has traveled to the Dominican Republic to serve others and regularly helps the needy in her area. She still loves the arts, but wants to be able to help people who are hurting. She is kind. Compassionate. Selfless. 

Strength and dignity are her clothing and she smiles at the future... and I pray that our Anna will follow in her footsteps.   

Watermelon and saying hard things.

I don't like cutting up a watermelon. Or a pineapple. Or even uncooked potatoes.

Twelve-year-old me, standing next to my mama chopping in the kitchen, she teaches me, "Sara, you have to have a special balance of confidence and caution when using sharp knives. Without one or the other you will cut yourself. Be strong but always know where your fingers are."

I try to remember this but my knees still get weak as I try to push a big knife through a cantaloupe. It takes practice.

Confrontation also makes me physically sick. I get queasy and tongue-tied and would rather do anything but tell someone something uncomfortable. But we are not to sacrifice our loved ones on the altar of comfort. It, too, takes practice.

I have to be confident and cautious. Confident that it is always right to tell the truth and cautious with my words. They have to be compassionate and edifying and helpful - not browbeating or condemning.

And with that, Ephesians 4 is a good read. May we learn to speak the truth in love and kindness to one another.

As a mama, how do I approach scripture?

I must admit, when I hear Christians use scripture in debate with atheists or agnostics, I cringe. I feel like I can see the other person stop listening.

Clearly the authority of scripture is a cornerstone of the Christian faith, but engaging with our world means understanding that not everyone recognizes that authority and may see it as silly-from-the-Dark-Ages circular reasoning.

Anyway, this post is not about that. This post recognizes all of those differences, but lands on the fact that I do hold scripture in an extremely high place in my heart and home. So reader, if you do not, this post is not for you.

But as a Christian mama, why should I make it a priority to study scripture and teach it to my children? Shouldn't it just be a private thing between God and me? Shouldn't I let them decide what they will believe on their own as they grow and mature?

After all, we wouldn't want to be these frightening parents...

As with everything, we must seek the balance. If I staunchly require James to read his Bible before he's allowed to eat breakfast, there's a problem. However, if he witnesses Jim and me reading and singing scripture because we find joy and comfort and truth in it, that is better - - and much closer to scripture, I believe. I want to teach him that we don't read scripture to know a book (and certainly not to model behaviors of a number of Old Testament characters) but to better know a Person. 

But how then will he call on him if he has not believed? And how will he believe if he doesn't hear? And how will he hear if his Mama doesn't tell him???*

So I will tell him. 

Broadly at first, with great resources like the Jesus Storybook Bible, wherein "every story whispers His name." Showing him the whole arch of the redemptive story, how it all fits together and points to Jesus. And with our wonderful Fellowship Kids ministry who so beautifully partners with us in simple monthly memory verses and activities. And as he grows, we can dive in more deeply, learning together what this great and mysterious book means to us. 

All that said, even if I were to choose to force scripture down his throat OR be more passive in hopes that he'll "catch" it, it doesn't matter. It's not up to me. I can do the best job within my knowledge and capacity as his mama and he could still grow up and curse God. And if that's the case, I will still utterly love him because I was loved. For while I was cursing and lying and giving myself away, God loved me. 

But perhaps one day - and I pray that it's so - James and Anna will meet the God of this book. Perhaps they will be given eyes to see and ears to hear how this God was Jesus and came to us and died and killed death and was alive again.  

And while it will be my greatest joy, the glory will not be mine.

(*Rom. 10:14, my words)  

The rain is gone...

After a straight week of frigid, gloomy, soggy, grey outside, our backyard is now drenched in almost white sunlight. Not a single cloud. An utter downpour of yellow.

I love being at home; a homebody. My body likes being at home.

But why, after only a few days that held a scant number of short errands or meetings that required us to venture out into the wet, are we itching to go? Cooped up. Cabin fever. Get me outta here.

Living room floor exercising or running the laps in pursuit of the squealing, delight-shrieking 3-year-old  is not enough. We need to go somewhere and do something.

A trip to the grocery store sounds like Disneyland.

We were not made to be sedentary. We need room and purpose and light and connection. Dark, cold, and closed makes us turn in on ourselves and sink deeper. That's why we sleep when it's like that. It's really one of the only profitable things to do then. Bears got it right.

Now, I love a good rain for repose. An opportunity to slow and snuggle. But the light brings uncoiling. Stretching and reaching. Let's go do something. Accomplish and breath faster.

And it makes me remember that we are to be "giving thanks to the Father...who has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of this beloved Son..."

And to look forward to the kingdom of light that is coming where there will be no need for a massive burning star because all the light will come from him.

Just from him. There, we will need no sun.

The age of fears.

Tucking in my boy...

James: Mommy, who's in heaven?

Me (carefully): Well, there are angels and God is there and --

James interrupts: No, like Ulku's daddy. (My friend whose father has passed away)

Me: Yes, people that have died are in heaven, too.

James: ... I don't want to go to heaven ...

Me: That's ok, buddy. It's going to wonderful and happy and fun there, but you don't have to think about that for a long, long time.

James: But I want to be here with you. In our house!  For a long, long time.

Me: I'll always be with you, buddy. Always, always.

James (grins): Always!


Jim and I have been trying to be aware of the age of fears (usually from 3-5 years old). Not allowing scary stuff on TV, even seemingly benign "tickle monsters" and the like. But a lot of the fearfulness, I'm finding, is simply James learning about the world around him. And the world is scary.

The lack of light at night is scary.

The reason we have to wear seat belts is scary. (Another one that was hard to explain.)

The other reasons that we have policemen, apart from the simple "they're here to help!"

The thought of dying is scary.

So as his questions are going deeper, my answers have to be truthful. And I can't pretend for him any longer that there are people who don't follow the laws. Or that car accidents happen every day.

This is hard, you guys! Of course I don't go all unabridged into every subject; it must still be age appropriate, but he's not satisfied with the comfy answers that I could provide even just a few months ago.

Older moms have told me that as your children get older, it's less physically demanding and much more emotionally and mentally taxing. Uh, yea! And he's not even four.

Praying for grace and wisdom as I try to impart the same to my babes...

In this particular moment

...I'm grateful for both babes taking their afternoon naps at the same time,

for the month of December in all of its flurry and happiness,

for friends that push me toward Jesus,

for family that encourages and loves me unconditionally,

for this cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows in it,

for The Lord of the Rings extended edition DVD set that we're borrowing from our friends that will give us at least a week of home date nights,

for tough situations in my life that make me pray,

and for the internet where I can share this gratitude with others.

Very revealing...

Anna is now a little over 2 months old. We are beginning to sleep on a somewhat normal schedule, helping me regain a little of what I remember as lucidity.

In these moments of healthier-sleep-induced-awareness, I've been able to reflect upon some things about myself. Some ugly things. Some very stinky, rotten things.

Having a newborn is a great way to reveal your true self, if you really want to see it. The parts of you that you tuck away for no one to see, ever. The monster that comes out when every back and arm muscle is aching and it's 2:30 am and she. won't. eat. but would rather scream right in my ear as I bounce and pace and cry right along with her. (I'm pretty sure every mama has been in that moment.)

Dare I say it, I think those nights are behind us for now. They went so quickly. Why was I so short-tempered? Yes, I know I was sleep-deprived, healing from labor, with a cocktail of post-partum hormones coursing through me... but somehow I hoped that I'd be stronger. That I was a seasoned veteran. Puh! Yeah, right.

Instead, I'm only reminded of the VERY thin layer of Sara Control. I can make it look good for a little bit, but when life pushes back against me, I crumple. My patience is weak and short. My idea of the depths of despair would be a day in the park to some. My point of hopelessness is laughable.

And the ugliest part that I saw was that I turn to myself for help.

Instead of laying my unattractive heart down to be washed and renewed in repentance, I picked it up myself and poured another cup of fix-it coffee.

On the other end of the first 8 weeks of another human's life (some of the most catch-your-breath beautiful and yet frustrating moments), I'm reminded again of His silent long-suffering.

Of His endless patience with my fussiness.

That He went deeper into any depths of despair that I could ever imagine, and came out the other side victorious.

And that He is hope. 



... linking up with GraceLaced today!