Reevaluating the Whole Parenting Thing

After all these years of living overseas, I still find myself in the role of learner and student, never the expert.  I'm not an expert on anything, but especially not in this whole business of raising kids on the mission field.  If I ever come across as a know-it-all, just because I've done it for so long, well - I'm not.  

Most often I feel like Sgt. Schultz on Hogan's Heroes:  "I say nothing.... I know nothing!"

On Sunday while the more serious football enthusiasts were watching the Super Bowl, I was enjoying a lovely coffee klatsch with a sociable group of lesser football fans.  The conversation flew from one topic to another as is typical among my friends.  At one juncture, the subject matter centered on cross-cultural child-rearing. Mostly I just listened.

Just as we all have our own ways of coping, surviving, and thriving on the field, either by hunkering down or blending in, or any other variety of ways mentioned in a recent blog post by Rachel Pieh titled, 3 Types of Expatriates, we also have our own personal parenting styles and methods of raising children on the field. 

Some will attempt to thoroughly immerse their children in the culture, sending them to the local schools in the local language.  Some will keep their kids primarily in the expat community and English speaking schools, with the emphasis on preparing them for life and university in the U.S. someday.  Some will keep their kids at home, teaching them in English with the focus on joining in ministry opportunities when they arise.  Others will choose a combination of the above.

It’s all well and good.  Each couple must decide for themselves which approach is the best for their particular situation and their individual children.  There is no one right answer for every missionary family.  The trouble comes when we start looking at each other and passing judgment on others’ decisions that conflict with our own.  Thankfully I live in a community with a healthy amount of tension that results from differing opinions and experiences, minus any overt criticism.

  
Once again I refrain from offering the one-size-fits-all solution.  I’ll just emphasize that it’s a tough decision that needs to be re-evaluated regularly.  Just because one approach worked for a while does not mean we can't change it later.  Whatever you choose may leave you with doubts and regrets.  How’s that for a depressing thought? All we can do is pray, seek godly wisdom, and agree with our husbands on the right path for our unique families.
  
For me, I am in a season of reevaluating whether it’s time to drag my three teens out of their comfortable little bubble more frequently, take more forays into Indian villages, and force them to take more cross-cultural risks.  

How about you?  Where does your family fit in the cross-cultural continuum?  Are you happy with your decisions?  Ready for a change?  Do tell.  And do any of you dare to call yourself an expert on raising a family on the field?  I'm just curious.

The good news is that most of the time, third culture kids turn out just fine.  I cling to that hope.

 

IRL:  Still struggling with the desire to be an “expert” in this whole raising kids overseas, while admitting I am really just learning it all with you.

Is It Worth It All?

Many years ago dh* and I mastered a pithy formula for those occasions when someone suddenly says, “Come up and give us a ten-minute summary of your mission work.”  We were always prepared to give a spontaneous presentation broken down into various 2-minute story segments.

 Usually my husband would start by presenting the concise nuts-and-bolts module – who were are and what we do.  Then I would give a thank-you module, followed by a prayer module or a miracle module.  Oh, how people love to hear the amazing way God works on the field! 

Toward the end of our rehearsed/impromptu talk (how's that for an oxymoron?), one of us would give a slightly longer module we call the is-it-worth-it-all module.

In that portion of our presentation, we would talk about some particular challenge we had faced or some enormous trial we had endured, and we'd conclude with a story of what God has done in our hearts and in the lives of the people we serve, causing us to marvel and say, “In spite of everything, it has certainly been worth whatever small sacrifices we have made.”

This past week I’ve been thinking about the “Is it worth it all?” part, and I still come to the indisputable conclusion that, of course, it’s been worth it to live and raise a family on the mission field.  No regrets.  Well, not many.  Okay, I’m not altogether sure, but I think it’s worth it for me, but not so sure if the children would agree.

My one area of insecurity is home schooling.  I know without a doubt that God gave me the grace and desire to teach my kids at home.  In 1990 it was a no-brainer.  I had to teach my own kids because we lived in remote locations without any other educational options. 

In the spring I will boast (by God’s grace) of having five home school graduates.  That leaves just two kids at home.  Thankfully my son is attending high school in the city full-time, leaving me more time and energy to focus on my soon-to-be 14-year-old.  Unfortunately, the MK school does not have the needed support to handle her language disability/ Apraxia.

Without divulging details, let me just acknowledge that I am weary.  It’s one thing to home school by choice, and a whole 'nuther thing to home school by necessity.  I know in my head that “God’s grace is sufficient” for each day and each challenge, but in reality, it sure doesn’t feel like it some days.  Teaching has become a chore, and I don’t feel very creative, loving, or grace-filled like before.

I’m asking myself hard questions like “Is it worth it?” - but I’m not coming up with any automatic response like “Of course it is!”  I’m just not convinced.  Maybe this youngest daughter would have fared better in the U.S. under capable teachers more equipped to instruct her.  I don’t know.   

This seems to be the road God has taken us, but I’m pretty intimidated approaching four years of high school when I don’t think I’m doing such a stellar job any more.  This sounds terrible, but (whispered) I'm secretly ready to move on to ministries outside the home where I don't feel so inadequate all the time.

How about you?  Do you have an instant affirmative answer to the “Is it worth it all” question?  Any areas of insecurity you’d change if you could?  Are you ever ready to jump ahead to the next season of life?  

IRL* Maybe we all need to be infused with power and hope again, especially when the cost seems high, and we're not sure it's worth the struggle.

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Stifling ... Contradictions

Ah, the satisfaction of a good healthy sneeze.  My mom, bless her heart,  tends to sneeze embarrassingly loud with a lusty WA-HOO! And consequently I've spent a lifetime trying to stifle mine. 

In case you’ve never tried this, it’s painful to swallow a sneeze, and inevitably it results in a high-pitched hiccuppy squeak that sound more like "tee-ew" than "kerchoo," which is equally embarrassing to offspring.  (Ask how I know.)

One day not so long ago, I was home alone when I felt that urge to sneeze.  Instead of my usual attempt at a silent execution, I let it out.  I mean, I gave a  big ugly ol’ kabptlowzhooy that would put my mama to shame.  And you know what?  It felt good.  I never knew a sneeze could be so satisfying.

In her defense, Mom had no clue she was inadvertently teaching me that sneezes were bad, no clue that her unladylike blasts had turned me off to the point of permanent avoidance of sneezing and the perpetual pursuit of a dainty sneeze when absolutely unavoidable.  

Now - again - I am on the other side of the equation.  Having older children highlights many interesting revelations.  I pray that each child will find ways to overcome personal oddities caused by overreactions to what they perceived to be truth when they were younger.  In the meantime may they own up to their misunderstandings and not blame them all on me.

Any way you look at it, kids jump to the wrong conclusions.  Case in point: if you and your husband kiss and show affection in front of them, one child might say “Ew, gross” and vow to never do that when he grows up.  If you choose to only embrace in the privacy of your bedroom, another child may battle an irrational fear that his parents are on the verge of divorce.  You cannot win.

Contradictions abound.  Based on what they see and hear,  I fear my children might grow up to be stingy and selfish.  I mean, what are we teaching our kids when we say things like...  “...don’t share your hairbrush or baseball cap; you might get head lice,”  “...don’t let friends eat after you or drink out of your water bottle; you might get the flu or hepatitis, ” and “...don’t give to (that) beggar or he will just use it for drugs or alcohol.” It sounds so ungenerous and un-Christian.

Oh, the conflicting messages of childhood. 

Then there are the many cultural contradictions we convey.  At times I hear my own voice planting negative seeds with exclamations like “Hurry up!  You don’t have to be so Mexican that we are always late.” 

Okay, it's your turn now.  Which of your oddities do you contend are your parents' fault?  For those of you with children, do you feel like confessing how your kids have come to mistaken conclusions from lessons you never meant to teach?

Can we undo the damage we've already caused?  More importantly, is it worth hashing it out with our grown kids, at the risk of letting the proverbially suppressed sneezes explode?  I wonder....

IRL*  Is there any such thing as a happy balance between kerchoo and kabptlowzhooy?  

**************************************************

Just for fun, I've compiled a list of sneezy sounds from other languages that I found on the internet.  Feel free to add to the list.
 

ah-choo (English)
ap chkii (Russian)
atchim (Brazilian Portuguese)
hatschi (German)
hakushon (Japanese)
achís (Spanish)
aak-chheen or aak-chhoon (Hindi)
a-psik (Polish)
Han-chee (Chinese)
Itush (Hebrew)
Kychnut (Czech)
Wa-hing (Indonesian)
A-tchouin (French)

ha tsjoe (Dutch)

Hatsing," pronounced "hut-CHEENG" (Tagalog)

Ecciù (Italian)

Atsjo! (Norwegian)

 

Love 'em, Dread 'em, or ...?

What do you do about Sundays?  I remember the conflict dh* and I had back in our infamous “Jungle Camp” training, when the leaders disallowed Sunday services as a group.  The intent was to train us to find our own ways of worshiping and self-feeding, considering most of us would be allocated to places without the option of an English church service.

There we sat with open Bible and a tiny baby in our arms, trying to “do church” by ourselves.  Of course the luggage restriction (one suitcase and one apple box apiece) had been filled with cloth diapers and baby things, so we had failed to bring even a small hymnal.  It was an awkward and unrewarding experience each Sunday of “camp.”

Sure enough, once we arrived in our Guatemalan village assignment, we were faced with the reality of no viable church options.  Often we attempted “church” by ourselves at home.  Sometimes we were blessed to receive sermon tapes from supporting churches.  Then the post office went on strike and we received nothing for many weeks and months, forcing our return to sleeping in on Sundays self-feeding again.

Other times we attempted to join local indigenous church services.  Those were always educational for learning about the people and culture, but rather disappointing if we had hoped to actually worship.  For me, it was the slow torture of sitting on a hard bench with no backrest, trying to keep a one-year-old quiet in the women’s section, while Jim sat across the room with the men, unable to help me out.

Being pregnant at the time, those long services always meant at least one trip to the outhouse with a toddler in tow, and then convincing him (and myself) to go back into the tightly packed pew reeking of the same cook-fire smoke and sweaty feet that sent me to the outhouse in the first place.

Then there was the Sunday we were in the Mam-speaking church, and my baby suddenly decided it would be fun to start showing off his “what-does-the-Indian-say?” trick, patting his little hand over his mouth while making LOUD woo-woo-woo-woo noises.  One by one the other toddlers and babies started copying him. 

Watching to see how the other mothers handled it, I saw them give their papoose (colorfully typical “Mobi” wrap) a tight yank, whereupon each child became quiet instantly.  Not mine.  I had to waddle out into the dirt yard, sit on a stone, and wait out the service with my incorrigible (though amusing) baby.

Those were the days…. Since then we have tried Union Church, home church, local church, Mexican church in the city, and everything in between.  Currently we are back to another “union church” of sorts, using podcast sermons from the Internet, which we watch and discuss with other ex-pats in our community. 

At one point we recognized the irony that we had come to this country so indigenous people could worship in their own language – yet we were requiring our own dc* to worship in their second language.

How about you?  How do you feel about Sundays?  Love ‘em?  Dread ‘em?  Or are they just one more painful reminder that “We’re not in Kansas any more”?

IRL:  For me, “sleeping in on Sunday” is still a weekly temptation no matter where we live.

Drastic Shift in Perspective

The party’s over.  A sensational week with my granddaughter and all my children has come to a close.  All I’ve got to say (well, not exactly all I have to say, but with every attempt to keep this post brief) is that things sure look different waving bye-bye from this side of the security gate at the airport.

When we used to kiss my parents goodbye, taking precious grandchildren far away, I never fully understood the anguish I was causing.  Now I get it.  (I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.)  Boy, do I get it.

Another thing I want to add is how much easier it is to trust God for protection and provision in my own life than in the life of my adult children.  Back when we were driving around the Guatemalan countryside in the midst of a civil war, was I concerned?  Not much.  We were all together, and God was there to protect and provide.

Now that my kids are the ones driving through Mexico on their way to serve as teachers at the MK school close to us, it looks a bit different.  Are you sure that’s a good idea to drive instead of fly just so you’ll have a vehicle once you get there?  Okay.  (Never mind that we used to drive all the way to Guatemala through Mexico with quite a few children.)

Suddenly I’ve had this drastic shift in perspective, and it’s making me think and trust on a whole new level.  I guess that’s a good thing.  Come what may, I have chosen to simply trust God.  Just because I’ve started gaining victory over some pesky sins doesn’t mean I have to make way for new ones.  Worry is a sin.  I hereby vow not to go there, at least not regularly.

Ugh.  Either I can trust my kids in His hands or I can’t.  It seems so ironic to start worrying now after all we’ve been through.

How about you?  Have you found certain things you used to take in stride are suddenly triggers for serious concern or even alarm?

This summer while in the States I watched an old rerun of Leave it to Beaver.  It’s funny how I used to identify with the kids on that show, but now I watch it as a mother and grandmother, and it’s a different show entirely.  Those dumb kids.  What are they thinking?

When it comes right down to it, I’m more comfortable reading the seemingly-dumb-kid side of the script than the reasonable-adult role. 

Either way, I think it’s much easier to be the one boarding the plane than the one waving good-bye from the other side.  That’s my opinion, and I’m sticking with it. 

IRL* Thanks, Mom, for loving us long-distance all these years.

The In-Between

One of my most memorable prayer letters started out with the shocking announcement that Jim and I were splitting up and leaving the children at the orphanage.  The truth is that while I was going to Canada for a son’s graduation, Jim was making a trip to South America, and a friend in Mexico was keeping the youngest kids for a few nights in the children’s home where she worked.

This summer is sort of like that.  The family is split up and all over the place.  I’m getting a small preview of the empty nest, which has its benefits to be sure, but it feels so unnatural.  The girls have been visiting their niece and older siblings for a few weeks, and Jonny, our youngest son, has been working with an older brother in another state.  We are all over the place geographically.

Meanwhile I am spending four consecutive weekends in four different states during this whirlwind summer tour – slash- “home assignment.”  Jim and I welcome the simplicity of traveling together, just the two of us, but it still just feels odd.  When I think of it, nothing feels right any more.

Next week is our designated time to have all the kids “home” again, although we aren’t really going to be home, but in at our temporary home base in Ohio.  Even having all our adult kids back together isn’t exactly natural.  I trust it will be wonderfully fun, but it’s just not the norm any more.

After that I will be in Dallas for a long weekend visiting with my mom and siblings in the house where we grow up.  We can’t wait to be together again like old times, but nothing about it will seem normal either.

A side of me just wants to fast forward and be home, at my own house in Mexico, looking at photos of the summer, sorting it all out in quiet devotional times.  Right now I am getting weary of too much food, too little exercise, too many thoughts and too little solitude.  Summer trips to the U.S. are like that. 

My heart cries out for normal, but as my international friends keep reminding me, “Normal is just a setting on the dryer, and most of us don’t even have a dryer.”  There is no such thing as normal.  Not until much, much later.

What I am experiencing this summer is sort of the in-between phase between big family and empty nest.  What I am living here on earth is this unnatural in-between thing between earth and heaven.  I feel it strongly.  My heart yearns for a normal that doesn’t exist outside of heaven.  For now I only get glimpses every now and then.

Scripture says that all nations will hear the good news, “… and then finally the end will come.”  I’m clinging to that truth.  That’s what keeps me going when the kids are scattered all over the globe and home doesn’t feel like home any more.  That’s what gives me strength to be so far away from my precious grandbaby and aging mom and dmil.

Like you, I desperately long for the end to come, but at the same time, I want our loved ones overseas to hear the good news before He returns.  Until then, I keep striving ahead, muddling through the unnatural junctures of life, and embracing the reality that I am doing something worthwhile.

One lie saying I keep hearing this summer is “It’s all good.”  It’s not true yet, but it will be someday.  No one can convince me that “it’s all good” to be so far away from so many loved ones.

IRL*My diet this summer is like my life, it’s not all good, and it’s not all normal or natural, but it’s all for a good purpose.

Furlough Boot Camp: Getting the Lil' Soldiers Ready

Getting ready for a summer furlough is so much easier with only three children who are actually not children, but teens. It's an amazing blessing that they can each pack and carry (!) their own bags, decide what books and music they need for the trip, and even go to the store on their own for whatever snacks they might want for travel days.

In the early days I used to put the little ones through "furlough boot camp." To prepare them for a season of being completely thrown out of their routines, I would make the preschoolers take naps in strange places around the house. No more comfy cribs or familiar beds. I would put a blanket and pillow somewhere on the floor and say, "Nighty-night," and leave them to figure out I meant business. This did help once we were on the road and staying in different people's homes because they were accustomed to going to sleep wherever and whenever I told them.

During boot camp, no matter what food I served them, they were not allowed to comment unless they really liked it. They were never to beg for seconds unless I specifically offered them. They had to say please and thank you with a smile on their faces. I trained them to respond to a discrete snap of my finger, wave of my hand, or lifting of an eyebrow. We'd make a game of "coming quickly when called." We even practiced walking in tight formation so we wouldn't appear to be as big a family as we really were. Each older child had a younger one they were responsible for, and the middle child was responsible for the diaper bag (or dog when we were dumb enough to travel with a pet). By the time we left for furlough, we were looking good!

With this said, I must confess that I took the "training exercises" a bit too far, and pridefully drilled into my children how to be perfect little house guests. After all, we wouldn't want unruly children destroying the houses where we would be staying. Seriously! We do need to train our children, and furlough is a good excuse to go into high gear. On a deeper level, though, God only knows my true motives were nothing short of arrogance. I didn't want to risk anyone seeing what we were really like. Instead I painstakingly taught my children to become little hypocrites, acting the part of loving, well-mannered Christians, when their hearts were not quite there yet. I am sorry for that.

It wasn't until after I read the book Shepherding a Child's Heart (which I HIGHLY recommend, by the way), that I became convicted about only working on the outer appearances rather than focusing on heart issues. From then on I vowed to discipline my children for the purpose of training their hearts to fear God, not merely to make Mom look good in front of her friends. I'll never forget the time we went up with one teen and his big ol' afro, and other teen with his long stringy hair. It was still a struggle to not consider "What will people think?" but I forced myself to look at it from God's standpoint. No sin was being committed. Their hearts were good. Why should I require a haircut just to please our conservative support base?

Ironically, it wasn't until I stopped being so paranoid about our "real selves" being revealed in the presence of our supporters that people began to connect genuinely with me. I once had a woman tell me that she used to berate her children after we passed through as house guests, saying things like, "Why can't you be more like the Loker kids? They never...." Oh, my, what damage was done due to my pretense of having well-behaved children? This same woman was quite relieved on a later trip we made to the States, when she saw my children acting like the kids they really were, and even not acting very "Christian" (read between the lines: they were fighting!). Then she began to talk to me on a deeper level. No pretense. No shame. Just honesty. It was a good thing.

With that said, I have heard some frightening tales of things missionary friends' children have done on furloughs that made me glad I had trained mine to be inhumanly perfect. (Ha! Like that's possible.)

Maybe you can flesh this out with some real life experiences of funny things your children have done on furloughs.

IRL* The flip side is that I have fewer stories to tell.

Magnified and Scrutinized

Something weird happens whenever my grown kids visit. It’s taken me years to pinpoint the short-circuiting in my brain, so bear with me while I attempt to articulate this discovery. Even if you have no adult children, you might experience this with other visitors from the U.S. I know do.

Normally I live my life in a state of acceptance of things-as-they-are. Not everything about my marriage, family, and home is ideal—not by a long shot; but I somehow arrive at a position where I simply overlook the bad and focus on the good. It’s called survival. Or like the motto in my mom’s kitchen that sums it up in another word: “whatever!”

Then these adults-I-used-to-call-children come home, or in the old days, my dmil would come to visit. Suddenly every flaw becomes magnified. It’s not that these people are necessarily criticizing (sometimes they do), but something in my head shifts gears, and like the emperor in the fairy tale who suddenly realizes he is wearing no clothes, all of a sudden I feel ashamed of myself, the people closest to me, and most of all, my (can I say crappy on a Christian blog?) house.

This has been going on for years, but it wasn’t until I was talking to a friend who experienced the same phenomenon this Christmas that I began to see the pattern. Love overlooks a multitude of sins. Peace in the home for the long haul requires large doses of selective blindness, don’t you think?

It’s not until others are watching that it starts to bug me.
 

Why do I put up with this? Why have we never painted that? Why, oh why can we not fix that crazy drawer that has never opened properly? Why have we allowed this child to get away with such-and-such a habit? Why does my dh… Nope, I’m not going there. Worst of all, why do I always….

You get my drift.

Again, it’s not that our visitors necessarily say anything about anyone or anything. Just seeing things through a different lens is what I don’t like. Our marriage, family, and home are fine most of the time, as long as no one is looking too closely. I guess that’s why having guests can be so stressful. Suddenly all our oddities, imperfections, and interactions are under scrutiny.
 

After a month of having dd here, and two weeks with ds and ddil, we are settling back into life-as-it-was. I want to make some changes so that we don’t settle for mediocrity when we should be striving to be the kind of people and have the kind of home that can be scrutinized and found godly in most respects.

This week I splurged on four new pillows to replace the ratty ones I subjected my adult children to over the holidays, hoping that will help future guests overlook all the other quirky things about my home and family. Next we need new mattresses, some better sheets that don’t come from K-mart, and towels that aren’t all shredding and sun-rotted. And then…. Where does this all end?

IRL* Praying for grace to accept what cannot be changed (others), and strength to change what I can change (myself), also patience to accept what I cannot afford to change, and finances to pay for what needs to be changed.

The Teen Years: Comedy? Mystery? Or Terrifying Suspense Novel?

In a perfect world…

Fill in the blank. The past few days these words keep repeating themselves in my head, and I can’t decide if it’s an altogether healthy exercise to imagine such a place.

On the one hand, it’s always good to be reminded, as we said a couple of weeks ago, that this is not our home. On the other hand it’s disconcerting to realize that even among the body of Christ we are still so far from what we should be. Will the world ever know us by our love?

For the past thirteen years I have had the dubious distinction of being the mother of anywhere from one to four teens at a time. In June it went from three back down to two as my dd turned twenty. This month it goes back up to three as my youngest turns thirteen. Whoopee! (The finish line is in sight.)

Facing the teen years with the seventh is no less daunting than the first time around. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those doom-and-gloom “just wait till you have a teenager” kind of moms. The truth is that I love, enjoy, and appreciate my children more at this stage than I did when they were so little and needy.

What makes parenting older kids challenging is that their struggles are bigger and deeper, and somehow more is at stake. As a mom, I see their unique gifts and personalities when others seemingly don’t. Nothing in life pains me quite like watching my children blunder through the social maze of a supposedly Christian circle.

Seeing how they apply the Word of God (or not) in each situation, holding my breath to see if they even attempt to respond in a Christ-like manner, I don’t know - the drama is like a comedy, a mystery, and a terrifying suspense novel all wrapped up in one. So far the older four have all made it through relatively unscathed, still loving their parents, each other, and God.

The jury is still out on the youngest three. Sadly this is the time they become acutely aware that this is anything but a perfect world.

As a mom, I know what they might expect. Nothing less than what Jesus experienced – people misunderstanding him, rejecting him, pretending to be friends while plotting against him, mocking him, and using him for their own benefit. At the same time teens have a villain whispering lies in their ears that they are not smart enough, attractive enough, or good enough.

At first glance, this may not seem like a unique dilemma to raising kids on the field, but the stakes are so much higher. We’ve seen several families who have had to go back to the States for the sake of their teenagers who were making poor decisions or who had been hurt in some way. None of us would be so foolish or bold as to say that could never happen to us.

It’s a scary place out there for our teens, spiritually and emotionally if not physically. It’s enough to keep me humbly on my knees and in the Word. Our MKs don’t have to be casualties in the battle we have waged with the enemy.

IRL* Let’s keep them covered in prayer, shall we?

Party @ Jamie Jo's : Y'all Come!

As some of you have figured out, I live in a location with many missionary colleagues in close proximity. It’s my tradition to throw a big Christmas party every year. One neighbor loves to call me “the hostess with the mostest.” Sometimes I graciously thank her outwardly, while swallowing the ungracious responses that pop into my mouth. “Yeah, the most dishes to wash afterward, the most stains on my furniture, the most migraines the day afterward….”

When we were in Guatemala twenty-some-odd Christmases ago, I remember a certain hostess who fully expected young couples to hire a baby-sitter for parties at her house, which were clearly "for adults only." I used to take offense at her stance, but now I understand. I really do.

Equally clear is the memory of the family-friendly Christmas party I hosted that same year. I was aghast at one mother’s unruffled attitude as her son took a piece of chocolate cake and ground it into my rug with his little foot. She smiled innocently and said, "Boys will be boys" to which I retorted (with a less-than-genuine smile), "And mothers will be mothers and clean up after them!"

It's all well and good that children be allowed to be children as long as parents remain parents and don't leave the poor hostess such a huge disaster to clean up after the party's over. Within the missionary community, I'm afraid that isn't always the case, which is also why, I suspect, some people simply refuse to invite children into their homes. What a shame.

Now that I have no little ones of my own, I hope I have grown less peevish about spills and messes, but I admit I still need to work on my heart that cringes when children come over for parties. Too many memories.

Is it sinful pride that makes me crave a nice orderly house? Is it selfish to not want neighbor children to destroy my house? Or is it simply good stewardship to try to protect my belongings? After all, I know what agony we endured to find each and every piece of furniture and rug, which we carefully selected and brought from the city, and even the support necessary to buy them. I don’t know. There has to be a balance. All I have is a gift from the Lord, and on my good days, I acknowledge that it all belongs to Him. I want to claim none of it as my own.

Nothing challenges this resolve like a good old Christmas party. Next week I’ll have to have my head examined heart checked. Again. I just hope I can be gracious and not just act gracious. I hope the snarky remarks don’t even appear as a thought bubble over my head like in the cartoons.

IRL* The party is set for December 20. If you live close enough to come, you are welcome, kids and all!

Introspective Mini-Funk

Who am I fooling? Here I had promised to be “real” with you, and then I find myself tippy-toeing around the issues I’m facing, tempted to sugarcoat them. Frankly I am feeling swamped. Too much to do, too little time….

Maybe some of you experience that this time of year. Thanksgiving is over, and the rest of the year flies in double time and ends before you’re ready. Particularly in December I become nostalgic and just want to scream at the clock to STOP, if not just slow down or even rewind a bit. At the very least I want time to stand still for an hour or so while I recover from the jet lag of zooming through seasons of life so fast.

Last week my baby turned twelve. That alone was enough to throw me into an introspective mini-funk. After 25 years of being a mother, I am beginning to see the end in sight. Just like the month of December, I know it’s going to speed by in fast motion. Meanwhile I am mourning the loss of four children who have grown up and moved on.

With so many serious crises in the world and people dying without knowing our Savior, it seems petty to complain when my life is so blessed, but that is the reality. It still hurts to face the holidays with only a partial family. I am thankful my two college kids will join us, but still, only seven of us around the table for Christmas dinner? That seems tragic somehow.

Now I understand how my own parents must have felt when I flew the coop for foreign lands. They never complained or made an issue of it, but mercy, this stinks! Back when I had four children under six years old, I used to laugh when those older missionary ladies would sigh and tell me, “Enjoy them, sweetie. They grow up so fast.” It made no sense back when my one goal was to teach them to tie their own shoes, but they were right.

Now that I have whiled away the morning whining over what can’t be changed, I really must get back to the “to do” list. The trouble with time speeding up all of a sudden is that I can’t find enough hours to properly prepare the Bible study in Spanish for Fridays. What was I thinking when I committed to do that?

Then there’s the progressive dinner for the MK teens I volunteered to help host, and the chime choir to direct for different Christmas programs, the short story I had hoped to submit for the WOTH Writer’s blog, and the prayer letter that needs to be written and sent before the end of the year. I expect some of you are in the same dilemma. Maybe you aren’t even reading this until weeks after it was posted. I understand.

IRL* Like it or not, December has begun, the fastest month of the year.
Another book suggestion for your Amazon wish list: A Lantern in Her Hand, by Bess Streeter Aldrich, my all-time favorite book. She “gets” the too-fast passage of time as well as the challenges of settling far from family and friends.

Cinnamon and Sandwiches

Another true confession.

I used to try to manipulate my kids' memories of their mother by purposely doing amazing things that I was sure would win me a place in the Missionary Mom Hall of Fame. Things I could imagine my children remembering fondly after I die. Things to place me on a pedestal right up there with Edith Shaeffer, Mrs. "Art of Homemaking" herself.

One of these fabulous feats was to start every long road trip with fresh homemade cinnamon rolls. Yes, just for the sake of future glory, I began a tradition of making a big batch of cinnamon rolls the night before we would leave for a journey to the States (see sidebar for recipe). I would put them in the fridge to rise overnight, and then first thing in the morning, I would pop them in the oven to bake while Jim finished loading the car.

Then the children would experience the indescribable blessing of waking to the amazing aroma of cinnamon rolls, which would soon permeate the car as we piled in and prepared for breakfast on the road. What a wonderfully devoted mother I was, right?

Ah, it's a fond memory to me even now. I love cinnamon rolls!

Unfortunately, my kids don't see it that way. What they remember (besides the long grueling 20-plus hours in the car before reaching Texas) is regurgitating those lovely cinnamon rolls on the first stretch of barfy, curvy highway. One child in particular still cannot stand cinnamon rolls because of that negative association. Walking through a mall and smelling Cinnabon does not stir up fond memories for her, but evokes a gagging sensation instead.

Even worse, this same child cannot stand sandwiches for the same reason. Living in Mexico, we seldom eat sandwiches for a quick easy meal. Instead we tend to eat beans and rice, quesadillas, nachos, or leftovers. (Okay, and even cereal when Dad's away.) But seldom sandwiches unless they are tortas (hot submarine-type sandwich made on a bolillo--like a French roll--with smashed beans, avocado, Oaxaca cheese, tomato, jalapeno, and sometimes a slice of lunch meat or scrambled eggs with chorizo - yum!).

On a long car trip, I would make tuna or egg salad, and simply make the sandwiches as we needed them, so we wouldn't waste any uneaten sandwiches. I would also take along a few peanut butter sandwiches for the first day on the road. That's the only time they remember eating sandwiches, and the memory grosses them out.

Great. Now I have children who hate not only cinnamon rolls, but sandwiches, too.

IRL*So much for manipulating memories...

Memoirs of a Bad Mother

On my favorite home school support forum (provided by Sonlight Curriculum – see the side bar for more information about SL), someone on the international forum recently asked us veteran moms how old our children were when we allowed them to leave the house by themselves.

It never occurred to me what a horribly negligent mother I was until I started typing my answer to this e-maginary friend.

The truth is that I let my oldest two boys walk to the corner to buy fresh tortillas when they were about three and four years old. Usually I went with them, but if little brother needed attention just then and I didn’t want to carry him, I would send the boys on their own. What was I thinking?

Oldest children are born half-grown-up, just because moms like me are so clueless and trusting. I am so thankful God protected them. Even with my seventh, I used to let her walk a beaten path through the desert to a friend’s house (the distance of about two city blocks) when she was only about eight years old.

Nowadays things are different. Life isn’t quite so safe in these parts any more. I had to laugh at myself when I fretted over the possibility of our single houseguest having to take a city bus by herself, when I had let my own daughter take a bus to the dentist in the city with only a little brother for a bodyguard back when she was 15. Now I am concerned about a 23-year-old?

Then there was the time I sent my 17-year-old daughter on a plane by herself to the Philippines to help out a family for seven months. What was I thinking? I never considered there could be a glitch in the scheduling, requiring her to spend one night alone in a hotel in Tokyo, that’s for sure.

I guess the bottom line is that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone my method of child-rearing. Maybe it helped the older four adjust to college in the U.S. and Canada, having been so independent for so long. But still, looking back at all the what-if’s gives me the shivers.

Our houseguest has moved into a more permanent housing situation with a roommate now, and I am trying not to smother her with my motherly counsel, but still I can’t help praying for her safety each day as she travels to the school where she teaches and back.

I hope my college kids have a mama nearby, worrying over their comings and goings. I’m thankful for ddils watching over my oldest two sons, who survived their childhoods with little help from their negligent mother. At the same time I am trying not to restrict my younger three kids beyond what is healthy, even in these uncertain times.

Last week’s brief funk sent me back to the Word. This week’s worries are sending me back to my knees. Both are good places to be.

IRL* Discovering my apparent developmental delay in the area of motherly instincts and child preservation.

Time Travel

Why do I find it so difficult to live in the present?

Maybe I'm just not busy enough, or maybe I'm not disciplined enough to remain in the here-and-now. For some reason I forever find myself either rewinding the tape to relive, examine, and critique scenes from my past, or else I am fast-forwarding it to pre-play future events, trying out different possible scenarios.

For instance, I picture myself staying here in Mexico, growing old together with Methuselah*, and having grandchildren take turns coming to visit during the summer. I'll show them all the places their parents used to play, and read our favorite stories to them. (At this point in my pondering, if I'm ever careless enough to wonder aloud, Jim, I mean Methuselah, will jump in with some ridiculous comment like, "What will you serve for lunch that day?" or "What outfit will you be wearing?") Argh.

An alternate ending I dream up (usually after he bursts my bubble with some stupid remark) is of me as a widow living out the remainder of my old age in some unknown location. This particular ending gets less frightening the more I preview it. There is no terror in facing the uncertainty of the future because whenever I fast-forward the tape, in spite of all the blank scenes and potential tragedies, the one constant feature is that Jesus is always by my side. I take great comfort in that.

I used to joke about writing my entire life story in advance and then complaining about my kids' refusal to follow the script! (They were all going to be the perfect kids, and I, of course, the perfect mom....) Actually it's twice as fun my way, because I can dream and imagine one ending, and then enjoy the real story as it unfolds. God's story is always better than my imaginary one. Imperfect kids and mothers are more colorful and genuine than perfect ones.

How about you? Have you ever done mental gymnastics like burning your house down and then imagining which things you would miss if you lost them forever? Have you ever peeked into the future, not liked what you saw, and then made some changes to avoid turning into that person, or to avoid facing that preventable problem? Or just flitted to the past or future simply to find joy that eludes you in the present?

Then again maybe the rest of you are too busy to play these zany games. In your defense, living one day at a time is actually scriptural. And look hard enough, you’ll find plenty of joy and even hilarity right in front of you. No time travel required. Maybe I’ll try living in the present tense for a while, and stop dreaming about driver’s licenses I don’t have yet.

What a novel idea.

IRL*fast-forward or rewind, I'm still pushing "play."

*please refer to sidebar dictionary [Jamie Jo-speak] for the definition of starred item.