Sunshine on a Cloudy Day: finding contentment in the monotony of parenting

When I woke this morning, the raw, cold drizzling rain was sputtering outside my bedroom window, trickling like tears down the panes of glass, blurring the view into my backyard. I wanted to stay in bed, but, motherhood was calling. Occasionally, the sun has tried to poke through from behind the darkness, raising my hopes each time. I’m cheering it on because I need it to brighten my mood and not just my day. As I walked around my house this morning picking up strewn pajamas, inside out with the underwear still in them, off the floor, wiping breakfast bread crumbs off the counter and putting away the 15 dolls (really, 15?!) taken out by my girls for 2 minutes of play before they hustled off to school, I reflected on how this weather pattern accurately represents how I used to feel about my role as a mama and homemaker. It’s not that I didn’t love being a mother to my three kids, it was just that sometimes I hated the parts of motherhood that didn’t actually involve much mothering at all. I love the nurturing side of motherhood; the cuddles, holding hands on walks while having sweet little conversations, bedtime stories. It’s the repetitive, mundane, mind-numbingly boring tasks that would get to me, like the hours spent cleaning up my kids’ morning messes once they were off to school, then repeating it all again for afternoon and night messes. The endless laundry that never earns a check-mark on my task list because it’s never fully done. Driving everyone to fun activities while I sit and watch. Making meals that someone always complains about, scrubbing toilets, grocery shopping, etc etc and finally, realizing that I still have days, weeks, and years left of all this. I needed a new perspective; I needed my sunshine on a cloudy day.

I think part of my perspective problem began when I was just a little girl. I was raised in a poor, single-parent home without many opportunities. The first seven years were spent down a dusty dirt road in central Florida where we played in the summer in the dirt and orange groves and were called white trash at school. The next seven years were spent in the inner city of a tough neighborhood in eastern Massachusetts where we played stick ball in mill parking lots and were called street rats. We didn’t participate in any after school programs or activities, as Taylor Swift would say, like never ever…ever. Most of the time we didn’t own a car to drive us anywhere, and we had no money to pay for anything even if we could get there. We walked home, did our homework, our daily chores, then played outside with whatever daylight was left. I just kept thinking that one day my life would launch and I’d finally get to go off and do something interesting, something important, something fun, be someone. I was b o r e d. After high school, I went to college for a year and a half before I realized I couldn’t actually afford to be there. I dropped out and within 2 months had found a humdrum full-time job as a bank teller, waiting for my college loan payments to begin. Shortly thereafter, I was married, still working full time and also learning how to take care of my home. Two years later, when I was 24 years old, our son was born and my life as a full-time homemaker and mother began. My life had hardly launched; there had never come a let’s-see-what-I-can-really-do season of time where I got to explore life and opportunities before I found myself in my permanent role of caring for and supporting everyone else.

Over the next 10 years I had two more children, and each time I watched the clock restart on my perceived freedom- when I’d finally get to go discover myself, pursue my interests, become something. This was presumably going to take place when the kids were at a more independent age, in school full time, less needy of me. I would get to have a life, find myself, go back to college. When my last daughter was born, I calculated that time would come when I’d be around 45 years old, another 10 years away (insert frown face, the one with a dripping tear). This realization overwhelmed me. I felt like I was looking at my future through the backside of binoculars, it just kept getting further away. From 22 to 45 years old, the best years of my life; it would total 23 years of doing the same thing, locked in this role that everyone else seemed to define for me, bringing me further from any sense of myself. It seemed like years of my life were being robbed from me that I could never get back. I’d be going back to college so late, entering the workforce with years of experience missing. After being with toddlers for years, I even doubted my ability to string together a sentence that sounded professional and contained two-syllable words. My vocabulary had certainly diminished. Again, I dearly loved my kids, but it just felt so unfair, so empty, spending my life making sure everyone else could fulfill their potential, be happy, be supported, entertained, cultivated, and cultured when no one was doing that for me. That last part was the part that really bugged me. It was also where I was the most mistaken.

With honest reflection, I could look back and clearly see that God had never stopped taking care of me, giving me very unique experiences and opportunities, teaching me who I was and showing me his endless love for me. I just couldn’t see what he was doing with me now. I wanted God to show me my purpose for today. I needed to know I wasn’t just a cog in the wheel of someone elses life; that he had made me with a specific purpose too. Why did he make me love science and philosophy, writing and astronomy, piano and finance if all I was ever going to do was cook and clean? I felt like a race car sitting in a barn, waiting for my chance to rev my engine and take off, but all I ever did was beep my horn and turn on my wipers. And then a few things happened that helped me change my perspective.

The first happened during one sporadic bible reading devotion. I say sporadic because quiet times didn’t really exist in my house. Once, somewhere in the middle of raising two rambunctious toddlers, I remember becoming determined to rise early and start my day in prayer and bible reading, but my youngest had plans of her own. With her supersonic ears, she woke at the slightest sound, matching me hour for hour, minute for minute with her early rising. I would tiptoe out to the living room, grab my bible and coffee and would just get settled in on the couch when she would toddle out and climb up on me, bouncing on my stomach, rumpling the pages of my bible, spilling my coffee, and demanding breakfast. I wanted to give up before I began. It seemed like I never had a moment to myself. However, on one rare occasion of solitude (probably in the bathroom with the door locked), I sat and read my bible with a desperate plea in my heart for God to help me. I felt like I was drowning in motherhood and I needed a life raft. I had read it before, but this time as I read Matthew 6:33, it just jumped out at me, or better, into me. Its message filled me with hope for my own future, as well as a purpose for my day to day. It reads, “But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” The paragraph that contains this verse in my bible is labeled “Do Not be Anxious”. It all just hit home for me. I felt God urging me to embrace this season of my life and trust that if I kept seeking first God’s kingdom, then I could trust God would add anything and everything to my life that he intended for me when the time came. Even if I was a no-name, in a small town, with no connections and almost no marketable skills, I could trust that the creator who made me knew the potential he had knit into me and he would open the doors when it was time. There’s no wasted time when you are pursuing God’s will. God reminded me through his word that I would not get lost in the shuffle. Through each day of cooking, cleaning, and trudging through the often mundane responsibilities of homemaking and motherhood, I was newly encouraged that I could seek his Kingdom in how I honored and cared for the blessings in my life today, that I could model a Christ-like attitude for my children this moment, and I could find purpose in the privilege of getting to serve my family right now, because he had my future in his hands. Tomorrow didn’t have to make me anxious, because I once again trusted that God had a plan for me.

My second revelation happened through a series of articles and interviews I read over the course of a few months. They were in different magazines and on various channels, but I kept seeing and hearing the same thing. Highly successful people being interviewed, revealing that the one thing they wish they could go back and change was having more time with their kids, their families. Here I was, having that opportunity every day and realizing I was often resentful and overwhelmed, wishing these tedious years away. With newfound hope for my future through Matthew 6:33, I also heard the second part of God’s message for me through these people who were living the kind of life I often wished I could be living. I listened to them talk, not of their great career successes, discoveries, and accomplishments, but instead, of lamenting their time lost with their loved ones. I heard over and over, “I just wish I had spent more time with my kids.” I became more determined than ever to make the most of this season of my life with my children. I would purposefully engage and become a part of their world and experiences and leave a joyful imprint as often as I could. I wanted to listen more and talk less, taking in all their little nuances and ever-growing minds and hearts. I knew that I was going to be here doing household chores for a long time, regardless of my attitude, but my children would grow up and be gone one day and I wouldn’t enjoy these years with them unless I changed my attitude. It would stretch me, but I would keep trying, seeking, and trusting that God was right there with me.

It wasn’t until I was able to release my fears for my future to God that I was able to embrace the gift of the present. I’m realizing He’s not just “adding unto me” in my future, He’s adding unto me the joys of right now.

Matthew 6:33- “But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you.”

3 Tips On How To Protect Your Children From Sexual Predators And Empower Them To Help Protect Themselves.

It was mid-afternoon and the school nurse was conducting the scoliosis checks behind the white screen that had been set up in the class. A girl who was my friend stood in the line that ran down the side of the classroom wall with her arms crossed, visibly upset. When it was her turn, the whole class heard her from behind the curtain. She was refusing to lift her shirt and bend over for the nurse. She was loud, obstinate, and defiant; she wouldn’t cooperate. Her fight or flight had been triggered and she was not backing down. “No! ” she said. “You can’t make me! Don’t touch me! I won’t do it and you can’t make me!” she argued. The class sat there listening, shocked by her brazen opposition to authority, but something inside me knew what was wrong because I had seen it before. I wanted to get up and tell the nurse to stop, to just leave her alone because this wasn’t about her spine, it was about her heart. Someone had hurt her and she had put up boundaries because of the pain, distrust, and shame in her heart. Later, on the playground, I gently asked her about it and she warily opened up. She said her mother’s boyfriend used to come into her room at night and abuse her and now she couldn’t stand anyone touching her. Although he was no longer living in their house, I encouraged her to talk to a grownup about it because I knew her pain wasn’t over simply because he was gone.

I don’t have a doctorate or a degree in this, but I do have experience. In fact, when I look back at my childhood and recall all the sexual predators that were around, I’m still nauseated by the sheer number of men with child predatory histories and behaviors. I wasn’t targeted by all, but I saw their ways, their techniques, and it was all very similar. Also, I know it’s not always men, but they were the main offenders I witnessed but what I’m writing pertains to all predators. Most of my friends had been abused or had a sibling who had, and I saw patterns and similarities in the stories that I continued to hear through the years that made me think hard about the preventative measures I would put in place for my own children. I didn’t want to live my life making decisions out of fear, but I did want to be smart and diligent with the information I did know. So here are a few things I have learned to help, and I say help because nothing is a guarantee, to keep my kids protected as they grow.

1) Make sure you REALLY know who you are leaving your kids with:

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen parents leave their vulnerable children with people they didn’t really know because they were in a pinch for childcare, or were assuming that the so-and-so’s were a nice family. They care about their kids, but they aren’t aware or considering the high risks each child faces with being abused by someone they know and thought they could trust. So we need to really be familiar with the people with whom we leave our children. Let me explain what I mean by “really knowing” someone. Knowing someone is not about proximity, recognizing, hearing of, or even seeing often. Let’s say you have a neighbor. You exchange pleasantries, she’s sweet to your kids, and every so often they play in her yard; but this doesn’t mean you really know her, at least not the things you need to know. You need to have a real feel for what goes on in her house, with who is in her house, behind closed doors. You need to be completely certain of the character and integrity of anyone who will be around your child in a house, or at least know that the main person watching your kids will be just as aware, diligent, and concerned with your child’s safety and whereabouts as you would be while you are away. That might make for a short list of babysitters or houses your kids can go over to play or sleepover, but in this case, there is too much on the line to be negligent in this area. This goes especially for very young children that you can’t yet inform about warning signs or boundaries (more on that later). You need to know people in a way that comes from witnessing them over a good period of time and really learn and observe how they interact with your kids before you can trust them enough to leave your kids with them.

Here are some things to look for. Watch how much they touch your kids. Are there lots of hugs, cuddles, nuzzles, or whispers unsolicited by the child? Watch where they touch your kids. Is there frequent tickling, hair touching, or restraing/wrestling disguised as play? Pay attention to where they go with your kids. Do they often suggest moving away to private rooms or areas with your child to “show them” something new or “give them” something special? Watch how much time they want to be with your child. Do they constantly volunteer to babysit or take your child out for special time? Watch what they say to your kids. Do they love telling secrets or maybe undermining mom’s rules with a “better idea”. These are just some of the behaviors predators will use to groom your kids, especially in front of the parent, all the while conditioning your child to believe that this is safe and normal because mom/dad is cool with it. Do these things always point to an intention to abuse? No, but they are often part of the warning signs easily overlooked when a child is being groomed for abuse. Look for these signs especially in babysitters, coaches, neighbors, family members, family friends, church members, but know they aren’t limited to this list. And trust your gut, if you just get that feeling that someone or something is off, trust your intuition!

2) Establish healthy boundaries for your kids, and make sure others know them and respect them:

Anyone who watches my kids knows my rules. I have them for my kids’ safety and protection and I don’t bend them for anyone. For instance, I don’t make my kids give kisses, hugs, sit on laps, anything physical unless they feel comfortable doing so. My kids are taught to be polite, loving, and respectful but physical interactions are not forced because we should all have autonomy in this area, even little ones. This helps enforce the idea of feeling personally comfortable with the types of touch and affection we give and receive and that it’s ok to say no.

Another boundary I have is privacy. My children and caretakers know there are areas of privacy we uphold in our home such as bathrooms, showers, sleeping spaces, and personal areas of the body. Very few caretakers can help my young children in those areas. This minimizes the risk opportunity for my children. My children hear me tell people our rules out loud and I check in with them later. I have talked to my children from a young age about the importance of privacy and boundaries. Thankfully they are old enough now to know that something is off if anyone tries to contradict that, but they won’t be old enough for some time to fully understand the purpose behind the rules and see the wisdom in following them themselves. Which is a nice segue to my last point about boundaries.

Young children should never be expected to uphold boundaries all on their own. We can inform and educate them but in a real-time experience, very few children can hold up against the manipulations of an adult, or even thier natural curiosities with another youth or child who may have malintentions. They just don’t have the maturity to navigate that yet. As my son once told me when he was 6 or 7 years old, “Mom, I know you have rules for me, but when I’m at someone else’s house, it’s just easier to follow their rules.” Point taken. Children don’t always know what’s good for them, even if they’ve been told. Here’s a for instance about a boundary for my young girls that they push back on every time: When they have friends over (sleepovers are rare in our home), they know that every child will have their own sleeping space. This means no bed sharing because beds are a “privacy space”. But that still doesn’t stop them from asking if they can all pile into the same bed to sleep every time. Although I don’t consider natural curiosity of children to be predatory behavior, it is something to be watched and guarded because you never know what experiences another child has had, possibly from a predator, that they may try to recreate with your child in the darkness, under covers, during a sleepover. I wouldn’t have thought of this myself if I hadn’t heard so many sleepover nightmare stories over the years. Children may understand stranger danger, but they don’t expect danger to come from a friend, so it’s important to make boundaries and stick to them. This allows everyone to still have fun, but with a buffer from the real dangers that are out there.

3) When protecting your child, you have to think like your child:

The last tip I want to give is only that, a tip, not a shield, not a promise of protection, just a tip. But I have seen it work for my own kids and I think there’s something to it worth sharing. I have modified what I tell my kids about predators and boundaries as they age, but when they are young I tell them the same thing. I say, “…these are the boundaries, this is what is appropriate and what’s not appropriate, and if anyone asks you to do what mommy and daddy says you should or shouldn’t do, come and tell me right away and I will give you a prize. Even if they ask you not to tell us, if you tell me, you won’t get in trouble EVER, but you will get a nice prize. But NO lieing, if you lie, you will get in trouble.” This dialogue doesn’t excuse me from my duties as a parent of being vigilant and watchful, but I’ll tell you what it does help to do, it gives my child immediate incentive to come to me. Since I know I can’t be in all places at all times with my children, this gives them the motivation to come and tell me what I don’t see or hear. If they report something small I thank them for telling me and I give them a small prize and help them discern whether it was a risk or not. If they report something concerning, I look into it right away and give them a good little prize for telling me. Predators, and even some children who have been affected by predators, are good at convincing your child to go along with what they have in mind. If the bodies natural response to sexual touch is not motivation enough for a child to stay quiet, then sometimes threats or shame are enough. The thing is, a child often doesn’t realize abuse is abuse until they are older, because it can feel good while it’s happening. In fact, most predators count on that because it can keep the child willing to keep the secret and coming back. But then shame is triggered once you realize what was really happening, and you can feel like it was your fault because it felt enjoyable. This can lead to years of emotional pain. So yes, I will do whatever I need to do to give my kids the motivation to come tell me anything that might be a danger to them. Offering an immediate incentive of a prize, which is how a child thinks, has been enough of a motivation for my young children that I already know for certain has served to protect them and the boundaries we have set. I strongly encourage you to find a motivation that would work for your kids.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where abuse is a reality. For whatever reason, some people end up with evil sexual perversions and they direct them at children, our sweetest, most innocent members of society. For this reason, I will read instructive books and articles, listen to people’s personal experiences, have planning conversations with my spouse, watch informative shows, and do my very best to stay educated so I can have a plan to help keep my kids safe. There are no guarantees, but I am confident that I am doing my best, and that’s all any of us can do. I hope this has helped you consider your own parenting plan to keep your kids safe, because they need you to.

Ephesians 5:15-17 “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”

Oh, The Places You Will Go

It was the fall of 1997 and I was coming home from a summer missions trip to Africa, excited to leave for college. I had applied to only one college, Oral Roberts University in Tulsa Oklahoma. “Why only one?” you ask. Because filling out college applications is really hard. I didn’t know what I was doing and getting all the forms, fees, financial information, and required documents together for even one college felt like an impossible task to figure out, alone, at 17 years old. But I was also pretty confident this was the school for me. It was where I belonged. And I had a very good reason to believe this, a miracle in fact.

I was a great student all through school. I loved learning, especially Science and English, and with the exception of a class here and there, my report cards showed the effort I put into school. After all, a college education was going to be my ticket out of poverty. I was going places, and Tulsa Oklahoma was just going to be my first stop.

During my junior year of high school, my youth group at church had gone to an Acquire the Fire Conference in Massachusetts (led by Ron Luce, an ORU alumni) and ORU had a booth there handing out information cards. I filled mine out on the spot and turned it in. Not long after that I got my admissions packet in the mail and began the tedious process of gathering the required documents. Financial information was especially stressful because I had no idea how I was going to pay for college and the concept of financial aid was all new to me. I felt like I was reading another language, and Google and smart phones weren’t around to help me figure it out. I just kept praying that God would help me find a way. If he didn’t, I wasn’t going.

I had read in the ORU packet that in order to get a Freshman Academic Scholarship I would have to score a 1050 on my SAT. I absolutely needed this scholarship for all this to work. I had received a $500 scholarship from a local bank but that was it. I was going to have to sign up for loans for the rest of it so I knew a lot was riding on my SAT score, and now is probably a good a time as any to mention that I have never been a good timed test taker. I was as nervous as a turkey in November on the day of the test. After it was done, I had no idea how I had performed, no way to gauge weather it had been enough. Well, it wasn’t. I don’t remember the exact score, something like a 1040, but my heart sank when I realized I had missed it by such a close margin. I was so disappointed, especially when it occurred to me that all my friends would be leaving to go off and start their own journeys at college, and I was to remain behind. I had felt so confident that ORU was where God had led me. How had I gotten so much wrong? I felt like a fool for even daring to dream.

I can’t remember exactly how long after the test scores came back that I received the letter in the mail. I just remember opening the envelope and reading that for some reason, some glorious reason, the SAT people were awarding an extra 50 points on my overall SAT score. Maybe they had discovered an error on the test, maybe they were grading on a scale, I don’t know the exact reason, but I do know my test score changed and now I had the score I needed for the scholarship. I truly felt like God had reached right down and rescued me, putting me right back on the path I belonged, and I was so very grateful. When I couldn’t find a way, God found a way, because he does that. He helps those who help themselves, but he also helps those who can’t help themselves.

I loved my time away at ORU and I have never forgotten the Lord’s provision for my life at that time. I loved my classes, my new friends, being away from home and growing more into myself, and all the new experiences that can come from going away to a great college. But most of all I just reveled in the feeling that I was right where I was supposed to be.

Proverbs 16:9

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.

When Luck Had Nothing To Do With It

Some lucky winner in South Carolina just won the single winning Powerball lottery ticket valued at 1.537 billion dollars. I almost never play the lottery because I believe, when played on a regular basis, it’s a waste of money seeing that statistically I have a better chance of being killed by a vending machine than winning one of the major payouts. But when the lottery gets “1.6 billion dollars big”, I can’t resist purchasing a $2 ticket for a chance to dream about what it would be like to win. I spend a few nights not knowing if my ticket is the winner, and in the meantime I have some fun imagining what I would do in the fat chance that it was. I dream about having a house on the ocean, limitless learning and educational options, travel, charity, the ability to relieve financial burdens of family and friends, and just the endless opportunities and possibilities that that kind of money would bring. But alas, I was not the big ticket winner this time. However, all of the recent hype about the lottery did have me thinking about a time in my life when I scratched and won, not everything I wanted, but just exactly what I needed at the time.

I was about 15 or 16 years old and a sophomore in high school. My family’s financial situation was pretty much the same as it had always been; not much money to go around for the things we needed, and definitely not enough to go towards anything extra, so I found myself praying as I walked home from school on this blustery early December day. I was frustrated and feeling burdened by the all too familiar circumstance of wanting to participate in activities, but not having the money to do so. I was tired of feeling like a charity case, tired of trying to scrounge up money for things, tired of being poor really. So I poured all of this out of my heart to God as I walked down the sidewalk that lead to our second story apartment situated halfway down the street.

The previous day at church I had read in the announcements that the deposit to attend snowcamp with the youthgroup would be $45 and was due the next week if we wanted to attend the camp in January. I was used to the church pitching in for me, but I hoped to at least have the deposit to contribute. Also due was the $15 per person ticket price to attend the church’s annual Christmas Banquet. It might as well have been $150 because I couldn’t come up with any of it. I was still trying to figure out what I could do about it all as I climbed the front steps of the house to grab the mail before I headed upstairs.

The family who lived downstairs was away visiting with relatives on the Cape and had asked me to collect their mail for them as well, so I grabbed the contents of both boxes and retreated from the cold to our apartment. I noticed we had gotten the blue ValPac envelope in our mail which contained coupons for community stores and businesses. This only mattered because sometimes there were free vouchers for a $1 lottery ticket inside. While standing over the heating vent to bring feeling back to my face and hands, I called my neighbor downstairs on her cell phone to say hi and tell her about the various pieces of mail they had received. She said I could throw away their ValPac and a few other pieces of mail. Before I ditched it, I opened it up and ruffled through the coupons, happy to discover that the lottery voucher had been included that month. Now I had two!

I was technically too young to play the lottery, but I had found that the convenience store down the street had let me get a ticket with the vouchers before, so I figured I would go to the same place and hope for the best. As I walked, I prayed and asked God to help, promising him that if I won anything, anything at all, I would use it towards the deposits I needed. After “purchasing” my two free tickets I quickly walked home, with a nervous excitement about the possibility that something big could happen with these tickets in my pocket. I sat at the dining room table feeling a little like Charlie Bucket with his Wonka Bars. Penny in hand, I scratched the first card and then the second. Brushing the gray dust from the surface or the cards, I sat staring in awe at the tickets on the table in front of me, first checking then double-checking all the numbers. It took a moment to sink in. I had consecutively won first $45, then $15 on the two tickets that lay before me. Chills ran up and down my arms as I sat there in astonishment. I still get the chills each time I tell this story. In that moment I had a lot more than just my deposits. I had an assurance that I was seen and heard, and that my life and worries mattered to the creator of the universe. And that felt so very good.

There are several moments in my life where I have felt complete Peace, Love, Joy, and Hope all at the same time, and this was one of them. The minutes following felt electric, because I was still absorbing the realization of the miracle that had just happened to me, for me. It wasn’t the first time or the last time I would experience a miraculous answer to prayer like this. And I look forward to sharing those stories, soon to come.

Philippians 4:19- “But my God shall supply all my needs according to His riches in Glory by Christ Jesus.”

Food, Glorious Food

There is a line in one of the opening scenes from The Glass Castle where Jeanette is wrapping up a dinner with important clients. The waiter asks if she wants her food to go and she says, ” Yes, and I’ll have hers wrapped up as well,” eyeing her clients half eaten plate. Her fiancé quickly says, “She’s just kidding!”, to which Jeanette replies, “No I’m not, I never joke about food.”

One of the strongest impressions from my childhood is the constant presence of hunger. The dynamic of poverty is complicated. It is a circumstance that is part systematic and part psychosomatic, and probably other parts I don’t know about too. Both of these need to change for that circumstance to truly improve, but when you are just a kid, you have control of neither. It’s not that we never had food in our house, it just wasn’t consistent, and my body wanted to consistently eat. When we were in elementary school, we could have those teeny tiny bowls of cereal at school in the morning with milk. That would only hold us over until about 9:30 am but it was better than nothing. I remember my cafeteria in Mineola had posters of athletes up on the wall and Mary Lou Retton would peer down at me reminding me to eat my Wheaties. I never much cared for that cereal and I never became an athlete either, but I ate whatever was put in front of me, if just to end the growling in my stomach.

We also had “free lunch” coupons available to us at school. When the new little yellow booklets came out, Ms. Hogan would help me sign my name to each one of those precious golden tickets that ensured my next meal. At home it was a sporadic rotating menu of Denty Moore beef stew, Hormel Chicken pot pies, hot dogs, and ramen noodle soup. In third grade our pediatrician had my mother leave the room. “Honey, does your mother feed you at home?” he asked, looking over at the nurse as they silently navigated this delicate territory together. “Yes, sometimes, when we have food she does,” I answered as honestly as I knew how. Later, I heard him telling my mother that my sister and I were grossly underweight. He, or somebody, enrolled us in a government program shortly thereafter where a huge block of cheese, a giant tub of peanut butter, and containers of powdered milk, would get delivered to our house. We were like little mice, the way we ate off chunk after chunk of that block of cheese, never quite able to finish the whole block before the mold got to it.

It was an absolute gift when somebody from our church or the Salvation Army would invite us over for a holiday meal, or bring us a bag of groceries. I would fill up on turkey and mashed potatoes and green olives, and just the sensation of having a full belly of nutritious food felt so good. I never want my kids to know the kind of hunger I experienced as a child and into my teen years, because it was more than just the pains of an empty stomach; it was like a knowing that the very ground I stood on was shaky and unstable and could fall away at any moment. And now, part of that poverty mentality stays with me, and the compulsion to make extra food, or bring every last leftover home from a restaurant, or buy double or triple of everything, just in case, even when having money for food hasn’t been a problem for years, is still so strong inside of me it drives my behavior like an auto pilot that kicks on when one of my poverty buttons are triggered.

So these two thoughts are where I will end. First, through whatever institution, whether church, government, or good old fashioned friendship, I’m thankful for the food we were given as children. I love love food to this day, and have had to try to appreciate quality and not quantity during my mealtimes, or this girl could have some pretty serious health issues. Food is never far from my mind, even this many years later, I don’t miss a meal, and I don’t waste food. But as a child, food was a basic necessity for a successful day of learning, a sense of wellbeing and nourishment for propper growth and development, and it was a link to the humanity of others who took responsibility for children who were not their own. So keep your eyes open for children or families in need, especially as we enter this holiday season, because it’s a kindness and a relief that is so needed and not quickly forgotten.

Lastly, weather it’s poverty, abuse, unhealthy expectations or any other system you were caught up in during your childhood, it’s always a good idea to ask yourself why you are still motivated to continue with certain patterns of behaviors or mindsets that maybe should have been improved or relinquished long ago. Do you over- spend on trivial things now because you didn’t have enough growing up; Do you run your relationships with stern command, always having the last word, because you didn’t have a valued voice when you were little; Maybe you make decisions out of fear because you weren’t protected; Or possibly you are a work-a-holic because you are determined to find the worth, validation, and opportunity you ached for as a kid and didn’t receive. Spending a little time in self reflection can do the body and mind so good, and when we understand the “why” of our behavior, it’s easier to change the “how” of our behavior.

I thank God for his provision in my childhood. I am thankful for all the people who gave or donated, cooked or baked, invited or delivered. I am thankful for the lessons hunger taught me and the awareness it awoke in me. And I am thankful for the continued growth in my spirit as I reflect on the stories of where I’ve been to where I’ve come.

Galatians 6:10 So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith.

Kindness is a New Pair of Shoes

I attended Minneola elementary school from K-2nd grade before we moved away from Florida to Texas. The school sat on a few sprawling acres slightly to the south of the Citrus tower and north of Lost Lake. I loved how, at recess after lunch, I could climb the slight slope on the northwest corner of the playground and sit under a big tree and hear the church bells chiming their beautiful songs off in the distance. I also remember my teachers, Ms. Narscico, Ms. Polly, and Ms. Winter like it was yesterday. Ms. Narscico was my sweet kindergarten teacher with a fun, engaging classroom where I learned my nursery rhymes, counting to 100, the 5 little pumpkins song, and where we helped the Farmer in the Del take his wife, cheese and farm animals somewhere in the Dairy-O. In first grade, Ms. Polly had us doing crafts, learning to read, and doing science experiments where I brought in a last minute can of moldy cat food that elicited lots of “Ewwws”! In second grade, Ms. Winter focused on math and science. She was nice enough most of the time but if you crossed her she could be as mean as a hornet. I remember one time, when she mistook me for the talking little girl behind me, she came over and told me to shut my mouth. When I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t me talking she grabbed my hair by the top of my head and whipped my head around so hard I peed my pants on the spot. She called me up later to the front of the class and apologized to me, admonishing me not to tell my mother what had happened when I got home since she had so graciously apologized to me after I had been so naughty. Unfortunately, I never said a word.

I loved this school and recall most of my experiences here as very positive ones. Even the school principal, Mr. Cory, stands out in my mind as someone who showed exceptional kindness to his students. I remember a school fieldtrip to SeaWorld where each student had to give around $15 to go, but my family couldn’t come up with the money so my sister and I weren’t scheduled to go. He called me into his office and said that since I had a good report from my teacher, he was going to pay for me to go, but not to tell anyone. I didn’t realize it then but teachers do stuff like this all the time. Even though they are paid far to little, so many are willing to take from their own pockets to buy their students what they need. Thank God for teachers like this, I hope they all get a special blessing for the many unseen things they do.

I learned this first hand one day when I was 6 or 7 years old, and having a bit of trouble with my shoes. A boy in my class had pointed out the floppy holes in the tops of my shoes. I looked down and suddenly became overwhelmingly embarrassed. I decided right then and there that my shoes belonged in the trash. Isn’t it strange how something can seem fine and normal to us until someone else points it out as wrong, and then it’s like a blinking beacon of shame like Rudolph’s nose. Waiting until my class walked back to the classroom from recess, I found the nearest trash barrel and threw my shoes right in. Only now I had the dilemma of getting through the rest of the day barefoot, but I figured I could try to tuck my feet under my desk and maybe no one would notice. I remember walking away from that trash and praying in my heart that God would help me get another pair of shoes. I just didn’t know he’d work so fast.

I believe that God often uses the right people at the right time to answer prayers, and I believe that is what happened this day. As I passed the main office on the way back to class, I glanced inside because the door was wide open. This was odd because I was used to seeing this door shut, probably for air conditioning reasons. I made quick eye contact with the school secretary who promptly called out my name and said hello. I stopped long enough to wave back when she noticed my bare feet. “Joy, where are your shoes?” she asked. “I threw ’em away,” I answered, trying to sound as casual as I could about it. “Why on earth would you do that?” she countered, with a tone of confusion and disbelief. “Because they were old,” I said, a growing awareness that maybe I was in trouble. “Show me where you threw them away,” she said as she rose from her desk and came to meet me in the hall. “You can’t go barefoot in school and you can’t throw away your shoes just because they’re old,” she said in a kind but firm voice. I led her to the trash and she peered in. She paused. “You’re right, those do belong in the trash,” she stalled, taking a moment to consider her options. “Do you want me to call your mom to bring you another pair of shoes?” she asked. “I don’t have another pair and we don’t have the money to buy any,” I said, stating the facts as I knew them. “Well… (another pause) …I’m not supposed to do this but why don’t you come with me. I’ll bring you to KMART for some new shoes, but you can’t tell anybody they’re from me, ok?” It sounded like an excellent plan to me. I hadn’t expected my prayer to be answered so soon but I was tickled pink to be getting a new pair of shoes within the hour. I distinctly remember the excitement I felt standing in the shoe aisle as I chose a white pair of sneakers with rainbow sparkle shoelaces. They were the prettiest sneakers I had ever seen. On the way back to school I sat in the back of her car and tried to think of what I should say. “Thank you. Umm, my mom will pay you back when she can. And I really like my new shoes,” I said. “You’re welcome, and you don’t have to pay me back. Tell your mom not to worry about it honey,” she smiled.

I walked back to my class feeling 10 feet tall. I just knew my shoes looked great and I felt like a million bucks wearing them. A few friends noticed and asked me where I got my pretty shoes. “I can’t say, it’s a secret,” I whispered. This only stirred up more interest and intrigue than I had intended but I held my ground. Later when I got home, my mom stressed a little about my shoes. “Aw maaaan. Where am I going to get the money to pay her for those shoes,” she fussed. “She said you don’t have to pay her back,” I assured. “I know she said that, but I’m still going to have to give her something,” she answered.

They spoke the next morning and said whatever grown-ups say in those situations, thank-you’s and reassurances and quick hugs, and then life went on as normal. Well, almost normal. I had learned a few lesson that would stay with me my whole life. I learned that God was watching over me and making sure others were too, at just the right time. I learned that the unexpected, undeserved kindness of others is important for those in need, if only to be reminded that they matter and are seen, which was a gift more valuable than any pair of sneakers I could receive. And I learned that when you experience that kind of kindness, you in turn can do the same for others when you are able.

1 John 3:17 But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother/sister in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?

The Roots of Miracles

Welcome! I believe there are so many amazing moments that happen in a lifetime that it would be difficult to write them all down, but these stories are what I consider “the telling parts” of my life, because they are too good not to tell. I have told them to friends and even some strangers over the years and I’ve been told countless times that I need to write them down, so here I am, finally taking their advice. The truth is, I’ve wanted to write them down all along, I just didn’t know where to start. They are precious stories to me, not just because they are my personal experiences, but because they are a powerful testimony of God’s love and power, and I want others to be encouraged and strengthened by them. I’m almost 40 years into this journey and so much has happened, so deciding how to begin, how to lay a foundation for the context of my experiences, seemed daunting. That being said, I’ve decided that since this is a blog and not a chronicle, I will give a brief history of my early years and then get into some really great stories. So, this is the beginning, not so much of my life story but of my faith story, which is really where everything else that matters came from anyway.

What’s in a Name

I’ll begin when I was about 2 or 3 years old. Due to deteriorating circumstances in my parents marriage and finances, my family (consisting of my mom and dad, two older sisters and I) had just moved to a run down trailer in upstate New York from our modest, single family home in a sweet little neighborhood of central Florida. The trailer had no heat or hot water and was never meant to be a long term residence, but it put a roof over our head in the meantime. There, as my family unraveled over the spring and summer of 1982, my long term memory was taking note of the world around me. Some of my first memories are of living in this trailer, for the six or so months that it lasted, probably because it was such an extreme change from where we lived before. I was only a little girl, but I have vivid memories of a bear on the steps of this trailer as we pulled into our driveway late one night, and of me secretly eating watered down dirt, (caused by what I now know was Pica) that I imagined to be chocolate pudding, in the woods around the property. I would contract a parasite called Giardia from doing this and was admitted to the hospital for a week to treat it. I remember cold water tubs that my mom tried to make temperate with hot water from the stove. I can still see in my mind where I sat and played with a doll on the floor, trying to figure out the buttons, zippers, and laces on it’s clothes, as my father snuck to the screen door, bribing me with the package of M&M’s in his hand, to unlock it and let him back in after one of his random disappearances that could last for days at a time.

It is also here that I first remember my family sometimes calling me “naked J-bird”. I heard it so often, I thought it was one of my actual names, and so I answered to it regularly. I believe it was a phrase in a song at the time, but since it suited my streaking tendencies and fit with my first name initial, it stuck. Whatever the reason for the nickname back then, I’m using it now for my blog because it describes me in a way that is accurate for these stories. These are the naked stories of this J-bird, as transparent and honest as I can remember them; some from the early years of my life and some more recent, but all are my truth as I remember it.

The Seeds of Faith

I first remember hearing the stories of the Bible when I was a young girl in Sunday school in the town of Clermont Florida, where I was born and spent most of my early childhood, back when it was a small, sleepy suburb of Orlando. There were miles of orange groves, the Citrus Tower, and Lake Minneola where we cooled our tan little bodies during what seemed like a perpetual summer. I had the same 3 or 4 Sunday school teachers that rotated from week to week and our church family was so close that we called people aunt so-and-so and uncle-so-and-so even when we weren’t related. I remember the disappointment I felt when I learned, at eight years old, that none of these people were actually my relatives. I was so sad because I desperately wanted to be forever connected to them, and had preferred believing that I was. They were really good people, the best kind actually, the kind that practiced what they preached and paid attention to each others needs as best they could even when it put them out. My early church family taught me that nothing was beyond the reach and power of God through prayer and bible lessons and their faith and love put into practice. I believed with all my heart that God was real, that he knew me, and that this little blue eyed, blonde haired girl, living down a long dirt road in the middle of the orange groves mattered greatly to Him.

The Roots of Miracles

The roots of miracles began to grow when I was about 4 or 5 years old. I accepted Jesus into my life one late, sweltering June night at a Wednesday children’s church service at the red brick Christian Missionary Alliance Church my family attended. That night, when I took my first step towards God, I felt an immediate Joy come alive inside of me, like something that had been sleeping came suddenly awake, and I still see that as a genuine experience because as a child and I had no expectations of how that prayer would make me feel. After that, I really began to pay attention in Sunday school because I was curious about this new relationship with God. Some of my early thoughts about faith were humorously optimistic, like if I just prayed to God for the Devil long and hard enough, I could short circuit the whole broken, evil system that had begun ages ago and change things back to good. I was going to help save Satan’s soul through my fervent prayers. My Sunday school teacher encouraged me not to waste too much of my time focusing on this. But there were other truths and beliefs taking root deep in my heart and mind based on the real experiences I was having in my life through prayer; truths like God was good, God cared about me; and God was present.

By the time I was 4, I was being raised by a single mother with my two older sisters. We had left my father behind in New York and we were back in Florida living well below the poverty line. By “well below” I mean our $30 a month rented apartment down Cherry Lake Rd. was roach infested, with cement floors throughout. We had more bouts of head lice than bouts of non-head lice, such that when they checked our heads at school, I just wanted to skip the whole stomach churning process of being checked and weeded out in front of my classmates, and just assume the sitting position against the cold, cement wall with the other kid’s with chronic bugs and wait for our rides to come get us. When we couldn’t afford the lice medicine, my mother had us lay down on the truck bed and hang our heads over the tailgate while she soaked our hair with kerosene. It was old school, but effective. It killed the lice and a few brain cells I’m sure.

I remember times when I was between 5 to 7 years old, my stomach growling so long and loud, that the bowl of salty, crunchy dog food sitting on the kitchen floor became irresistible. I would share it with the dog and the roaches that had taken up permanent residence at the bottom of the dish. Another time I remember, during a cartoon commercial break, I opened the refrigerator for a quick snack, and found it starkly empty except for a container of mustard, so I ate spoonful’s of it until the growling stopped and I could get back to He-Man. I can still hear my mother’s voice as she said to us, “Girls, I can’t provide everything you need so you are just going to have to pray to God for it. The Bible says that God will be a father to the fatherless, and since I don’t have anyone helping me raise you, God will be your father.” And I believed her.

I know there is a verse in the Bible about having faith like a child, and that’s really how simple it was back then. There were so many big needs in our life that I didn’t pray for ponies or dolls, just mostly the essentials like food, safety, shoes, and help for the times when we were so deep down stuck in a jam, with no one else to ask for help, that prayer was our only hope. I remember some of my first prayers being for our truck and/or our lawn mower, both of which were always breaking down. I’d watch my mother walk the fine line of trying to restart the engines without flooding them entirely, and wiping the sweat from her brow as she tried to figure out what to clunk or fill to get the engine to start up long enough to at least get us home or cut a path on the lawn back to the garage. I would come out and stand next to her and we would both put our hands on the machines and pray to God to please just get them to start, and very often they did. But I was also beginning to form questions about the times they didn’t. Honestly, that’s still the greatest tension I struggle with in my faith today, gauging spiritual expectations of weather God will or won’t, knowing that he can but sometimes doesn’t, and how we are to respond to this seeming inconsistency.

So this is where my faith took root, down a long and dusty dirt road in central Florida, and if I only knew then where it would take me, not just in the world, but in my heart and mind, I would have had much more hope and determination for the future God had planned for me. I hope you enjoy the stories I will share of miracles, trials, joys, and lessons that sprang up for a little girl trying to make sense of her life in the dirt and clay on Cherry Lake Road in Florida; on through to the seven years we lived in the inner city of Fall River Massachusetts, where we navigated poverty, violence, gangs, and coming of age; the seven years in Middleboro, Mass, during my teen years when I was finding my way through high school and my first (and last) real relationship; the seven years in Fairhaven Mass, where my husband and I bought our first home and fought to own a business, start a family, save our marriage, and keep our faith; and finally back to Middleboro, where we expanded our family, focused on personal growth and the health of our marriage, and were finally able to hold our heads above water and take a breath. All of these stories are reflections of God’s grace and mercy, all are true, and they are finally being written down.