Some observations on parenting in America....

Ok well I think I have enough content from comments on Facebook to lay the foundation of my very, extremely, unofficial study of American parenting.  Perhaps I should start with some of my own observations and experiences in my own little world.
First off, I feel I must mention that my own kids are typical American kids in many ways, and I am not at all trying to make the point that I have done everything right when it comes to parenting.  In fact, quite the contrary.  I am yet to figure out how to teach my 4 year old not to constantly interrupt (only to then say, "Um, I forgot") and my 6 year old how to not spew venom out of her mouth when she is angry.
It is very difficult to find a child in our culture (mine are absolutely included) that sits quietly at a restaurant, doesn't interrupt an adult, behaves decently in church or an adult setting, respects authority figures, understands that there are real dangers in the world, gets along with a group of children without arguing or finding an odd-ball to pick on.... the list goes on.
Most of my life I have believed that many of these problems cannot be solved and are simply just they way kids are.
However, recently, I have begun to rethink that idea.
I realize that we are a melting pot of people and cultures, and we live in a society where parenting styles greatly vary.  But there has got to be some common thread that speaks louder and influences our kids more than our personal parenting approach within the walls of our home.
I visited Costa Rica last year, Haiti this year, and have spent some time secretly observing a Jamaican co-worker.  I noticed that it must have been in cultures such as these that the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child" was born.  And I also noticed that such a phrase cannot be applied in the United States.
We are people who are proud and fiercely individual.  We believe it is better to have our own homes, separate from friends and family, where we can raise our own kids without the help of others, drive our own cars to work, buy our own groceries and waste our own food.
The Jamaican guy I worked with tried this "village" approach with my kids.  They didn't respond and he got odd looks from other employees.  One day Sam didn't want to do class (gymnastics), and my co-worker basically stepped in and said he was doing class and he needed to quit crying for his mom.  Mr Jamaica wouldn't let him say hi to me during class either.  I was all for these things, but Sam wasn't accustomed to it.  As a co-worker, my friend assumed a similar role as me while he and I and my kids were at the gym.  It was interesting, and different, and I kind of liked it and wished that his ways weren't so foreign to my child.
Soon Mr Jamaica had to leave and I stepped into teach some of the classes he used to teach.  One of them was a 2 year old gymnastics class.  The first day I taught his class it went horribly because his ways had been so different than mine.  I could not keep control of one strong willed and spoiled 2 year old, (evidently my co-worker had had no problems with her).  It was like she had zero interest in listening to a small white girl who probably overused the words, "No, no don't do that...."  (she'd literally look at me, get up, and bolt across the gym at warp two-year-old speed).  I kept taking her out of class and making her sit with her mom for 5 minutes, then would come back to get her to see if she was ready to try again.  This approach never worked and she soon dropped my class.  (I'm still trying to figure out what he did that was so effective?!?)
I found more content for my ponderings in Haiti.  We had the privilege of staying on the same compound as the Children's Home, and much of our spare time was spent with these orphaned kids.  In the week we spent with them, I observed them playing, partaking in evening devotions, and at church.  Remarkably, they got along for the most part, seemed to care for one another, seemed to respect and follow instruction (though there were very few instructions given).  I also watched as these kids plus all the other village kids sat through a 3 hour church service (that's right--no children's church service with kids in "age-appropriate" classes).  Young ones fell asleep leaning on the child next to them and one kid got up, walked down the aisle, across the front of the church (with no nervous mother trailing behind him, embarrassed or apologizing) and stood in front of a man in our group.  The little boy looked him and smiled until he was picked up and put on on Paul's lap for the rest of the service.  In general, I didn't see the kids interrupt adults or speak disrespectfully (though they did tease each other for sure).
So what is the difference?
I think it's a bunch of things.... but I'll try to nail it down to just a few small points.
Obviously cultures such as these are aren't afraid of kidnappings, freaks and nutjobs--and unfortunately in our country we have to be.  But perhaps we need not be so afraid to allow other trusted adults to parent our children either.  I think many American's see it as a sign of weakness to ask for help from others, and we may even be the culprits in causing our children not to respect other adults by our own extreme individualism.
Our entire culture is individualized and compartmentalized: we divide kids up into separate age groups from day one in daycare's, schools, classes and church.  The older never get a chance to teach the younger; instead kids may always find themselves in varying "age-appropriate groups" where they are supposed to listen, obey and pay attention just because.
I think that in these cultures where the "village" theory can be applied, you won't see a mom freaking out about her son running on wood floors, or standing too close to the road.  There seems to be a lot less said, but much more done--proving true that actions do speak louder than words.
In fact, in these cultures, you can't say that there is any "parenting style" at all.  They way the kids are raised at home is in congruence with what the child would experience from adults outside the home as well.  In these cultures where the "village" mentality exists, there doesn't seem to be an in-congruence between life inside or outside of the home.
Here-in Western civilization, there are varying parenting methods applied inside the home, but kids are all eventually thrown out in our world where they will compare notes and realize that what they are taught at home may not be the same as the next kid.  One kid may have been raised by strict Chinese parents (like Amy Chua's book exemplifies), another by an over-worked single mom, another by a nanny, and many many many many kids whose parents don't parent at all, but allow their kids to be raised by daycare, sports teams, public school and cable TV.    
So in the end it may be more detrimental that we all have different approaches, that there is no "norm" in our society to be had, besides the fact that we don't (and sometimes can't) trust each other.
And just in case your wondering, I'm not pushing for reform, I really don't think there's an answer.  Just a mere observation :) ...and I haven't even touched on the French or Chinese yet....but I recommend the following:
Pamela Druckerman's article, "Why French Parents Are Superior": http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204740904577196931457473816.html
and I totally recommend Amy Chua's book, "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother".

Lonely Neighbors: Episode 2 Season 1

An older lady lives in my neighborhood.  She is 72, but she acts much older.  She doesn't smell particularly good and when she talks she refers to herself in the third person.

Tonight she calls me at 4:30 p.m. and asks me to take her to the grocery store.  "Fifteen-twenty minutes tops," she says in a shaky voice.  I tell her I'll need to take my kids to my Mom's house first, I'll check with her and then call back.  I reluctantly ask my mother if she would mind.  Of course she doesn't.  So I drop my kids off down the street and head to pick her up.

This past Sunday we took her to church.  She likes our church, and wants to go every Sunday.  I usually call her at about 9:00 on Saturday nights to see if she'll be going with us.  If she accepts my offer, I will be riding in the back seat, between my kids' car seats.  I will chuckle a little as I observe my husband's demeanor as he entertains his passenger.  He keeps focused straight ahead, gives an, "uh-huh, really?" every now and then, but doesn't so much as turn his head to visually address her, lest she might misunderstand his interest level. 

My elderly friends' house is full of piles: piles of dishes, silverware, tupperware; piles of magazines, books and catalog's.  She doesn't have a lot of friends and her daughter lives in Ohio.  Our relationship began when I started ordering her vitamins for her.  I soon became aware of her need and lack of family, and offered to mow her lawn, and every now and then would run her around town to pay her bills.  I didn't mind helping her, and appreciated that she didn't call me too often.  Our relationship has progressed to calls a few times a week--sometimes to run errands, other times just to chat.  I have to be honest and say most times I am less than enthused about her phone calls.  There is never a day that I want to help her, but I do anyway.

One Sunday our pastor told a story about his friend who was dying of cancer.  She nudged me on the leg and said, "See, that's what I'm afraid of.  The results of my liver tests came back and they think it could be cirrhosis of the liver."  She didn't return for further testing, but she did ask to meet my pastor after the sermon and asked for prayer.  

This past Sunday, she got a bloody nose while eating her doughnut and attempting to buy a Bible.  I told Jeremy to stand by her while I went to get her some toilet paper.  She cleaned her nose and asked me for another pastry.  Soon after we strolled into the service and found our chairs (I had reserved seats in an easy to access row).  She sits down and exhales loudly, takes a few minutes to situate her Bible, bulletin and coffee then says, "Oh yeah.  This is nice.  I like this.  Oh boy."  I stand and sing and Judy stays seated in her chair.  

I love worship on Sunday mornings.  It is probably my favorite part of church.  But this Sunday my heart felt like it was going two opposite directions.  As much as I wanted to sing with all my heart, I became very aware that much of my heart was burdened by the woman sitting next to me.  

I want to make excuses for not loving her sometimes; my flesh attempts to find good reason for it too. I tell myself, she's not taken good care of herself;  she's drank too much in the past;  she's probably not been a good friend or mother and that's why she's so alone in her old age.  Deep down I know God hasn't asked me to make those calls.  God has placed her in my path and asked me to love her.

As I stood in church and sang, I heard the verse from 1 Corinthians in my head, "If I speak in tongues of men or angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal."  That is what my worship would have been, if I had refused to love her the way God was asking me to.  And so I opened up the resistant part of my heart.  I told God I'd do whatever he wanted me to do, and I asked him to show me who she was. 

An hour later we were driving home from church in our usual seating arrangement.  Our stomachs leaped as Jeremy sped over some railroad tracks.  "You know those tracks back there?" She says as she points a shaky finger towards the back seat, "That was where my Dad was killed.  I was 19 years old."  She starts to tell the story, which grabs all of our attention, but never quite completes it (whether it was too difficult a story or her apparent ADD I'm not sure).  My daughter nudges me and wants more details.  I tell her I don't know, and we are left with unanswered questions but softer hearts.  We drop her off at home, I walk her to her door and she kisses me on the cheek before I leave.

At the grocery store today I found that I could hardly stop chuckling.  She breathes through her nose and exhales loudly as she saunters through the store--holding the grocery cart like a walker.  She mumbles to herself, "Aaah. Oh boy. You've got to... Oh dear.  Oh boy."  She sees a box of cereal and turns toward me, "Well now that ain't too bad.  You ever tried that honey?"  I want her to hurry, I want to return home before my husband does.  But instead I help her shop and smile to myself as we walk through the store.  

Haiti Trip 2012

As I attempt to assimilate back into the American culture, many thoughts and feelings creep into my mind, now that I have spent a week in Haiti. 

I honestly didn't know what to expect; I have learned not to try and guess what God might like to show me, and I just try to go along for the ride.  Previous to this trip I was most definitely aware of the suffering that goes on in the world; aware that we represent the top 20% of the world’s population that makes over $10 a day; and I was also aware of the blindness to it all.  I live in a world where needs are confused with wants--I saw this, and even realized it's truth within myself.  So I was incredibly curious as to how I would return.

The first few days were slow and somewhat easy as we adjusted to our surroundings at the compound (hospital and sleeping/eating quarters left), played with the kids from the orphanage and helped with the first dental clinic on site at Mission Haiti Medical (lower right).  The kids seemed pretty normal for kids, very interested in touching and playing with the blancs and for a little while, I felt like they were just the same as any other kids.  We played games and communicated the best we could using very broken English and even more broken Creole (I don't think I got too far past 'merci' the entire week).  I found it hard to believe their parents were either dead or unable to care for them.  They were raised by each other and the 74 year old missionary (the incredible Ms. Phillis pictured right) who runs the orphanage.  The kids at the orphanage realize they have it better than many other Haitian kids, since they are fed daily, get to go to school and have a bed to sleep on at night.  They cleaned the kitchen in the evenings, helped us with our projects around the compound and had time for their devotions each night.  They sat in a large circle and sang songs like Amazing Grace and Jesus Loves The Little Children.  The singing was alternated with prayer and mini sermons from the older kids, and sometimes a solo.  And then, I realized these are not normal kids.  Check out Jesus Loves The Little Children here: http://youtu.be/MFJ8K4BHyh0

A few times throughout the trip I was tempted to lust after the pleasures of the world.  In the airport I took to staring at a couple who seemed well traveled, foot loose and fancy free.  I thought for a moment how fun that looked, to have no obligations, no children, no ties. Our third day in Haiti was a day of R & R at the beach.  Walking into the Haitian resort was a step back into the world I was familiar with.  I was there to relax and others were there to serve me.  There was loud music, bikinis, people eating and drinking the same as any American vacation spot.  The world of stick and palm tree houses with tarp or tin roofs and half naked children suddenly seemed so distant.  The day was purely enjoyable; we snorkeled with slightly questionable snorkel gear (may have been the source of my stomach problems) as a single Haitian man rowed a boat full of American's out to sea.  We bought jewelry at the beach and for 1 day I was again exposed to the type of treasures I’m accustomed to.

Kids standing out side the girls' quarters

Some of the boys hanging out

Observing the orphan kids during the day and then listening to their evening devotions that night stood in sharp contrast to my day at the beach.  I knew they had never been to such a place and probably never would.  Yet their joy and enthusiasm for life seemed not to be lacking.  This group of thirty-something kids were happy.  I mean truly happy.  For the most part, they got along.  Their ages ranged from 13 months to 18, the older looked out for the younger and all 30+ kids sat still with one another, singing and praying without much of a complaint. There was no parent whispering for them to sit still or close their eyes.  In fact, I watched one little 18 month old peak during the prayer.  The girl next to him smacked his hands back over his eyes, and he didn't peak again.  I began to think about the riches God offers us, versus the one’s we’d choose for ourselves.  Previous to this, I always would have thought that being somewhere like the beach would be the most relaxing or maybe even rewarding thing I could do.  It paled in comparison to witnessing the joy these kids had.  They had much to teach me about life and parenting.  

Evening devotions

I sat with them in their circle, imagined them running off to their beds each night, to a room full of concrete walls and bunks with no parents to tuck them in and kiss them good night.  I wondered what their lives had been like prior to the orphanage, how their parents died, or what kind of living conditions they had been exposed to.  I wondered at their happiness and contentedness with life though they literally had nothing.  I wondered these things as I sat in their circle, listening to them sing Amazing Grace, and let the tears that filled my eyes stream down my cheeks. 

This theme--finding life and beauty among abject poverty--was one that ran throughout the week for me.  Many times I stood in awe of the Haitian people, and other times my stomach felt sick and my heart ached for the difficult life they must endure.  I was continually surprised to see the joy that poured forth from their lives and their ability to work so hard.  On Saturday we walked through the village on the other side of our concrete wall.  Homes were made of mud, sticks or leaves; children ran around dust covered and naked at times.  One lady walked up to Dr. Mark seeming to show off her baby, but she was actually trying to give the baby away, knowing that she couldn't care for its most basic needs.

 Sunday was church, and I was shocked to see how many of the people at church were dressed based on the type of homes they came from.  They looked better than nice.  Their whites were beautifully white and pressed.  They wore hats and high heeled shoes, but they live in squalor.  They sang and prayed and sang and prayed for at least 3 hours, with a few sermons sandwiched in between.  The children all sat in their chairs and behaved for the most part (though they were thrilled to stare at us and make funny faces).   The church was more than grateful to have our group of 25 blancs visit their church, and at the end many of the parents and children came over to say hello.

I witnessed their gratitude many times during our clinics.  Five of the days we drove or hiked to a village and set up a medical clinic in the villages' local Christian church.  Some villages hadn't had a medical clinic there for 3 years, and for one small village it had been 10 years.  People lined up at the door, and we were able to give 400 to 500 people medical and dental care and send them home with basic medicines and vitamins.  Some people passed out in their dental chairs after being anesthetized, most likely because they hadn't eaten that day.  One girl literally left skipping after getting a badly needed tooth pulled.  Some brought in sick and malnourished babies and were able to leave with much needed vitamins and medicine.  Though our incredible doctor's helped many, some were beyond our care: a paralyzed 17 year old boy who fell out of a tree and broke his back; a 5 year old boy with cerebral palsy; a 70+ woman with extreme osteoporosis (pictured right).  But no matter what their cases were, the people were loved and treated like image bearer's of God by our doctor's and dentist's.  Though they had next to nothing, the entire village always pitched in and cooked a feast after each clinic to show their thanks.  Usually something like beans and rice, fried plantains, and chicken (or goat?).  It was incredible to see such gratitude, from people who have next to nothing.

Ladies' cook outside over an open fire
while we finish up the clinic

 





One village required a 3 1/2 hour hike to the top of a mountain.  The trail was a switchback washout trail, rocky and steep.  Our group had to stop multiple times for drink and snack breaks--it was truly exhausting and I was glad to have the hike over early in the week.  The Haitians we passed wore something similar to crocs or flip flops, carried no water, and sometimes had things on their head.  They are incredible people.  Dr. Mark mentioned that some of the kids in the village get to go to school, which means they must make that hike daily.  He also mentioned that Mission Haiti used to be able to feed the kids at school once a day.  In some cases that may have been the only meal the kids had.  It was very difficult to imagine a child making that 3 1/2 hour hike (5 1/2 round trip) everyday to school without the guarantee of a meal.


The Haitian people care about their appearance, school uniforms are shirts with sleeves and skirts that reach beyond the knee.  Tattoos are not well received.  For the most part, a T-shirt is just a T-shirt, and as long as it fits, they wear it.  Most of the T-shirts people wore had English writing on them, and I soon realized that they had no idea what their shirts said or where they came from.  Sometimes this was funny, like the old guy who lived in a small remote village who wore a shirt that said, "I'm with fartface" (wish I had a picture).  I laughed so hard I cried about this one.  Who donates shirts like that to Haiti anyway?!?!

One evening, back at the compound, I noticed one of the orphan boy's in a yellow Dora shirt.  The next day a little four year old girl was wearing the same Dora shirt.  I began to be curious about what their rooms looked like at the orphanage, and how they knew whose clothes belonged to whom.  The next day we walked over to visit the orphanage and see where these kids spent most of their lives.  As I walked into the girl’s rooms, I tried to imagine the kids I had begun to take quite a liking to, sleeping and living here.  I tried not to act surprised, this was their home and for Haiti it was nice.  The walls were concrete, as well as the floor, but everything had a covering of dirt on it.  Some of the mattresses were bare, the beds had nothing on them for decoration or comfort.  There was a solitary shelf with a few pairs of old shoes on them.  That was it.  I tried to imagine my own children sleeping there.  Never.  Not even for a night.  Yet the kids I had fallen in love with, who had sat on my lap and sang to me, who had played and braided my hair each night, slept here.  Quite appropriately Dr. Mark happened to mention, “They really need some new mattresses.  If one of them pee their bed at night, there isn’t much they can do about it.”  My heart sank and I shuffled out of the room and scooped up three year old Matino, threw him on my hip and kissed his chocolate colored cheek.  I exhaled loudly, feeling slightly overwhelmed.  I observed the other kids playing basketball, playing on the play ground equipment or just tagging along with us.  I was bewildered once again at their happiness, and concluded that evidently material wealth does not bring the greatest joys in life.  I returned to the states with the realization that beauty does occur among tragedy--in fact the world's most intense beauty just might exist in the places you'd least expect it.

Mission Haiti Medical is an outstanding organization led by Dr. Mark Fulton.  He is an incredible man of God that loves the Haitian people very much.  The picture is of Dr. Mark giving one of his good friends, Wisnel, a checkup.

Dr. Mark is packing a semi in 2 weeks to send to Haiti (and he only ships a semi twice a year).  Please check the website for a list of items they are currently collecting.  http://www.missionhaitimedical.org/getinvolved.html  I will personally pick up any items you may have!  Baby formula would be fantastic!  Also if anyone has a way to purchase twin mattresses at a discount, we could load up to 70 on the semi.  I think it would be awesome to get the kids at the orphanage new (or gently used) mattresses.  Please e-mail me (emmagracejohnson02@gmail.com) if you have anything you'd like to donate.  You can also donate funds online on the website.

Well I'm going to Haiti....

Tomorrow I will be on a plane, Haiti bound.  Am I nervous to leave my family and travel to a third world country? Yes.... and No. 

The human part of me is, but the part that God has been chiseling away at isn't.

For years I have been pulled towards this type of stuff (missions to be specific), and for years I have wrestled with the reality of it.

I remember being young, unable to keep a dry eye while watching a "Feed the Children" commercial.  In college, I began to feel the senselessness of gaining a costly Christian education, when really all we as Christians were called to do was love others and help those in need.  I wanted to go somewhere, badly, but I didn't....I knew it wasn't my time quite yet.

Two years ago, God began to teach me some things by watching the harrowing scenes of the earthquake that rocked Haiti in 2010.  I began to be shocked at the very fact that it was even possible to for me to see almost live images of people being pulled from rubble and pictures of so many dead.  I began to question myself, my own motives for life, and tried to stack them up against the motives of Jesus' life. It seemed apparant to me that he poured out his life for the suffering.  I could easily click to a different page, focus on something more positive, but doing so seemed like witnessing a murder and doing nothing.

Up until that point, I think I viewed Christians who went on missions trips, fed the hungry and homeless, etc. as something like a super Christian who was earning bonus points or something.  I was beginning to realize that for Christians, helping those in need is not really optional.

"...For I was hungry and you gave me something  to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me." (Matthew 25)

I don't think Jesus is asking us to care for the poor.  I think he commands it.

God has sewn this seed in my heart, and watered it in recent years.  I have felt the pull, but have resisted making my own plans to fulfill what God was laying on my heart.  After many errors, I have realized that it is very important to wait for Him to lead in ANY endeavor. 

And so I have waited.

And tomorrow I will be leaving for a 9 day trip to Haiti.

We are traveling with a group of about 25 people, all joining Mission Haiti Medical, under Dr. Mark Fulton.  We will arrive in Haiti at 10:20 a.m. Friday morning.  We will be helping out at clinics and distributing vitamins and medications as needed in the St. Ard area.  Every evening we will have devotions as a group to share our joys and sorrows and how we see Jesus working.  Here is a rough sketch of the week:
Saturday: clinic on site with Orphanage children
Sunday: Church and relax on Sabbath
Monday: hike to Mt. Nikolai
Tuesday: Clinic in Galledluya
Wednesday: 3 hour drive to Gonaive
Thursday: 1/2 day on site clinic
Friday: Leave Haiti 10:30 a.m. arrive in Indy at 10:45 p.m.

I would appreciate prayers for safety and God's will in everything!  Stay tuned, I will most likely write as soon as I get back.  Thank you to those of you who have been faithful in supporting my trip!

Christmas Procrastination and Lonely Neighbors

Right now I am kicking myself for procrastinating way too much on Christmas presents. I go through this process every year: I set high expectations, I lack in organizing a way to meet my own expectations, I procrastinate, I begin to dread Christmas, I get depressed, I drink a lot of coffee and maybe some wine (today), I get myself together and mail my cards and presents late. I am stuck between punishing myself for my own procrastination and cherishing these precious days previous to Christmas and while my children are ages 4 and 6. I fully expect to weep quietly to myself when they turn 5 and 7 this spring.


I get up at 4 am today to get my pictures together (pictures are always our presents to friends and family). Not only do I start way too late in the game, but I seem to be terribly inefficient once I do start. I sat in front of the computer for about 5 hours this morning…with not much to report. I promised myself as soon as I got home in the afternoon I would finish the job of weeding through a year’s worth of pictures for our calendar-gifts. Deep down I knew something would inevitably steer me off track.

After dinner Sam (my 4 year old) wants to make chocolate covered pretzels. “Okay, we’ll make them.” I say sweetly. How can I deny him? Sweets are his love language.

Not too long after that, I look up and see a purple hat atop an aging face outside my kitchen door. I inhale in a short moment of alarm as the wrinkled face with a half open jaw peers through the window. “Oh, Judy” I say to myself.

She is an elderly lady in my neighborhood. I began as her Shaklee girl, helping her order her vitamins and non-toxic cleaners. That began about a year and a half ago, and now she regularly stops by, calls, and asks me to stop by her house to pick her up sometimes. I take her to the bank, CVS when she’s sick, whatever she needs. She lives alone; she’s 74. She tells me about her problems—how she thinks her hair “looks like shit”; how her friends think they’re too good for her; how her son-in-law doesn’t like her. She walks slow for 74 and many times I think she seems much older than she is. Someone who drops in on her occasionally found her passed out in her bedroom a few weeks ago; her blood sugar had dropped too low.

I took her to church last week and she wants to go again. I ask her what’s wrong with her normal church. She says the people who live across the street from her went to the same church and never offered to take her. One day they even passed her on their way—she was walking, they were driving—and didn’t offer to stop. She said she thought that was very un-Christian of them.

I can’t make my mind up about Judy, but I help her out anyway and sometimes I think she has a point. I am sure the couple that drove by her on the way to church that day had the same feeling I did when she showed up on my porch tonight. She had been downtown and needed a ride home. I was reluctant at first, only because I was dishing dinner up, preparing chocolate for the pretzels and in the midst of chastising myself for all my Christmas procrastination.

But when I left her at her house tonight, she hugged me and said, “You’re my favorite person right now.” Although her words seemed too generous, I was glad that she said them…glad that my small efforts bring her a bit of company I suppose.

Besides, I have no excuse not to help. I’m a professional procrastinator and my Christmas cards and gifts are always late. And now, I sit and write this instead of finishing my picture project…with sticky chocolate fingers…

Oh Santa...

“Christmas is only 11 days away Mom,” my 6 year old eagerly says to me this morning. I raise my eyebrows to show interest, while swallowing hard my bubble of guilt and procrastination. Things are right on track for me this year--I am behind on practically every gift and card I have set out to either buy or make.  But this year I am also feeling the weight of Santa on my shoulders.  Oh Santa....

This year I am gently attempting to blow the Santa myth out of the water.


Last year I tried as well, but I was unsuccessful. About a month in advance of Christmas, I broke the news to my then 5 year old daughter that there was no Santa, only God. I explained that Jesus gave us the real gift by conquering death and giving us a free ticket to eternal bliss. But that didn’t stack up to the wonder of Santa Claus. In fact, after our “talk” she set out to prove me wrong. Upon loading my bagged groceries into my shopping cart one afternoon, the clerk asked her: “Are you all ready for Santa Claus?” My daughter exclaimed, “My Mommy says there is no Santa! But there is a Santa. I know because I saw him sitting in a chair at the fire station.” How could I argue with her? She had publically exposed my parental cruelty and I was looked upon by the clerk in utter confusion.

Later that day I asked my daughter, “Addi, do you really want there to be a Santa Claus?” Her answer was an emphatic “Yes!” “Well fine,” I said, “then there is a Santa.”

Two weeks later Santa brought her a guinea pig. And every time I tell someone her bunk beds are from Ikea, she reminds me, “No Mom, Santa brought them to me.”

Why do I want to blow the Santa myth? Well because it’s worthless, that’s why. I desire only to give my children what is real and true and everlasting. But society thinks otherwise and I find myself challenged again this year.

This year I decided not to come right out and deny Santa's existence, but to ever-so-gently point out the flaws in the Santa theory.  I read her the original story of Saint Nicholas…the one about the old man from the Netherlands who dropped gold down the chimney into the poor girls’ stockings. “After he died—oh well, I’ll be, look at that he’s dead—they named him St. Nicholas” I read.

We also didn’t make it to sit on Santa’s lap, but we did visit his reindeer.

I am a harsh cruel Mommy, I know. But I love her too much to build her up on lies, and the truth is this world is a harsh place where children go cold and hungry on Christmas. And those children who are so greatly suffering under the curse of the world are the ones who just may believe that Jesus brings a greater gift than Santa Claus.

One day Addi will see it this way, I pray. But as of today, I stand upon the shaky ground of neither building up nor tearing down her dreams. We’ll see what happens come Christmas….

Joplin, MO

How can I possibly sum up my visit to Joplin, Missouri? When one witnesses such devastation it is very hard to sum it up in mere words. In fact, I thought many times about a book I read recently by Kurt Vonnegut entitled, “Slaughterhouse-Five”, especially when speaking to Carol—a newly homeless lady at the Red Cross shelter, who interrupted her own sentence to say, “Oh look, the birds have come back.” Vonnegut wrote about the bombing of Dresden, Germany and had a very hard time putting words to such an atrocity, but after 23 years he finally did: “Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like “Poo-tee-weet?”


A lifeless part of me feels like saying what Vonnegut and the birds say about the whole thing…their noise simply declares that there is nothing intelligent to say about an EF5 tornado shredding 12 miles of a city, trapping some in basements, sucking others out their sunroof, and leaving nothing recognizable in its wake. But, there is. In a world with a God, there are things to be thought, said, and a whole pile of things to be done. Let me explain.

I feel for people. I don’t know if you are like me and my husband, but when something catastrophic happens, we are glued to our computers, watching images and videos, reading articles of survival stories and others that only end in devastation. I can identify with those people on my screen because I realize they were probably much like me. It pains me to hear their stories and leaves me with an unsettled feeling. When I go through these phases that are brought on by either a tragedy on a large scale, or the death of someone close to me or my husband, I can’t quite return to life normally. Something in me changes.

Such was the feeling when I woke up Monday morning with an e-mail from World Vision asking for donations for disaster relief in Joplin, Missouri. My stomach turned as I realized there had been yet another deadly tornado. I didn’t want to see the images, and didn’t want to think of the harrowing night thousands of people in Joplin had. Like the young wife whose husband threw his body over hers in the bathtub and received a fatal puncture in his back as a result; or a man we met, whom 12 hours after the storm was found in his basement only to emerge from the rubble to see a decapitated body in his yard; or Will who left his High School graduation and moments later was sucked out the sunroof of the Hummer he was driving and was found in a pond filled with debris 4 days later. The thought of their horror was juxtaposed with my memory of what I was doing the previous night at the same time. I had had my son’s 4th birthday party. I was so happy and content and pleased with the evening, and felt extraordinarily blessed to have the friends and family I had, and was so thankful at the day’s end. What was I supposed to think now?

So I ended up going there, with a group of 4 other women from my church, The Bridge.  Being in Joplin was very interesting. The destruction was stomach-turning, and I imagine that if it were my own home, or even if I had seen those very same houses before they were demolished, my stomach would turn even further. In some places walls were gone and just a bathroom was left standing; cars were crushed almost in half and lit on fire in others; or there was a pile of wood, or slab foundation that was left in lieu of a home. I can only image what these people went through when the monster tornado laid waste to their homes. Actually, thanks to our amazing technology today, you can listen to these people who piled into the cooler of a convenient store: http://youtu.be/cQnvxJZucds

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For some, moments like these were final. The child crying is heart wrenching, and to think of some children left without parents is unbearable. In this moment, it seems like some of the people in the video became very real, perhaps very alive for the first time in a long time. In a matter of seconds, a man birthed the words “I love everyone” as another cried “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Listening to their words is like hearing a heart in its moment of existence. Why does it take such great suffering to bring about our true selves? Why would we be content, every other day of our lives, to live half-awake, half-alive? What is it that numbs us?

What I was MOST surprised with when we visited Joplin only one week after the tornado hit, was the unbelievable amount of love, kindness and appreciation that was displayed through every single worker, volunteer, or afflicted person. It was truly unbelievable and I could have done better at accepting their more than kind gestures. I was taken aback by it and not sure how to respond. As we walked the streets surveying the damage and looking for people to give our gift cards and cash to, cars drove through the streets offering cold water, Gatorade and sandwiches again and again. Too often I declined their generosity, feeling as though I wasn’t doing enough to deserve such a kind gesture from a stranger—but my thinking was flawed. At one of the many parking lots set up as what looked like a mini bazaar, there was food being made all day for volunteers, clothing for tornado survivors to comb through, and counseling and prayer services offered. We were coerced by some firemen to get a plate and sit down to eat. They all seemed to be thankful we were there, without any further questions. The firemen we sat with wore shirts that said, “Firefighters for Christ” we learned that the 6 men only met each other upon arrival in Joplin. Lindsay, the head volunteer for the parking lot set-up, welcomed us and then confessed that Satan was getting to her and she could feel the spiritual battle taking place. She was sweaty and busy, pouring her life out for others. I feel that we could have prayed for her then. Thank goodness I still can pray for her. Luke was also a firefighter who was on duty during the tornado. He was sent home after it came through, to check on his house—about half of it was left. As he came down his street in his uniform, people ran to him for help. He could hear their cries and moaning. He eventually had to take off all of his gear so he could help the people in his neighborhood.

Steven wasn’t quite inside during the storm, and he was lifted up off of the ground but managed to grab onto a part of the garage door as his feet sailed parallel to his head. His son heard his feet knocking against the window and was able to pull him inside. Then there was Lorna who had a nasty bruise down the right side of her face, and she didn’t know what had hit her. Her husband hugged us all and teared up over losing the home he had spent years working on. There was Debra, whose Section 8 housing has now become unlivable; she won’t be getting an insurance check or relatives to pick her up. Debra’s friend was watching her two children plus two others during the tornado. She piled them all in the bathtub and closed the door tight and they were all kept safe. Debra and her friend threw a party for her 6 year old son in the shelter on May 28. They don’t know where they will go after they leave the shelter.

Don is 89 years old and rode the storm out by holding onto some oak cabinets he knew were made well. He recounted how he was not concerned about the sirens since he had been in five tornadoes in his lifetime. But then the sirens rang, the rain came, then the hail, then his neighborhood was left to piles of wood. Somehow his bench was still on his porch, and he sat there looking out at what surrounded him, never having seen anything like it in his life. He signed my book and wrote “Bless”.

We listened to local Christian radio in the car. There was a song dedicated to the storm survivors about hope. I heard a lot about hope and rebuilding. Things were said like, “We are down but not out”; “We are all strong and we will get through this”, “Thank God we are alive” and “Thank God we have each other”. I will have to say, that if God was anywhere, He was in Joplin. I have never been in a more kind and caring environment. It was like everywhere you looked, even the police and National Guard had this sort of understanding about them. People were unbelievably kind and thankful and it seemed like Kingdom workers, God’s church, was there and many people spoke of Him. But on the way home, I pondered some of those sayings and the Christian song we had heard.

Thank God we are alive.

What about the dead people?

Rebuild.

What if their house gets torn down again?

I had scrolled through many pictures of Joplin’s destruction online before our trip. There were quite a few pictures of messages people had spray painted on their homes. One read, “God Saved Us”. The comments below that picture and others like it questioned God, blamed God, fired God, and even cursed God. In our effort as humans to be painfully honest, to look at the world for what it is and not what we want it to be, I can somewhat relate to these mixed emotions about God. Death should sicken us and mass destruction should make us ill; it should make us question everything. It has for me. But the answer in which I have arrived does not make me curse or fire God, nor does it make me want to plant an American flag in a pile of rubble and rebuild my kingdom on this earth just like it was before. The people of Joplin were just so grateful to have each other, to have their lives. Their earthly possessions were gone, but it was as though—in light of their lives—it didn’t matter. The people in the convenient store shouting out to God and verbally expressing their love for others weren’t concerned about what others thought at that moment; those who spoke didn’t numb the moment with an old habit or rationalization. I think God wants us to have these real moments, these moments of awakening that rarely take place without some sort of suffering. Perhaps it is our suffering that finally allows us to block out all of the noise and become alive. This earth, no doubt, is falling away and one day, this place will crumble just like our Bible tells us.

I wonder what perspective God does want us to have on the reality of death and an obviously decaying world. Most of us feel that nothing is more important than our lives—and maybe God feels the same way, but not about our lives on this earth. His one and only concern is the place in which our eternal souls will rest. Maybe things like Joplin are supposed to send a message from heaven that says, “This earth is not your home!” Maybe God doesn’t want us to feel cozy and secure here after all. Maybe God’s top priority is securing our eternal state with Him, no matter what we may have to go through on this earth. Maybe God is like a caring father, who has carefully made a secure life insurance plan for his children and all we have to do is ask for it. Maybe we feel like God doesn’t care about the atrocities that happen on this earth, but maybe He does care…forever. I think forever is all He is concerned about. And if we don’t like that, and we want to live for this earth and this life instead, nothing will make sense. It will all be cruel and harsh and God will not make sense.

The people of Joplin must rebuild, or relocate—as will anyone who has been knocked down to nothing by an incredible force. But when we rise from the rubble, will we only put things back just the way they were before? Maybe some will attempt to seek safety on this earth, steering clear of “tornado alley” or fault lines or coasts where tsunamis could occur. Maybe in our fear and desire to live this earthly life we will surround our lives with seeming security. A good neighborhood, low crime, nice house, reliable car, maybe even low risk of natural disasters. But is that the response we should have or is that simply what we do because we don’t understand God and we can’t trust Him? What if God wants us to rebuild in an entirely different way? What if we truly lived our lives here on this earth knowing it won’t last, knowing it will crumble away and we will die, and asking our Father in heaven to give us what we need to live this life until we get to the next? I am beginning to feel like, for myself, the only security there is on this earth are the things that God gives me—not the things I fight and claw and manipulate to have.

People who are in the mission field or who are relief workers say, without out a doubt, we are experiencing birthing pains. Once labor starts, the contractions will only get harder and closer together. I have stopped holding my breath and waiting for a brighter day where I could finally claim peace and security on this earth. There is none. There is only security in knowing I have a Father in heaven who loves me, who has sought me out and challenged me more than I thought I could handle, and who has a plan for the days I live on earth. My security is found there—I accept that I live in a fallen and crumbling world, but yet I submit the days I do have to the one who knows when my last day will be. I realize I cannot find the peace and security I thought I could on this earth. It doesn’t exist and God is continually reminding us not to try and put down eternal roots on sinking sand. His eternity is secure and His plan for us as we live our days on this earth is secure—and that’s about it. It has taken a tremendous leap of faith to arrive here, but nothing makes sense to me without looking at it this way. However, having this seed planted within me allows me to worry much less and propels me to put all my eggs in God’s basket and to do the work He has for me to do while I am here. Up until about a year ago I was definitely putting my eggs in a basket with a hole in the bottom of it. When I am weak I repeat the words of my husband’s song, Sand into the Sea: “Lord not my will but yours be done. I’m throwing down this crown cause this is not my Kingdom. These plans fall through every time. These hands are yours but I’m always acting like their mine.”
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