Currently viewing the tag: "Anne"
(This post was originally published in November, 2007…but, believe me, the content is still quite current.)
For sale: three children, ages 8, 6 and 5. Cute when asleep. Asking price: real cheap. Make your best offer. Entire stock must go!
Obviously, I’m having trouble with my kids lately. Their behavior is atrocious! Things have gotten so bad that when we’re out in public, I point at them and say loudly, “Who is their mommy?!” I’ve also decided to officially change their names: Nathan, Anne and Molly are now Disobedience, Dishonesty and Disrespect.
Disobedience loses privileges with such regularity that he may never see his Game Boy again. He debates every single instruction I give before reluctantly submitting. If I tell him he can read in bed until 9:00, he questions, “Why not 9:30?” If I ask him to turn off the lights, he points out that wasn’t the one who turned them on. Absolutely everything is an argument.
Not long ago I discovered that Dishonesty has been throwing her vitamins away after breakfast each morning. (And believe me, the way we eat around here, she needs those vitamins! We’re sort of anti-vegetarians.) She has also started printing her name on various household items–tables, walls, bedposts–and then lying about it. “I don’t know WHO wrote it there!”
And Disrespect is 5 going on 15. She frequently rolls her eyes to let me know just how ridiculous I am. Yesterday she actually responded to Andy with, “Not gonna happen.” I nearly passed out. Andy assured her that, although Hannah Montana says those words to her father, she may NOT say them to hers.
Disobedience, Dishonesty and Disrespect–the three things I work hard to eliminate, and yet, the three areas in which my children excel the most. Obviously I’m failing somehow. Where have I been too lenient? What parenting tactic have I missed? I am honestly worried about the kind of adults I’m making. What if my kids grow up with no respect for authority? What if they don’t love truth? It’s enough to keep me awake at night–and it does. Often.
I asked my mom for advice, but she said she once tried to sell me, too. Me! Surely I never acted this way. But I suppose that as long as there have been kids with mommies, kids have demonstrated the 3 D’s, and mommies have felt inadequate.
Feeling inadequate can be good, though, because it reminds me how much I desperately need God. I need His wisdom, His patience, and His mercy on a minute by minute basis. My inadequacy drives me to my knees. So here I go again.
Heavenly Father-
In a properly pious prayer, I would say “I lift my children up to You,” but today, God, I don’t really have the strength to do any lifting. So let me just drop my kids at Your feet instead. Thud. There. They are Your children; they belonged to You before You gave them to me, and they will still be Yours long after I sign off at age 18. (Which is less than 13 years away! But who’s counting?)
My heart wants so much for each of them, God! I want them to be confident in who You created them to be, and to use their talents for Your glory. Nathan’s intelligence and sense of justice. Sweet Anne and her love for beauty, music and dance. And Molly, with her quick humor and little green thumb. How You can use them! Grant me Your vision for them. Help me to grow their talents, and to “weed out” whatever keeps them from knowing You better.
And oh, that they would know You! Call my children until they call on You. I pray that they would choose to follow You, and love You deeply, and love other people, too. And let them love Your word, Father, always balancing grace and truth as Jesus did. When they doubt You, be patient with their unbelief; grow their faith until it is deeply rooted. When they leave You, do not leave them; forgive them and restore them–just as You’ve done for me time and time again.
Don’t let me feel too guilt-ridden about my kids’ faults and bad behavior. Sometimes I punish myself for their bad decisions. Yes, I am responsible to point them to You, but I cannot choose obedience for them. Help me distinguish between my parental responsibility and their childish choices, so that I won’t be burdened with guilt that is not mine to bear. Remind me that these kids are Your work–I am only Your assistant in their lives–and You will be faithful to finish the job in them.
And on the days when I don’t like my kids—on the days when I feel like selling them at a discount—just…help. Help! Most of all, thank You that Your grace always covers Disobedience, Dishonesty and Disrespect.
Amen.
“…Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought…. Do not be proud….Do not be conceited.” (Romans 12:3, 16)
I was choosing chicken breasts at the grocery store when a woman approached Anne, Molly and me. She pressed a business card in my palm, shook my hand hard, and asked me how old my “beautiful” daughters were. I gave their ages with a polite-enough smile, and she gushed on. “Oh, that’s exactly what we need! And just look at her red hair! They really do have the look we want.”
She was a talent agent, and it just so happened that her agency was holding a free screening that very weekend. My girls, she said, were exactly the right age and had the right appearance for commercials, or even a show like Hannah Montana.
(At the words “Hannah Montana”, Anne and Molly grabbed one another’s hands and said “Eeee!” in that high-pitched squeal that only little girls can make.)
I thanked the woman and pushed my shopping cart down the aisle. I had no intention of taking the girls to a talent agency. After all, I’ve read what happens to child actors. And frankly, I’d stink as a stage mom.
But I must admit, I shopped on with an air of smugness. I bagged up bananas while silently patting myself on the back. My girls wouldn’t be on TV, no…but they could be. The right age, the right look, the red hair. Beautiful. Yep, my girls. And Hannah Montana. And mostly, my girls.
And then it happened. I wheeled my cart toward the checkout, and there she was again. That talent agent who adored my daughters. Only now, she was talking with another mother—the mother of a boy who was four or five years older than Anne and Molly, and who frankly looked nothing like them. His hair was brown. Plain old, boring brown hair—not red. Not beautiful.
I passed by in time to hear the talent agent excitedly tell the mother what I thought had been a message for just me: “He really does have the look we want.”
I don’t remember putting humble pie on my grocery list, but I sure got a slice anyway.
Obviously, every kid is beautiful to his or her mama. That’s how it should be. But my arrogance—my smugness and my vain ambition and my superior attitude…ugh. I couldn’t have looked less like the humble Christ than I did in that instant.
A prayer from a pseudo-stage mom:
God, I confess that I think more highly of myself than I ought. (And also, more frequently.) Will You help me to think correctly about myself and my kids and my ambitions? Transform my mind so that I want what You want.—Your glory, not mine. Your name, not mine. Remind me of grace. Keep it always fresh on my heart so I never forget who I really am in You. Thank You that, because of Jesus, I “really do” have the look You want. I love You, God. Amen.
Andy and Nathan are at camp this week, so the girls and I are cramming everything girly into seven days. On the first evening, we put on makeup. Monday night, we braided hair. Yesterday we went to the mall, and last night we did our nails.
And tonight I’ll be rocking in a fetal position, reminding the Lord that my non-girly self is completely inadequate as a mother of daughters.
During Sunday’s makeup fun, I described each cosmetic and its job as we put it on.
“This is eyeliner. It makes our eyes look bigger.”
“Why do we want big eyes, Mom?”
(As it turns out, makeup sounds rather pointless when explained.)
With my concealer, I said that “conceal” means “hide”. “We use this to hide the yucky spots on our faces.”
Anne looked thoughtful. “So…do Molly and I need it then? Because we don’t have any spots on our faces. But YOU need it, dontcha?”
(Hush, honey. Mommy needs to rock a bit.)
Later, I wondered again about the purpose of makeup. Really, it’s all about pretending and concealing, isn’t it? I try to make my skin look as flawless as my daughters’. Ultimately, I hide my true appearance.
I can also hide behind “makeup” in a spiritual sense. I use a deceitful, hypocritical concealer—and apply it liberally!—to hide the true condition of my heart. It’s phony, it’s sinful, and it’s exhausting. Solomon and his father, David, talked about this kind of concealer:
“He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy.” (Proverbs 28:13)
“Surely you desire truth in the inner parts; you teach me wisdom in the inmost place….Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.” (Psalm 51:6, 10)
God, I’m not fooling anybody—least of all, You. You see the sins I conceal. You know the “face” beneath the makeup. Wash my heart, Lord. Bring me out of hiding into Your mercy, and keep me ever clean before You. Amen.
These sisters—20 months apart—are completely best friends. They share clothes and even a bed, but the similarities end there. Anne and Molly are opposites in every way imaginable.
Anne is an extroverted feeler who never stops moving or talking. She hates to read, but she makes “best friends” with every child in the McDonalds PlayPlace. Anne once told us that when she grows up, she wants to be “everything in the whole world—except a rainbow”. Molly is an introverted thinker who recently told Andy that she is “addicted to reading”. She often plays by herself, and she sometimes seems rude in public, because she’s more reserved than her sister. When Molly grows up, she plans to live on a farm, ride horses, and make raisins. Yes, raisins. 
In the summer, Anne turns a beautiful bronze. Molly sunburns if she even thinks about going outside. Anne is an unabashed exhibitionist, and Molly changes clothes in the closet. Anne is gushy, dramatic, sweet and girly with a capital G. Molly is matter-of-fact, blunt and even more opinionated than her mother.
Molly told me a few weeks ago that Anne wakes her up by rubbing her back. “Anne gives the BEST massages.” I didn’t know that, but her sister did. They know each other well and love each other deeply. Sisters, and best friends.
I’m thankful for my church, for many reasons. Commitment to outreach, servant leaders, and fabulous worship, to name a few. I often shake my head in wonder that I get to be part of such a body.
I thanked God again last Sunday. When Mandie led us in “Hosanna”, I was overwhelmed. I sang out, until we came to the words,
I see a generation
Rising up to take their place
With selfless faith
With selfless faith
Rising up to take their place
With selfless faith
With selfless faith
Those lyrics caught in my throat, and my eyes welled up. I looked down the row at my next generation: Nathan, my studious thinker, struggling a little to clap on rhythm but completely in love with his Lord. Anne, the only person in all 1,200 who can out-sing the speakers. This girl worships with every fiber of her being. And precious Molly—a blend of sweetness and strength. She is no-nonsense and a little guarded, but still so tender. Each child is distinct from the other, with such unique gifts (and shortcomings). They are the next generation, and God is indeed raising them up.
All this rushed in and took my breath away, and my heart cried out. “Call my kids, God. Loudly!”
I see a near revival
Stirring as we pray and seek
We’re on our knees
We’re on our knees
Stirring as we pray and seek
We’re on our knees
We’re on our knees
Later, as we drove home from church, Nathan said in a most 9-year-old boy way, “That ‘Hosanna’ song was just like…everybody was just like…I mean, I was like…you could just FEEL GOD ’nstuff.”
“I know just what you mean.”
“I mean, God was like…THERE.”
“Yes, He was.”
Thank You, God, for a church that leads us all to “feel” You, and to know You more. Thank You that my kids sit at the feet of such Christ-like men and women. And, oh, keep calling my children, God! Raise them up to have selfless faith. Let them take their places in Your kingdom work, and use them mightily. I don’t know what You have purposed for Nathan, Anne and Molly, but whatever it is, Lord, do it! I’m on my knees. Amen.
Today the kids made bologna sandwiches for lunch. With cheese, of course. My middle daughter Anne complained, on behalf of herself and her younger sister,
“Mom, can WE cut the cheese?”
“Why can’t WE cut the cheese ourselves? We’ll be careful.”
“Nathan ALWAYS cuts the cheese.”
(You know older brothers. Always cutting the cheese.)
Nathan argued back. “Anne, I HAVE to cut the cheese. I’m BIGGER. Just let me do it!”
I told them it was fine with me if they all three cut their own cheese. Then I added, just to make myself laugh, “Maybe later Daddy will show you how. He’s good at cutting the cheese.”
It’s great to be eight.
You are our fun-loving extrovert…
our peacemaking middle child…
our right-brained dancer…
and our lover-of-all-things-pink-and-purple.
You bring us so much joy, Anne Elizabeth, and we love you!
One evening, Anne told us about something that had happened over breakfast that morning. She began her story with these words: “A loooong time ago, when it was still today…” A long time ago…today. Ever had a day like that? Days when the kids are crazy or the traffic is slow or the news is bad. Days when you look at the clock, ready to head home, and find it’s only noon. Or even worse, days when your heart breaks and hope fades. Is it still today?—When will this long day end?
I’m grateful that God is still God on the long days—and when long days stretch into long months or years. He gives grace and strength to make it through today. God also gives us a community of believers, to be His hands and heart as we encourage each other. Hebrews 3:13 says, “Encourage one another daily, as long as it is called today, so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.” To be honest, I’m a terrible encourager. Terrible. Just ask Andy. (No, please don’t.) When Andy has long days, I’m much more likely to say, “Quit whining,” than to encourage him. And yet, scripture instructs me to encourage. To be present and compassionate on the long days.
God, help me see the needs around me–even the hidden hurts. Give me encouraging words to say—words that will lift someone’s heart and point them to You. Thank You that You are always faithful on my long days, too. Who would You have me encourage…today?
Ugly:
The year Andy and I were too poor to afford costumes, so we opted instead to make our own out of anything we could find in the church supply room. I went as a lollipop. Andy was a hammer. No one–and I mean NO ONE–had a clue what we were. It was an all-time low.
Bad:
The year I made Andy dress up with me as Raggedy Ann and Andy. It was one of those obliging favors that men only do for women when they’re dating or newly married. The costumes themselves were cute, but….Andy didn’t speak to me until Thanksgiving.
Good:
The year I was pregnant with Anne. I was an inflatable pumpkin, and I had my own air pump to cool off my hot pregnant self all night. Plus, it was the one occasion when fatness was acceptable.
And finally, the great:
Tonight! The kids dressed as Anakin Skywalker, a twinkle witch, and a pumpkin princess. (Don’t ask me what a pumpkin princess is because I’m not exactly sure. I also don’t know why a pumpkin princess needs a broom, but I think it has to do with the fact that the twinkle witch got one.) A big thank you to Grandma Dunson for the costumes, and to our friend Cathie Pinto for taking up the twinkle witch’s twinkle hem. With women like you, my children won’t experience the bad and ugly.
Leave a comment and tell me about your Halloween experiences—good, bad and ugly!
A few days ago, Anne and Molly were coloring Bible story pictures at the kitchen table, and had the following discussion.
Anne, leaning over to observe Molly’s work: “Molly, that’s Delilah. She’s a baaaad woman. REALLY bad.”
Molly: “I know. That’s why I’m giving her fancy clothes. Because bad women wear fancy clothes.”
(Thoughtful pause.)
Anne, who adores fancy clothes and was now concerned: “DO bad women wear fancy clothes, Mama?”
We concluded that some bad women wear fancy clothes and some don’t. And, some good women wear fancy clothes, and some don’t. I also tacked on a lesson about clothes not being as important as what’s inside, but as usual they had long since quit listening by the time I finished.
Just remember, ladies, as you stand before your closets each morning, wondering what to wear: “Bad women wear fancy clothes!”
