Chipotle Run

When your husband decides he’s “all in” for the triathlete world, your life changes. And when your own previous exercise included walking to the mailbox every three days, said change is drastic. 

Today was the perfect example. Rob has a fairly unpredictable schedule as a nurse anesthetist and occasionally there are days when he gets to leave the hospital before lunch. An early departure in the pre-triathlon days would send me running to preheat the oven for chocolate chip cookies, settling babies into early naps and searching for our last stopping point in our perpetual NCIS marathon. These days, however, an early departure typically means an invitation to run. Not to the fridge for cookie dough. Not anywhere. Just running. In circles. Now I know I completed a triathlon this summer, but I still don't find running to be fun or enjoyable. I do love my husband very much and we like to spend his unexpected off days together, so after getting everyone dressed for the third time, we headed to meet the excited triathlete at the gym. We dropped all the kids in the childcare area and I denied the temptation -once again- to detour to Heritage House for an hour to write and drink coffee instead. After walking a few laps and having uninterrupted conversation, I forgot that I didn't want to be there in the first place. It was fun! And then the running started. I tried to be a good sport, but here's the deal: I can be a brat. I took two different five minute water breaks and then decided I would finish running the last few minutes with my man. "Almost half way! Let's go!" he cheered in his ridiculously energetic pep talk voice. I don't remember exactly what happened next, but there were secret tears and not-so-secret tears and a quick exit to the bathroom because it was break time again. I might have passed out. I'm not really sure. Rob chose to be done with his half marathon for the day and we hiked up to get the kids. 

I know from experience that kids feed off their parents' emotions and attitudes. So, in their defense, I didn't set my children up well with my pouting through the gym parking lot and in the car on the way to Chipotle. But the next 20 minutes of our lives were all around not our best work. There was whining and crying, possibly some fire and gnashing of teeth. The food was too hot. There wasn't enough cheese. Evan was so over waiting between bites. And then some rice was thrown and I gave Rob the let's-get-the-heck-outta-here look along with all the other poor souls who came in expecting a laid back burrito experience on their lunch breaks. We carried all 3 kids and our barely eaten lunches out of the doors. To be exact, I ran. I ran out of Chipotle with a baby carrier hooked on one arm and a three year old in the other. Then in a moment of lapsed judgment as I strapped kids into their seats, I served the consequence. Even as the words spilled out of my mouth, I already regretted them. "We are not eating in a restaurant for five days. Five whole days. Because of the way y'all acted in there." Five is the biggest number to Kate. It's like the ultimate number. So this was the maximum sentence. Really it was probably over the top, but I was still picking rice off my leg so it felt fitting. The part I regretted was giving a consequence that affected me most of all. Because now I have to cook and serve every meal at home for five days. Five whole days.

Our actions have consequences, and like the ripple effect of a pebble tossed into the water, those consequences affect the people around us. Especially those closest to us. My attitude this morning was selfish and it spilled over into the lives of those I love. I got angry at my husband whose intentions were good. I got angry at my kids who were actually too tired to go out to lunch in the first place. In my anger, I served a consequence that was not well thought out. And as much as I wanted to blame everyone else on the way home, I was the one in the wrong. 

It's on my worst days that I'm most thankful for grace. The freedom to run to Him, already forgiven if we're in Christ. Paul writes in Ephesians 3:12, "In him and through faith in him we may approach God with freedom and confidence." Hallelujah! With rice in my hair and shaky from embarrassment, I can turn again to the One who has wiped my slate clean once and for all. I am free. And I've been instructed to use my freedom to serve others in love (Galatians 5:13). It's funny how God works all these things out for his glory. I'm headed home to serve my family the first of our "consequence meals." I'll ask for their forgiveness and then serve the ones I love most. Serving food and serving grace. For five whole days. 

Altars to Zoos

We celebrated Sam’s second birthday a couple weeks ago. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. He’s officially two years old. We took our little zoo to the actual zoo for some birthday fun. Sam wore his lion shirt. We talked the lions up the whole way there. We saved the lions for the grand finale. We turned the corner to the lion’s area to find... a note reading, “If you can’t see me, I’m probably inside cooling off.” THIS IS REAL LIFE, LION. YOU ARE AN OUTSIDE CAT. Surprisingly, the lion cutout appeased the birthday boy, and everyone left smiling. 

Sam's birthday will always be special to me. Not only because he’s our crazy brave, crazy loved oldest son, but also because his birthday is one of those altars that causes me to remember the faithfulness of the Lord in my life. All through the Old Testament we read about God’s people building altars in places where God encountered them in a mighty way. Sometimes God himself instructed them to do so and other times his people chose to worship in that way. The purpose of these altars was always to bring glory to God for what He did in that place in their lives. The same is true for believers today. There are dates, places or objects in our around us that cause us to reflect on God’s hand in our own lives. 

One of the most significant of these altars to the Lord in my life is Sam’s birthday. He was a little less than 2 weeks old when I began to feel completely overwhelmed with the responsibility of keeping two children under two alive, much less fed, dressed and clean. I was secretly crying over the stove into a boiling pot of macaroni while my last reserves said their goodbyes and started to head home. Rob was on call at the hospital that night so my first night without extra hands was also my first night alone with not one baby but two. I remember crying - not secretly anymore - on my dad’s shoulder and saying, “I can’t take care of two of them. What if they cry at the same time?” I laugh about it now because, guess what? They did cry at the same time. And we all survived. 

That night in a survival mode prayer, I asked God if maybe He had mistakenly given me more than I could handle. Didn’t people say He wasn’t ever going to do that? Rest assured, it was no mistake. And the people who told me that were actually very wrong. He will consistently give us more than we can handle in our own strength and our own capacity. Why would we ever need Him if we could handle it all on our own? In fact, the Gospel is centered around that guarantee: we need a Savior to rescue us from our sin nature. We cannot handle that on our own. Instead of steering us around the tough stuff, God promises we’ll go right through it and He will be our strength when we are weak (2 Corinthians 2:10), our peace in times of confusion (Philippians 4:7), and that He “works for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28).” 

The next morning I sat down at our kitchen table, and running on approximately 4 hours of highly interrupted sleep, I decided to put God’s promises to the test. Because if He wanted to give me strength in the midst of my darkest hours, now would be a pretty darn good time. (I had a really great attitude about it, obviously.) I begged Him for strength and some semblance of energy. I journaled before I even opened the Word that morning, “Lord, I am tired. I don’t know that I am strong enough to care for 2 babies on my own. I need You. Your strength, Your love, Your guidance. You know far better than me what I need every minute of every day, so I’m begging You to supply me with it.”

I opened the Bible after that to Isaiah chapter 40 and when I got to verse 28, it started to click. 

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. (28-31)

Right in front of me lay the answer to my plea. “He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.” At that moment I realized that I didn’t need an outline for exactly how He planned on giving me strength. All that I needed was to trust that He would. It was weird. This acceptance of not understanding how He would supply the strength, but a total peace that I would not lack anything I needed so long as I trusted Him for it all. 

I scribbled that passage in my journal, and put these words on paper almost as quickly as I was thinking them, “My hope is in You! I’m trusting You for what I need through this day. Thank You, Lord! You are good and everlasting. Never growing tired or weak. Thank you for loving me enough to equip me for today and every day. Amen.” This encounter with the Lord changed my outlook on parenting forever. It was honestly no longer about how much I could accomplish as a mom, but now about a total dependance on the Lord for even the strength to get out of bed in the morning. Over the next weeks and months my journaling had this theme of worship like it hadn’t before. The very next week on August 14, 2013 I wrote, “Father, You have graciously blessed me with every the last few days and I am so grateful! I know it’s come from You, because I’ve been incredibly tired. But when I shift my eyes to You, Your Spirit equips me with what I need for that moment. Thank You for Your faithfulness.” 

He is faithful. His promises hold true and they are for you and for me. I’m reminded of His faithfulness to me every day, but the beginning of August will always bring sweet memories of learning to walk in complete dependance on the Lord. It’s one of my many altars of remembrance of the Lord’s grace in my life, and it’s purpose is to bring glory and honor to Him. (Trust me… there is not a single other reason I would share pages from my prayer journal.) 

God knew He had to teach me that lesson early on in the "parenting multiples" game because He knew what was in store 15 months later. And the 3 under 3 life would call for that whole "grace upon grace" promise to be fulfilled. I love my family, and I really love Jesus for giving me the freedom to enjoy them in the midst of chaos and managing our own tiny zoo.

I am not Supermom

Confession: I am not Supermom. Some very well intentioned friends have used that label while observing my delicate balancing act of three small children. Here's the thing I've learned about labels: they can start to define us after a while. Or maybe we begin living up to the expectations surrounding us, whether good or bad. The motivation behind our actions is no longer conviction or a desire to live a life above reproach because we recognize the cost of our freedom, but rather the selfish desires of our flesh to be great, to be known, to be completely independent of any sort of rescue. 

While I always awkwardly accept compliments such as the Supermom title, I also always feel the need to explain why I am not worthy of the kind words. Oh shoot. If you only knew what went on at our house before we got here, you would take that back faster than Sam can climb on top of the table I just spotted across the room... Wait, where is Sam? 

If you only knew. If you only knew that there were tears, frustration and a few good fits pitched (and the kids weren't perfect either), then you would probably not tell me that you don't know how I do it.

In an attempt to keep pride at bay and to prevent myself from foolishly believing in this whole Supermom character, let's be real. There is no perfection behind these walls, but there is SO MUCH GRACE. Thank you, Jesus! So I've decided, since you can't all experience the reality of me with my wild things behind our actual walls, I'd like to invite you to follow me on a not so quick journey through a typical morning in our home. Specifically this morning. 

*Warning: Type A friends enter cautiously.

*Note: This is not a stay-at-home-martyr story. I love my role at home and have chosen this above all else. 

Our children are all great sleepers. They sleep great when they are in our bed, and they sleep great when they are under half of my body or on the top half of Rob's pillow. Today at 5:45 I woke up with Evan cradled in my left arm and Kate laying sideways in the middle of our bed. In a successful effort to get a few more minutes of sleep, I moved Evan to the crib and Kate 90 degrees to a normal position. 

At 6:15 Evan realized he had been duped and proceeded to let me know how much he did not appreciate it. I did what any good mother would do and ran quickly to turn on the coffee pot and then into the baby's room. Because priorities. I nursed him, put him back in his crib and escaped to the living room for some therapy time with Jesus. 

Then I sneezed. I knew I should have held it in, but I'm still afraid my eyeballs will blow out of my head if I don't let my sneezes out. Enter Kate who woke up via sneeze alarm. I allowed myself the privilege of a thirty minute babysitter - shout out to the Bubble Guppies - because, guys, I for real need that time with Jesus and hot coffee. *Sneeze* Evan is the victim this time, and I've been sitting for about 90 seconds. Rock the baby. Lay him down. Jesus. 

Sam, our late sleeper, is awake at 6:45 asking to eat. That is without fail his first word of the day: eat! Time for first breakfast. Lately that's been Trix. Limited Edition Mini Trix to be exact. Stop your judging, it's fruit-ish. I then move to my work table to start on a few thank you notes, when I hear the familiar sound of tiny cereal hitting the floor. Kate runs in to inform me, "Uh, Mommy. It's a really giant mess in here. Like, really giant. Like, really." Limited Edition Mini Trix covering the floor. Oh and Sam is stepping on them like bugs, so we don't have to worry about them getting too far.

Back to the notes. Never mind. Kate went to "check on Evan" which always means she's going to bust in the room singing and turning the lights on. Can't stop. Won't stop. Where is Sam?

Feed Evan breakfast. Make a mental note to clean the highchair. Move Evan to the jumper in hopes of finishing these thank you notes. (I'm really terrible about thank you notes and seriously want to finish them this year.) Maybe I shouldn't put Evan in the jumper. Should he be crawling by now? Make mental note to have intentional tummy time this afternoon. I then run to the back of the house to put an end to World War III at 7:00. I've only been up for 45 minutes? Our clocks must be wrong. Did the power go out?

Complete a whole 3 thank you notes. Conveniently remember it's Thursday a.k.a. Family Swim Day. Is that even possible? Will the sun still be out by the time we get out the door? It's a legitimate concern. Then I notice the calligraphy supplies on the work table which reminds me to do the last address that was added to my list which reminds me that I HAVE to post my calligraphy project on Instagram. Because priorities. Done. 8:15.

Run to tell the kids that we're going swimming and they need to find their swim suits. Kate tells me she will just wear her tutu skirt in the pool and "that will be fine, Mom," to which I respond "You will wear a swim suit. Where is Sam?" Evan is crying. Time to nurse. 

At 8:22 I hear quick footsteps down the hall and, "MOMMY! MOMMY! Sam said he wanted to poop in da potty so I just helped him take his diaper off and den I tried to pick him up to put him on da potty but I can't pick him up because I'm not strong enough and HE NEEDS TO POOP." Great. He's probably pooping in the hall. I'm going to have to clean that up. Run with Evan down the hall. No poop. Good. Sam is in the bathroom, no diaper, as promised. He tries to poop in the potty. He's actually kind of successful which forces Kate to tell him there's a prize box for pooping in the potty. Not anymore, kid. No one is potty training. Cue screaming fits from both big kids.

I feed Evan, lay him down for a nap at 8:45 and start to gather all swim necessities. Kate walks down the hall crying for her tutu skirt. Wakes Evan. It's 8:48. I help Kate get her red dress off which she throws in the crib. But it doesn't matter because apparently Evan won't get to sleep this morning. Where is Sam?

Walk Kate to her room to find the elusive tutu skirt and Sam walks in wearing goggles and holding a book. Yes, of course I'll read to you, Sam. I want to read to you. We won't have swim suits or towels at the pool because I can't finish a single thing. But always YES to reading. Mental note to not forget the towels. It's 9:05. Need to be leaving in 25 minutes and I am still in my pajamas and Kate is the only child wearing pants. I get short with the kids and Kate tells me she doesn't like the way I'm talking and, "I'm very frustrated about you." Me too, don't worry. 

To make up for my tone of voice, I agree to take jumping pictures of Kate. Turns into a photoshoot where she had to approve and critique every picture. She does so many spinning jumps that she falls down, hurts her "wittle toe" and needs to snuggle. Snuggles and reading don't get turned down by this mama. Because priorities. 

Transplant Evan to the middle of my bedroom floor. Thank you, Lord that he isn't crawling yet! Scratch tummy time off my mental list. If he's moving, I'm done. It's 9:45 and we have officially passed my hopeful departure time. Still wearing pajamas. 

I hear faint knocking coming from the nursery. Sam. He shuts doors and can't open them. Open the door to find him with Kate's red dress over his head. WE ARE NEVER GOING TO LEAVE. 

I dig through my swim suit stash, remember that only two of them fit me and surrender to the same one I've worn all summer. Make mental note to go swim suit shopping. Ha! Immediately scratch that one off the list. Yell into space, "I hope y'all are ready to go because we're about to leave!" Silence. Where is Sam? Again, I announce into the abyss, "Sam, you need to get your shoes!" which is really just a tactic to get him to stop pouring out powdered sugar in the pantry or climbing on top of the leather chair to jump or whatever it is that is keeping so darn quiet.

It's 10:00 and I'm sweating at the realization that we've been trying to leave for 3 hours. No time to cry. As I attempt to make my hair not look as dirty as it actually is, Kate comes in to ask if it's okay that Sam has those chips out because they're hungry and ready for breakfast. I forgot second breakfast! I remove the taco kit from Sam's grip which sends him into Hulk mode. It's 10:02. Nap time for Sam. Can't nap. Must leave. I quickly hide the pacifiers because we're limiting them to bed only and that's all Hulk Sam wants. Make mental note to google humane ways of breaking up with the paci.

I make the bold move to put Evan in his carrier. Thank you again, Jesus, that he stays where I put him! Buckle Evan. Play with Evan. Take pictures of Evan. Because priorities. I mean, just look at that cutie.

Got distracted. Kate found some soap she was given hanging on the key hooks by the back door. Obviously this is the best time to refill the soap in her bathroom. "Can you believe it smells like bubble bath?!" Okay, the soap smells amazing, but seriously we need to be walking out the door. Where is Sam?

Found him. He's got the keys and the right idea. Maybe we will actually leave. It's 10:15. Is it raining? It better not be raining. I remove Sam from the cooler and he quickly darts to who knows where. Not me. I never know where. Evan is babbling and I remember baby food. Head back to the kitchen.

Okay. It's now 10:20 and the diaper bag is ready. Evan is ready. Kate is ready. WHERE IS SAM? Kate follows me on a quick search of his usual hiding places. Spotted: Sam is lying in wait in the middle of Rob's clothes. Just a simple game of hide and seek, Mom. Not too much to ask.  

So I give him the thrill of scaring me a few times.

Of course, Kate wants in on the game now too. Reusing the same hiding spot over and over again reminds me of how little they really are even though I unfairly expect them to act like serious big kids sometimes. Not even sure of the time anymore. Because priorities.

We get a few really great scares in before Evan calls for us from his carrier in the hall. Time to go.

I herd them like kittens into the garage and to the car. Open Sam's door for the big kids to climb in while I load Evan. I walk back around to fasten their seat belts and pass out entertainment from the floorboard for the ride. 

We're later than I would have preferred. I'm one hundred percent sure that I've left some things - like the boys' pants. But my heart is full of everything I've wanted. I lost my cool a few times and got scolded by my intuitive three year old accordingly. It took approximately three and half hours to leave our house, but the important things were taken care of. My children got my attention, although sometimes divided. I did my best and I know that His grace covers the rest. 

If I'm Supermom, then my cape is grace. In 2 Corinthians 12:9, the Lord tells Paul, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Mom or not, your weakness is an opportunity for His grace and redemption in your life. Let go of perfect except for His perfect power. His perfect love. His perfect peace. He is perfection and I am not. 

Thank you, Jesus, for freedom from perfection. 

Freedom in Failure

Sixteen days from now, Rob and I are participating in a triathlon. I am clearly not a real triathlete because I never know how to say that. You don't "run" a triathlon. Do you "do" a triathlon? That seems too broad. To say that I will 'finish" a triathlon is a little presumptuous on my part. Trust. Me. Yes, the goal is to finish, but I'm fully prepared to hitch a ride on the back of the photographer's kayak during the swim if needed. So, I've settled on "participating." These are the things I think about while swimming. Maybe if I focused more on how the heck to breathe while I swim, I wouldn't look like a duck trying to dodge a swarm of bees. Are ducks even scared of bees? Anyway... it's not pretty. 

If you know me, you're as shocked as I am that I've actually committed to this thing. I don't exercise. In college I had to take a P.E. class for my elementary education major. I was too sore to walk the day after we had to lunge across the playground with the second graders. A few years later I threw my back out playing a (very competitive) Wii bowling game. Later that year I pulled a muscle during a really good attempt at pilates. My doctor prescribed muscle relaxers, rest, and of course, no more pilates. 

Rob is not like me in this. He's a stud. And he's always up for a challenge. Two of his life goals are to run a full marathon (he's already barely finished a half) and to complete a triathlon. Two of mine are to allow him to run races and to cheer him on from the sidelines. Kidding. Sort of. 

So how did I end up here, registered for a sprint triathlon in the middle of June? Basically, I'm crazy. And I also really love my husband. It's not that I haven't wanted to do things he enjoys before now. It's been more about my heart. I don't like doing things with a very high chance of failure ahead of me. Success is so much better than failure, until it becomes more about the success than the journey. I chose to start something at which I knew I would be terrible. Where I would fall on my face a thousand times -literally once or twice- and then get up to take the very next step. 

It is incredibly freeing to do something that's outside your own strength. I am all about finding your gifts, strengths, and talents and then operating in those. It's the sweet spot. That's where ministry and life flourish because God has gifted each of us in completely unique ways. I believe with all my heart He created you to glorify Him using the gifts He gave you. However, when you act in your weaknesses, He is strong. He proves to be faithful when you are on your last leg. He breathes life into my weary body when I would rather jump off the bike. 

Y'all, He is so glorified in our weakness! If we could wrap our heads around that truth, then our lives wouldn't have to be about the successes or the failures. As long as you are in Christ, you are free to enjoy the journey without any concern about the outcome.

Now I do hope the outcome of this is not me crossing the finish line on a stretcher. If that happens, I'm moving on to my own life goals of owning a coffee shop and taking the fam to Disney World. 

I am not enough.

Not enough. 

Not enough time. Not enough energy.

Not smart enough. Not funny enough. Not good enough. 

Not enough hands to clean up the spit up off the floor, red pen marks on the chair cushion, and the coffee that just got pulled over by curious toddler hands. 

Not even 10a.m. yet?

And so goes every morning this week. I'm not enough.

BUT...

He is enough. He is more than enough.

He holds time in his hands. He is the giver of life and strength.

He is truth and He gives wisdom at a simple request. He brings joy and He is peace. He is good all the time.

He lovingly cleans up the mess of my life, and He is patient when my curious heart wanders away. And with the love that only the Father can give, He hears my cry and tenderly, quietly, perfectly mends my broken heart back together. 

He lavishes upon me grace and love and everything good. He makes my heart beautiful.

"For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace." John 1:16

My emptiness. His fullness. My brokenness. His grace. Grace upon grace. 

I can function out of the overflow of His fullness or I can function out of my incompleteness. I know where the latter leads me, but I also know that, eventually, I will attempt it again. And I will fail again because, no, I am not enough. 

I will never be enough. 

And I couldn't be more thankful for that. If I were enough, why would I ever need more? My insufficiency is a constant reminder that I am in need of something greater. Something outside of myself. A perfect Savior. The One who made me whole. The One who invites me to take on His burden because it's lighter than the load I'm hauling around (Matthew 11:29).

So, no. I am not enough. And neither are you. Let's stop trying to be! Instead, let's encourage one another on toward the One who is more than enough.

I am free from this idea that I need to be enough. 

Jesus is enough for me.