Action Girl Strikes Again!

Lately four words have been suspended in the air every time I stand at the crossroads between peace and worry, between fear and faith.

“Do you trust me?”

The situations change, the dilemmas take on different faces but the question remains, “Do you trust me?”

I don’t know…do I, Lord?

Because the answer to that will determine how I respond in this moment and, ultimately, it will determine the outcome of THIS situation...which could change my life forever.

But no pressure, right?!

Can I be real with you?  Trusting sometimes seems like INaction to a girl who loves action (which is why I truly am loving life with all my tiny people, just call me Action Girl!).  Trust seems like giving up but I’m realizing it’s really giving in to the Creator who sees the entire symphony while I stare in confusion at a single note on the music sheet.

You know that saying, “Some people have to learn the hard way?”  Hello, nice to meet you: I am that people.  Darn it all.   I seem to enjoy head-butting a brick wall repeatedly before I finally rub my head and say, “Well, maybe there’s a better way.”  Thankfully, I do eventually learn and try something different!

Just today I heard these four little words again when I hung up the phone after a conversation with my husband (and the loudest “la-la-la” song I could muster didn't do a thing to quiet that question in my soul).

Let me just say, I adore my man.  He’s a good, hard-working man and the best daddy I could have ever dreamed of to our four children.  I feel pretty dang lucky.  That being said...the man drives me crazy sometimes!  Especially when I feel I got marching orders for our life and he has a different idea.  Why can’t he ever just smile and say, “Yes, Dear.”?!  It’s not like I want to be in control…I just think sometimes my way is the HIGH way, as in the BEST way.  Like I said before: brick wall.

Both my husband, Bob, and I felt God put it on our hearts last year to get our home ready to sell.  I have no idea why since raising four children in a two bedroom home has been marvelous fun but, alas, I will sacrifice for the sake of the Kingdom if God has something better for us (wink, wink!).  

It was truly an exciting day last fall when (just a few days after I had decided to be completely content with where we are now) I felt God nudge me and say, “Get the house ready to sell next year.”  When I first heard this, I immediately wanted to know “the scoop”, “Sure, God: but then what?  Should we start looking for a new home?  Where are we going?  What will we be doing?  How will this all work?”  Here was the answer I got: “Do you trust me?”  I took a big breath and nodded, Yes, I do.  

Next, I sealed my lips (which should really be the 8th wonder of the world) and waited patiently for God to confirm this by putting it in Bob’s heart also (can I get a woo-woo from all the ladies out there who also think they hear from God first, ha ha!!).  Sure enough, a few weeks later, Bob (who had wanted to have the house paid off before we ever sold it, i.e. in the year 2050 when we would be transitioning to a nursing home) said the same thing out of the blue and I nearly tackled him to the ground in excitement (which brought NO complaints from him, of course).

Fast forward seven months to this spring as I envision our front yard; flowers blooming, green grass sprouting and a “For Sale” sign attracting just the perfect buyer for our well-loved home.  That would, of course, be according to “Tara’s Way or The Highway Plan” which was vetoed tonight by my sweetheart. His plans included finishing up a few home projects (which for a family short on time and cash and big on family demands made me feel like he was proposing we scale Mt. Everest, blindfolded.) and taking more time (remember, Action Girl here?!) to think and pray about it (boring, ha ha!).  Naturally, I did what any self-respecting Action Girl would do: I proposed my plan again and again…and again from different angles.  I try so hard to be tricky but tonight, I was busted by Bob, “If you insist, we’ll do it your way then.”  An image of a brick wall flashed in my mind and I sighed, “No, it’s okay, we’ll stick to your plan, that sounds wise.”  With that, I hung up and a tear escaped down my cheek.  Nothing was going according to MY plan and I felt helpless when suddenly, I heard four little words,

“Do you trust me?”

Do I trust Him to not only lead me but trust him to lead my husband in the direction we are supposed to go?  When I slipped a shiny band over my fiancée's finger six years ago and spoke the words of commitment until death that made him my Leader, my Best Friend and my Husband, I meant it.  But there are days that I try to carry a burden that is too heavy for my shoulders, days I try to lead and make him follow ME…days that I DON’T trust him which reminds me I’m not trusting the One that equipped him with the faith and fortitude to lead our family.

“Do you trust me?”

The question hung in the air as I stared at the silent cell phone in my hand.  

But I have to DO something, I have to MAKE something happen!  The protests of Action Girl were met with the same four-word-question and in my mind’s eye, I could see beautiful nail-scarred hands.  Who loves me more?  Who could possibly have a better plan for our life than the One that gave up his only Son so that we could have both life abundantly here on earth and in the life eternal that lays beyond this temporary home.

There was something a Girl of Action could do that would change things while I trusted God…

Something powerful…

Something amazing…

Something real…

I got down on my knees and prayed.

Yes, God, I trust You.

"Lead Me" Music Video

Sunday Morning Disaster

Rain + mud + worms + boys = Sunday Morning Disaster.

Relaxing is no longer an adjective that floats to the surface of my mind when I envision Sunday mornings.

Pre-children years included favorite music filling the house as we emptied our coffee cups and played footsie under the kitchen table.

Post-children years include the music of wailing as we squeeze our crew into uncomfortable church clothes intermingled with the sound of laughter as they streak through the house after their baths decked out in their “nuder-man” outfits (yes, that means naked!).  Meanwhile, the coffee maker sits collecting dust on the counter and the only thing being emptied at breakfast now are my cups of patience and joy as bowls of cereal topple off the table and lakes of milk form on my freshly cleaned hardwood floor.

All of this really gets me in the mood to go to church and be spiritual.  That’s why I’m relieved that real church isn’t a showcase for saints (oops, I missed that anointing for sainthood!) but rather a hospital for sinners.

After what happened this last Sunday, I was more than ready to raise my white hankie in surrender and admit that I sin with the best of them.  Glory hallelujah!

The children were lassoed and decked out in their outfits that included (for the boys) white long sleeved shirts and khakis (with strict instructions to not touch or even THINK about anything dirty), the mountain of Cheerios were swept up and the lake of milk was sopped up as my little soldiers were marched to the door to begin our "Exodus".  I typically begin the “Exodus” from our house about half an hour before we actually need to LEAVE for any given event as history has evidenced Murphy’s Law is a FACT with four children under age five.  

One baby loaded in the car seat and placed in the van, check.

One little girl buckled into her car seat with a handful of fruit snacks to keep her momentarily happy, check.

One three year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read, check.

One four year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read as well, check.

One Momma still wearing slippers…oh, snap…check.

“Okay, guys--Momma has to grab some shoes, I’ll be right back so just relax and STAY IN THE VAN, okay?”

They all nodded and I was foolishly deceived into thinking this is what things would look like when I reappeared.  I raced back outside…where I ran smack dab into my four year old son whose hand was submerged up to his elbow in a bucket of DIRT.

I did a double-take, what’s this?!  I immediately noticed His white polo shirt was now a lovely shade of brown and then he noticed a moment later that I had smoke coming out of my ears.

“Oh, Momma…" Gideon said, "I had to check to make sure the worms we caught yesterday are all alive.  Oh, wow--yup, they are.  Okay, I’ll get into the van now…oh, wait--I guess I have a little dirt on me…”

I would like to say I was very spiritual at that moment and reflected on the joys of boys and laughed about it all.  I would like to say that…but, I’ll shoot straight with ya’ll: I didn’t.  I did one of those First/Middle/Last-Name-of-Your-Child-Hollers that probably woke up the neighbors that were hoping to sleep in on a Sunday morning.  I have (quite infrequently) my saint moments, then, the rest of the time, I’m a sinner.

When Gideon and I climbed back into the van a few minutes later (with a clean shirt and dirt still under his fingernails), a little smile was starting to replace my crabby-Momma-face (thank God, that is such a bad look on me!).  When Gideon caught my eye in the mirror as he buckled back into his seat, I winked at him and his face lit up in a smile of his own, all was forgiven.  If God can forgive me for being a SPAZ about LITTLE things, for freaking out when I should take a moment to think before I speak, then how much MORE should I be quick to forgive my children who sometimes mess up in little ways.

I backed out of our driveway and headed towards the hospital for sinners…that was just the kind of place I needed to be on a Sunday morning like this.  I had some dirt of my own that needed to be cleaned up.

My Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Part III

Continued from last week....

I thought, Either they figured out where I’m supposed to be or…they are going to sell me on the black-market!

Since the mayor’s wife was dozing next to me in the backseat and the endless vista of dessert mountains and cactus after cactus speeding by the window was making me sleepy, I closed my eyes and thought about what had brought me to this day.

If you would have asked me on the day I graduated from high-school as I posed in my bright red cap and gown with friends, my mom snapping a million photos (back in the day of 35 mm film, that was a BIG deal!!), I would have never imagined I could be lost in Mexico just a year later.  I undoubtedly would have said, “I think I’d be starting my sophomore year of college in a year.” 

My post-high-school-life started out just as planned, I enrolled at the UW-Milwaukee and was thrilled to have the chance to run with the cross country team.  A busy schedule of classes (art and English major), practices and weekend parties made my college days fly by in a blur.  Even though I was raised as a P.K. (Pastor’s Kid) in a loving home and had embraced Jesus at the age of six I’d come a long way, baby (in the words of the famous ad).  I’d come a long way away from living for the Jesus of my childhood.  Life had thrown some hurts my way that left me in a wake of confusion but ultimately, I made a choice to be selfish and live for ME.  The result was leaving me empty and deep down, I knew the answer to a question that haunted me my freshman year, “What’s the meaning of my life?”

It had to be God.  Simple?  Yes.  I think it’s supposed to be simple, we are the ones that make it complicated.

It was a cold Friday night in January of 1999 when God totally knocked my socks off.  My roommates were blaring our favorite band as they got dolled up for a house party we had been looking forward to all week.  They gave me a double take when I informed them I was going to stay in that night instead. When my girlfriends left and the music stopped, I grabbed my Bible out of a pile of neglected books and started reading it and praying.  What I heard next changed my life forever.

“Where are you, God?”  I asked this question into my empty dorm room, feeling kind of silly until I heard a reply,

“I never left you, you left me.  I have promised to never leave you and never forsake you  (Hebrews 13:5).”  So began a conversation that night with the Friend sticks closer than a brother (Proverbs 18:24)  I also heard this, “Daughter, get ready: I’m sending you to another country.”  Of course, this statement brought many more questions from me, but I didn’t hear anything else that night.  Was I meant to embark on a journey of faith?  Once I obeyed the first step, would only then God would show me the next step?

So, that’s what I did.  I finished out the year, picked up a job as a waitress, stashed the cash I made and got a passport.  In a word (or three): I got ready.  August rolled around and all my friends were going back to college and I was going…where was I going again?  

Then one day, a phone-call came…from Mexico!  It was the principle of a local school in a little village who had heard about me through a serious of “coincidences” and had a strange proposition, “The teacher we had lined up for our school here can’t come anymore, we need a teacher for the ELS (English as a Second Language) program and to teach art (right up this girl’s ally!)…here’s the catch: Is there any chance you would be READY to come here in a few days before school starts?”

She couldn’t see the grin on my face as I squeezed the phone, “As a matter of fact, yes, I can come...I’m ready!”

That had been just a few days before and I knew without a doubt His hand had led me here…so somehow I was sure I’d eventually get to where I needed to go.

Sure enough, within an hour, a small wooden sign with “El Carmen” painted on it came into view.  Behind it lay the village that was made up of a houses that looked like someone had painted rows of assorted wooden blocks in every shade of pastel and avocado and lime trees growing along the dirt roads.  It was love at first sight!  The mayor pointed the chauffeur down one road after another until we pulled in front of a little school building where a lady rushed out the doors with an excited expression.

“Are you Tara?”  I barely had time to step out of the car before she warmly embraced me and showered me with questions.  My first thought was, English!!  My next thought was, where was my ride at the airport?

After saying a somber goodbye to the Mayor and his sweet wife (she seemed disappointed that I wouldn’t be moving in with them after all), I found out that the person who was supposed to pick me up at the airport was there at 9...only she had been there at 9 a.m. instead of 9 p.m.  Ah, just a minor detail!

Next, the principle told me this story,

“Mrs. Beto cleans and cooks at our school and she had heard the APB about you.  She wasn’t sure that was you so she didn’t mention it until this afternoon. We called the police station in Monterrey and found out the had been receiving calls all morning from people saying they were coming to pick you up!  Only no one actually knew your name so they weren’t about to release you to some stranger.  Once I confirmed your name though they said you were already gone.  I got nervous about that until they said the man who took you was the Mayor and he had left his business card.  I called his office and gave him directions to deliver you to us!”

Wow, I thought, that is…loco!

“There is one other thing…you should call your parents.”  She smiled ruefully, “They called here earlier and I admitted we had no idea what happened to you.  They were pretty worried.”

Oh, wow.  That is probably the understatement of the year!

Once we got to her house, I picked up the phone and waited for a wonderfully familiar voice to answer.  

“Dad, I made it.  Everything is okay.”

“Sweetie,”  He sounded a little choked up, “You’re getting on a plane as soon as possible and coming home.  Were you in jail?!”

It took a little convincing to get my parents to let me stay five more minutes much less twelve more months!  Even though things did not go as I had planned, I had peace that my life was going according to God’s plan.

In his book, “Radical”, David Platt says “We say things such as, ‘The safest place to be is the center of God’s will.’  We think, If it’s dangerous, God must not be in it.  If it’s risky, if it’s unsafe, if it’s costly, it must not be God’s will.  But what if these factors are actually the criteria by which we determine something is God’s will?  What if we began to look at the design of God as the most dangerous option before us?”

I knew I had come a long way, baby…and I also knew there was no going back!

My Once Upon a Time in Mexico

I glanced at the giant clock ticking on the wall in the empty airport.  Two hours had passed and I was still trying to figure out what to do.  I was scared, alone and Spanish-less in a city that spoke nothing else.  The clock read 11:00 pm and I decided it was time to go somewhere…but where?

I was nineteen years old and sitting on my suitcase in an empty terminal in the city of Monterrey in Mexico.  I had remembered to pack everything; a year’s supply of clothing, teaching supplies and gifts for my new students, a Spanish-English pocket-size dictionary and even my favorite heels that I figured I may never need at my destination of a village with dirt roads.  There was one thing I forgot to pack though: the phone number of the person who was supposed to pick me up.  That would really come in handy right now.

I took a breath, said a prayer and stepped out into the muggy heat of an evening in Monterrey.  A plan was coming together in my mind that seemed simple and good: hail a cab, give the driver the name of the village and school where they would be expecting me the next morning and voila, everything should work out perfectly afterall!

Now, how do you say “taxi” in Spanish?!

I quickly realized I should have payed more attention in my high-school Spanish class to how to speak Spanish instead of the cute guy in the third row!   My taxi driver and I were having a major communication break-down (the fact that he was missing most of his front teeth didn’t help the language barrier) although I was able to gather he would be delighted for me to come to his “casa” for “mucho tiempo” and there was something else he kept saying that left me clueless.  After repeated, frantic searches through my pocket-dictionary, I just nodded “yes”…and sometimes “no”, and hoped the rest of my ride would be in the back-seat and not the taxi’s trunk!

I also quickly discovered two things about the booming city of Monterrey; 1. No one in the entire city of Monterrey had ever heard of the village of El Carmen and 2. in spite of what my American banker friend had promised, no hotel within a hundred miles of the airport accepted cashier checks.  

This was precisely why my toothless taxi-driver dumped me on the steps of a police-station two hours later, at 2:00 am.

Should you be thinking, police-station, that sounds safe…what a good idea!  Let me paint the scene: I’m standing on the steps of a building that looked like a bulldozer had started to demolish it in a neighborhood that would make an American ghetto look like Beverly Hills.  I’m holding onto a giant suitcase, a purse crammed with valuables, and am probably the whitest thing other than the stars overhead in the dark sky for a mile radius.  Once I walk inside the police-station, I also notice I’m the only one not wearing a bullet proof vest.  Darn.  That’s another thing I forgot to pack.

I’ll save myself the embarrassment of reenacting what came next.  It involved a room full of amused police officers that didn’t speak English, a girl (me) that wished like she’d never wished before that she spoke Spanish and a game of charades with the contestant (me) acting out an airplane, school-teacher, taxi-driver and a rude hotel clerk while the participants (policemen) shouted out guesses in Spanish and laughed.

Thankfully, no one got that on video.

It seemed at the end of that little game that (other than being exhausted from some good belly-laughs) the officers understood what had happened and decided I could stay while they figured out what to do with me.  Perhaps from sheer habit or lack of originality, they had me step into a jail cell and fingerprinted me while I filled out some forms (that I didn’t understand as they were all in Spanish).

It was at this point that I got a little worried.   I hadn’t really been scared until I heard the latch click when the jail door slammed behind me.

I remember thinking at that moment, Well, God, I thought you led me here. If I could offer up a suggestion for how I’d like my life to end, PLEASE don’t let me disappear forever in a little jail cell in a city in Mexico.  I promise I’ll never forget to pack someones phone number again…especially in a foreign land where I don’t speak the language.  Oh, and sorry I didn’t pay attention in Spanish class either!

But, speaking of phone numbers…I suddenly remembered something!  This could be my salvation…

To be continued tomorrow...!

Meltdown Momma!!

I try to have a melt down at least once a month.

Okay, so I don’t actually try to…it really comes quite naturally.  And the whole “once a month” thing isn’t an actual goal, but I do seem to be making that quota as overall as I’m batting about 12 for 12 (12 melt-downs in 12 month’s time).

Here are the necessary ingredients that combine to create my monthly recipe for disaster; too many goals (my fault), too little sleep (my fault), too much striving in my own strength (my fault), too big of pride to ask for help (obviously, my fault again) and last (but certainly not least), too many unused Kleenexes in our home that are feeling lonely and need to fulfill their nose-wiping/mascara-swiping destiny.

I could perhaps blame it on the busyness of life with four tiny blessings underfoot each day…but I was still batting 12 for 12 when I had just one kid.  So maybe if I was child-free I could cope with life’s stresses in a more balanced way.  Hmm…sounds like a nice theory, but again, reality tells a different story as my husband has many fond recollections of hanging up his “The Doctor Is IN” sign on a monthly basis during our dating and newlywed years to be my listening ear as I bawled my eyes out.

And, honey, don’t even THINK that I was melt-down free before I had a man because let me tell you, then the tears came even more frequently as I lamented the void of good-hearted men in the universe.

In conclusion, the only common denominator in these monthly melt-downs is.... Moi’ (note to any men reading: don’t assume this always fell during the “Pass My Shotgun” week as there were the plenty of occasions when it didn’t).

The funny (or not so funny, depending on if you’re my husband or not) thing about Mama’s Meltdown Day is it could strike at any moment though it is usually preceded by days of suppressed feelings (most of which I haven’t had time to analyze and figure out) and if you throw in a few diaper-explosions or burnt dinners, the great day could arrive even sooner than anticipated.

When “Mama’s Meltdown Day” does arrive, it is sure to never dissapoint in the amount of drama that it produces.  “Days of Our Lives” and “As the Stomach Turns” have nothing on me.

The ideal setting for the meltdown to take place is usually someplace that gives off a pathetic vibe and isn’t too cheery because misery loves lame company.  I try to hold it together (ever the brave, sacrificing marter of motherhood that I am) until the children are napping or watching a movie in the hopes they won’t land in therapy when their older for being a live witness to a hysticarl alien taking over their normally happy mother and watching her inhale an entire box of Kleenexes in a single breath.

Once these elements are in place; children distracted, Kleenexes in hand, dark corner of the bathroom located, and (bonus) a quick glance in the mirror to remind myself I’m truly pitiful (greatly helps if I didn’t have a chance to change out of my pajamas and never put on make-up or did up my hair)...then the dam breaks.  Look out Hoover, you have real compition now.

Of course, it gets rather boring just crying, eating Kleenexes, dwelling on all of the negative things in my life (NO positive thinking or praying allowed!!) and just SITTING there, so after awhile, I do what any responsible and accomplished woman would do: call your man and share the love.

Since my man isn’t always aware that Mt. Meltdown has been having some suspicious activity under the surface the previous week, when he first picks up the phone and hears me sobbing on the other side, unable to articulate what’s happening, the hair on his back stands up in alarm.  Is she okay?  Was their an accident?  Did something happen to one of our kids?  Is the house on fire (or, more likely, dinner?)…did the car break down?  

“Baby!  Talk to me!  What’s wrong?”  His worried tone is fuel for my fire.

“I can’t do this…it’s so hard!”

“What’s hard?  Are you okay?  Where are the kids, dear?”  

“They’re watfching Sesame Street, don’t worry about them.  Ths is about ME.  I’m NOT fine!  I’m having a…(tears)…a….(sobbing)….a…(deep, ragged breath)…a MELTDOWN!!!”

“Oh.”  His voice sounds relieved, “That’s good.  I thougth something was wrong.”

Ah, men.  No wonder they have a shorter life expectancy than women.

Work deadlines will have to be pushed back an hour…or year…while I pour out my woes and unload the burdens of this world onto the hefty shoulders of my own John Wayne.  The only feedback needed from the man on the other end of the line are these words,  “Yes.  Oh.  Uh-huh.  Really?  Yes.  I UNDERSTAND.”  Of course, when the dumptruck of emotions has unloaded, I can think a little more clearly and realize I am an desperate need of some quiet time with God.  As strong as my man’s shoulders are, he can’t carry my burdens for me.  The only One that can is the One that promised me, “Cast your cares upon me, for I care for you.”

Well, there you have it.  That’s a moment-in-the-Mama’s-Meltdown-Day for you.  It’s nothing fancy, not something I’m proud of and typically I am at fault for arriving to that point.

But, the way I see it, if I DIDN’T have a monthly meltdown then,

1.  The Kleenex company would be out of business.

And,

2.  I wouldn’t realize how desperately I am a sinner in need of a Saviour (and having a good man and a bucket of icecream helps too).