Why I'm No Longer Praying for My Kids to Be Safe

Marlin: I promised I'd never let anything happen to him.

Dory: Hm. That's a funny thing to promise.

Marlin: What?

Dory: Well, you can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him.

Today, I joined the ranks of all the other parents launching their kids into a new school year. The girls were up extra early, donning new outfits and curling their hair and filling their bathroom with a swirl of Pink Chiffon body splash and hair spray and lip gloss. (Oh, this whole new world of preteen girls!)

Little guy was also up early, but with only one thing on his mind: did the Tooth Fairy come? (He lost his OTHER front tooth yesterday!) I actually had to remind him it was the first day of school, so he threw on a T-shirt and shorts and sauntered out to breakfast. (Obviously, boys are a LOT easier at this age.)

Over breakfast, we read our daily devotional and then I prayed for them as they begin this new adventure.

But this year… my prayer for them is different.

In years past, I've prayed for God to keep them safe. To protect them. To make sure nothing happens to them while they’re away from home.

There’s nothing wrong with praying for your kids’ safety, of course. The Bible is filled with prayers for God's protection. 

However, I've learned something very significant this past year.

In order for us to grow and mature and become the people God wants us to be…

* We have to fail. And learn from our mistakes. Then we can give ourselves grace and move forward with the wisdom that comes only from experience.

* We have to get hurt. And learn to get up again. Then we can experience the freedom of forgiveness and develop a tender compassion for others who are hurting too.

* We have to experience hard things. And learn from the struggle. Then we can deepen our strength, courage, tenacity, and character.

* We have to be challenged in our faith. And learn that God sends us as lights in this dark world. Then we can see others from God's perspective and depend more fully on God every day.

So if we want our kids to grow into the men and women God designed them to be, something has to happen to them.

As Dory pointed out in Finding Nemo, if your goal as a parent is not to let anything happen to your kids... well, then nothing will ever happen to them. They'll be stunted in their growth. God can't sculpt our kids unless we step back and allow Him to get out His chisel.

So this year, I'm not praying that God would keep my kids safe.

Instead, I'm praying that God would do whatever it takes to shape my kids into mature Christ-followers.

I'm praying that God would give me wisdom to guide them through their failures, pain, and challenges and keep pointing them toward the Cross.

And I'm praying that God would use their experiences this year to make them dangerous--to stand up for what is right regardless of consequences, to show unflinching compassion, to take risks, and to share with boldness the good news of Jesus Christ with those who desperately need hope.

Whether you are sending your kids off to school on the bus, in school uniforms, or to the kitchen table, I urge you to join me in praying for so much more than safety for our kids.

Let's pray that something will happen to them.

What Should You Tell Your Kids about the Boston Marathon Bombing?

Sometimes I wish I could just bubble-wrap my kids and protect them from all the sad stuff.

Like most parents, I try to make wise choices about what my kids are exposed to. I monitor their entertainment and their activities. I want them to be cultured, but not corrupted.

Yet I also want our home to be a safe place where they can wrestle with the big questions.

When they're having conflict with friends or frustrated by school, I want them to talk about it at home.

And when they're worried or sad about something, I want them to talk about it at home.

So I told them about the Boston Marathon bombings.

My 11-year-old had heard of the tragedy. We don't have the TV news, but her friends had texted her about it.

My other children are 9 and 6. At first I hesitated.... Did they really need to know about something that happened all the way across the country? Something that might really upset them?

Yes.

Because I know good and well that my kids are eventually going to hear about it. And I wanted them to hear it from me--and not from another kid at school.

They needed to hear it at home.

So over our family dinner, we talked about it. They asked questions. I answered honestly. We prayed. When it was over, the kids were fine and all slept soundly last night.

***

I'm a far cry from a parenting expert, but I know what it's like to break bad news to my kids.

Here's what works for us:

1. Be honest about what happened.

Don't try to gloss over the tragedy by saying, "Well, honey, there was this kind of sad thing in Boston, but it wasn't that big of a deal, so don't worry, okay?" Be honest.

I told my kids: "A really sad thing happened today. A lot of people were running in a great big race called the Boston Marathon, and there were two explosions near the finish line. Lots of people got hurt, and a couple of people were killed by the blast."

NOTE: You don't have to go into gory or horrific details. (Please don't!) But do state the basic facts. Your kids are going to hear the facts of the tragedy from someone--it might as well be you.

2. Point out the goodness wherever you can find it.

Take Mr. Rogers's famous advice and "look for the helpers." Point out something--anything--to teach your kids how to stop focusing on the negative and look for something positive. Not all tragedies have an obvious silver lining, of course. But there is always a glimmer of goodness.

I told my kids about a picture I'd seen on Facebook: "You know what was interesting, though? I saw a photo snapped immediately after the first blast. All you could see was smoke... and about six first responders rushing into that smoke. In a split second, they all instinctively ran INTO the danger to help other people." Then we talked a bit about what it takes to have that kind of self-sacrificing love.

NOTE: It's not always easy to find the goodness in a tragedy. Sometimes it might be as meager as "she's no longer suffering" or "it could have been worse." The point here isn't to try to be Pollyanna; it's to show your children how to adopt a different perspective.



3. Remind them that God is always in control.

As Christians, we know that God is sovereign. He is always in control, even when things don't make sense to us. "The secret things belong to the Lord" (Deuteronomy 29:29). If God were small enough to be understood, He wouldn't be big enough to be God.

I told the kids: "It was really awful what happened today. Setting off that bomb was an evil thing to do. But God is bigger than evil. In fact, since there is no one and nothing bigger than God, we don't have to be afraid. God is for us. What's the worst thing that could ever happen to us?" (My oldest reponded, "We'd die and go to heaven." My youngest sagely pointed out, "Well, we might be in pain for a while and then go to heaven.")

NOTE: Don't change the subject when your kids ask questions about God. Let them ask--and then listen to them. Kids old enough to grasp abstract concepts need a safe place to ask their questions. I had a great discussion about heaven (and even the biggie: "How do you know there is a God?") with my 9-year-old last night. Give your kids the freedom to ask. And then calmly help them think their way through it. Don't be too quick to jump in with answers.

4. Assure them of God's peace.

Wrap up your discussion by assuring your kids that nothing will ever happen to them outside of God's hands (John 10:28-30). Every single day of their lives has been written in God's book since  before they were born (Psalm 139:16). As my mom says, you can't live one day longer or one day shorter than God has planned for you. God's plan for your kids (and for you) is perfect, so they can live in peace--and not fear.

As the kids and I polished off the pizza and wrapped up our dinner discussion, I reminded them of several verses we memorized during a particularly trying time in our family:

"If God is for us, who can be against us?" (Romans 8:31)

"The Lord Himself has said, I will never leave you or forsake you" (Hebrews 13:1).

"The Lord is my light and my salvation--whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life--of whom shall I be afraid?" (Psalm 27:1).

"When I am afraid, I put my trust in You" (Psalm 56:3).

5. Pray.

We closed the conversation by praying for the victims, for their families, for everyone involved. We asked that God would grant them health and peace and that He would shine His light into the darkness of that tragedy.

***

I don't know the specifics of your family--maybe your kids are too young to understand any of this, or maybe you're not ready to tell them about it yet. (Obviously, you can't help your kids be at peace if you are fearful.)

If that's the case, may I leave you with this sentiment?

 

 

(Photo Credit: Bob Goff and @Nella365)

The Mess That Makes It REAL

I own 46 Bibles.

But only one of them is REAL.

Now, I don't mean that the other 45 are fakes. Obviously, the other Bibles are equally God's Word. Many are study Bibles I use for teaching and for personal devotions. Others are various translations I use for work.

(NOTE: whenever you're reading a book with Scripture quotes, know that an editor has verified each scripture word-for-word against the cited translation. Back in the old days--before the Internet--we had to do this with hard copies.)

Each Bible in my library is valuable and serves a purpose in my spiritual and professional life.

But only one is my REAL Bible.

My grandparents gave it to me for Christmas when I turned 13. I don't know if you can read the inscription in the picture, but my Grannie wrote, in part:

"We have no other gift to give you that would contain all the answers to life's challenges the way this beautiful word of God can and will.

Keep very close by at all times, searching the scriptures for all the great truths and promises that will give you the strength and grace to face and overcome each disappointment and temptation that comes your way..."

I've carried this Bible for more than a quarter century.

It's been beside me through middle school drama... high school ups and downs... youth camps and sleepovers and Dawson McAllister conferences. (See that page number in the upper right corner? That's the starter page for the "Romans Road." Before I learned the books of the Bible, I used page numbers as reminders.)

It traveled with me to college--my faithful companion in the dorm room... college Bible studies... road trips... mission trips. (Oh, how I remember those early mornings in the dorm, wearing my fuzzy pig slippers and PJs, carrying my Bible and coffee maker to the end of the hall and setting up in one of the study cubicles.)

It was at arm's reach after college--beside me all those years I lived alone... on my desk at Word Publishing... eagerly studied at Dallas Seminary... and then Southwestern Seminary.

It came with me to my honeymoon... to the hospital rooms when I had my babies... to the six different churches we served and the seven places we lived.

It was clutched tightly when my marriage fell apart... when my world came crashing down... when I had to start all over again.

Its pages are crumpled, yellowed, smudged, taped back together, filled with underlines and notes and highlights. Its bonded leather cover had to be replaced several years ago when the stitching fell apart.

It's a mess.

But that only makes sense, because there's so much of ME in there. And I'm a mess too. ;)

It's the mess that makes it REAL.

All those notes. The tear stains. (And yes, coffee stains.) The underlines and the questions in the margins. Cross-references and comments on things I struggle with. Highlights to remind me of God's promises.

Let me say this again: this Bible not technically "more real" than any other version of the Bible.

But it's REAL to me.

In this messy Bible, God has met me on every page.

For more than 25 years.

The same God.

He met me in my middle school drama. In my high school grief. In my college questions. In my married issues. In my sleep-deprived mothering. In my middle-age anguish.

Every time I open this Bible, and I see all the mess and marks from all these years... I remember:

[God] Himself has said,

“I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you."
(Hebrews 13:5)

 

This Bible is a tangible reminder that God is always with me.

No matter WHAT.

****

In much the same way that the mess of the pages makes a Bible REAL... the mess of our lives makes our faith REAL.

It's a long and painful process, to be sure.

You get marked up and tattered and taped. You get stained and torn. Sometimes your stitching completely falls apart and you have to get sewn back together.


But through it all, you are deeply loved by the Author of life.


And in the end, your faith becomes REAL.

****

“What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.


"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

--Margery Williams, "The Velveteen Rabbit"

Our Normal, Crazy, Fun, Adventurous, Everyday Life

So... it dawned on me the other day that the only time I sit down to write a blog is when I'm feeling reflective AND when everything else on my daily list is done.

Which, obviously, isn't that often. :)

I mean, I often feel reflective. And I enjoy writing--it's cathartic and fun. But to be honest, blogging isn't super high on my to-do list right now.

It's not that I don't adore all of you lovely readers! I do!!!  It's just that, with rare exceptions, I'm a 24/7 single mom and sole provider. So when I do have quiet moments, I usually spend them in personal devotion or squeezing in some extra editing to provide for the kiddos.

Or, you know, sleeping.

I Heart Sleep.

Anyway... there's a LOT more going on in the Stair house than what you see on this blog!

Since I don't have time to write about it now, let me just show you a few snapshots of what life is like in our home these days.

Obviously, we do all the regular stuff like homework and chores and showers and bedtime routine. But I don't have pictures of that. Just imagine your family and all its regular everyday stuff. Yep, us too.

What else do the kids and I do these days?

We dance.

 

We play outside.

 

 

We feed the ducks at the pond by our house.

 

 

 

We go to the park.

 

 

 

 

 

We have picnics and fly kites with my sister and her family.

 

 

We go to school events.

 

 

 

 

We hang out with friends.

 

 

(Do girls ever grow out of the "dress-up" phase? Hee hee)

 

 

 

We celebrate half-birthdays.

 (Ack! J.J.'s next birthday will have DOUBLE DIGITS!)

 

 

We make dorky, themed holiday meals.

 

NOTE: what I lack in baking stills, I make up for in food coloring.

 

Valentine's Day breakfast...

 

[[NOT PICTURED: our green St. Patrick's Day dinner, and the "resurrection rolls" we made for a sleepover on Easter weekend. If you ever make that recipe (widely circulated on Facebook), please note: Jesus-as-marshmallow tends to escape from His crescent-roll grave, so make sure kids know the Bible pretty well or they'll be concerned...]]

 

April Fool's! Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans are actually Cocoa Krispies treat, ice cream, and fruit roll-ups.

 

 

 

These are just some of the pictures I had on my phone. But I wanted you to see that we don't just sit around and pontificate and wax philosophical over here.

 

We LIVE.

 

We watch too much TV. We tickle. We giggle at our ever-expanding repertoire of family inside jokes. We get cranky at each other. The kids fuss. (I take deep breaths and remind myself of the immortal words of the Dog Whisperer: "Calm, Assertive Leadership.")

 

We eat breakfast for dinner. And sometimes, dessert first. (Who made up the rules, anyway?)

 

We sing. If you drop by pretty much anytime, we'll have Toby Mac or Chris Rice on Pandora (any guess which is my favorite and which is the kids'?). I have a habit of singing to myself--more of a "joyful noise" I guess--and the kids have picked up on that.

 

Sometimes I'll pause my editing, listen closely, and realize all three kids are singing three different songs to themselves.

 

I Heart Earbuds.

 

I'm not a very good cook. I'm terrified of crafts--glitter gives me hives. And I had to ask Miss B to explain the newfangled way the elementary school teaches math.

 

But the one thing I'm good at? Finding creative ways to have fun.

 

We have a lot of FUN.

 

So, that's pretty much our life. Regular stuff. Chaotic stuff. Messy stuff. Fun stuff.

 

Family stuff.

 

Because that's what we are! We're just a regular family. Doing regular family things.

 

Loving God.

 

Loving each other.

 

Doing our best to make the most out of our days. :)

 

Okay, that's all, folks! See you the next time I'm caught up enough on editing to blog!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

Why is there a Holy Saturday?

Today, I woke up early—while my house still sighed with the rhythmic breathing of five sleeping kids, exhausted from late-night sleepover giggles. While I tiptoed in the kitchen to make my coffee, it was quiet, and it was still dark.

 And as the excitement of yesterday melted into a silent morning. . . I realized:

Today is Holy Saturday.

I didn’t grow up in a liturgical tradition, so I haven’t contemplated the significance of Holy Saturday. Honestly, to me, it was just a bonus day sandwiched between Good Friday and Easter Sunday—a day to grocery shop for Sunday lunch, to take the kids to local Easter egg hunts. And for the thirteen years I spent as a pastor's wife, Holy Saturday was a hectic day, the final push to invite people to our Easter service (i.e., the Super Bowl of the church)—passing out flyers, doing some kind of community blitz to get our name and service times out there.

Never before has Holy Saturday been a quiet day.

For some reason I’ve been feeling especially reflective this Holy Week. So as the sun peeked over the rooftops this morning, I wondered, Why do we have Holy Saturday?

Why did Jesus stay in the grave an extra day?

I mean, I know the seminary answers: Jesus was fulfilling prophecy of being in the heart of the earth for three days (Matthew 12:40). Jesus was staying in the grave long enough for people to know He was dead, but not long enough for His body to decay (John 11:39; cf. Psalm 16:10). And some Bible scholars believe that on Saturday, Jesus preached the gospel in hell (1 Peter 3:18-20).

But even if Jesus “descended into hell,” as the Apostles’ Creed says—why did He need a whole day to preach the gospel? Jesus’ longest recorded sermon is the Sermon on the Mount, which can be delivered in only eight minutes. So Jesus could have been taken off the cross by sundown, made a quick trip to hell to preach the gospel, and been back in an hour.

Why is there a whole extra day?

I thought about what the disciples must have been feeling on that first Holy Saturday. They didn’t know it was Holy Saturday. To them, it was just another day. The day after their Master died.

The day after everything they'd been living for was snatched away in a matter of hours.

The day after their entire world fell apart.

Now THAT I can relate to.


About a year and a half ago, my dreams died. The tragedy shocked my faith like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He not only broke his vows with his marriage and his ministry, but he told me he was “tired of pretending.” Then one chilly morning, he chose another life and simply walked out.

Everything I had lived for was snatched away in a matter of hours.

I was devastated.

My faith was shaken to the core.

I had put all my eggs in this Easter basket, so to speak.

My life had been centered on the church from children’s choir to youth group—and then college Bible studies and mission trips. After college I worked for a Christian publisher and went to seminary, where I met and married a preacher. Together we planted churches and led ministries—all while I edited hundreds of Christian books. It is not an exaggeration to say the church was my entire world.

Everything I had been living for was saturated in the faith.

And then one day . . . it was gone.            

So I can relate a bit to the disciples that Saturday.

Maybe you can relate, too. You have your own story. Perhaps you’ve lost a loved one. Or gotten a phone call with devastating news.

Perhaps your dreams died with the words “cancer” or “infertile” or “runaway” or "downsizing" or “There's been an accident" or "I just don’t love you anymore” or “Your child needs some tests” or “He’ll never walk again.”

Or maybe for you, it was a crisis of faith that came out of nowhere. You were sitting on a pew or serving in church, when suddenly you were seized with doubt and thought, "What am I doing? Is this even real?"

Have you ever faced your own "Holy Saturday"?

Has God ever disappointed you? Not met your expectations? Been silent when you desperately needed Him to speak?

The disciples didn’t know that all their doubts, aches, and disappointments would be answered on Sunday. To them, Saturday was a dark day. A day of grief and anguish. A day of God's echoing silence. A day of enduring pain in the raw, empty place where their dreams used to live.

Everything they had believed in was buried in a cold, dark tomb.

God could have reassured the disciples by giving them some handwriting on the wall or a burning bush or something as a sign to let them know that Jesus was coming back. That their emptiness would be filled in the morning. That their faith was NOT in vain.

But He didn’t.

He let them wrestle in the darkness of that wide borderland--between anguish and hope--for a full day. Aching. Waiting. Grieving. Fearing. Wondering. Too shocked to pray. Too shattered to trust.

Why did God let them wrestle?

Why does God let us wrestle?

Why is there a whole day when God is silent?

***

When you're in your "Holy Saturday," faced with pain and doubt amid the silence of God… what do you do?

Do you turn and walk away from your faith, trying to fill the emptiness with something else?

Or ...

When you’re suffering in the silence, wracked by the feeling that God has abandoned you, do you notice that tiny, flickering, almost imperceptible spark of hope? The hope that makes no sense? The hope you cannot prove, you cannot see, and you cannot even quite say for sure is actually there?

Did He really say that He would rise again? 

Is there a chance that maybe He hasn’t abandoned me? That there is a future I just can’t see? A hope beyond this barren borderland?

It is today, Holy Saturday—the in-between place where we cannot see or sense God—when our faith becomes REAL.

If you are wrestling with your faith today, let me encourage you that there are thousands of other strugglers like you and me. We are the ones who know what it's like to be shattered by pain, assaulted by doubt and fear, and yet still desperately clinging to the hope that just barely throbs beneath our heartache.

Don't give in to the grief of your Holy Saturday. Don't run away from the One who alone has the words of eternal life.

Wait in the emptiness.

And watch.

Embrace the sacredness of your Holy Saturday, whatever it may be. Allow yourself to wrestle and to ask and to grieve and to fear and to doubt and to ache. Cry and pray and struggle. And through it all, pay attention to that tiny flicker of hope that just won't go away.

Then, as your heart is made tender by pain and your eyes softened by tears, the stone of doubt and emptiness will begin to roll away and reveal the transforming faith and fullness and glory of a Resurrection Sunday like you’ve never known.

 Where reasons are given, we don't need faith.

Where only darkness surrounds us,

we have no means for seeing except by faith.

--Elisabeth Elliot

The Best Gift a Daughter Could Ever Receive

I saw something at Starbucks last week that took my breath away.

Hang on, let me set the scene.

As a book editor, I often take my laptop to Starbucks to get work done. The particular Starbucks I go to is filled with all sorts of interesting people.

Just this past week, I sat by a group of young men giving each other advice about how to treat their wives (ahem), a MLM meeting in which the leader admitted his product didn’t work and was training his sales force on the placebo effect (really?!), and on and on. I try not to listen to conversations while I’m working, but sometimes it’s hard not to notice.

But my favorite—the one that will stay with me forever—was a middle-aged man and teenage boy who walked in last Friday.

The man seemed pleasant, chummy with the boy At first I assumed it was his son. He bought the teenager a latte and they settled at the table beside me. Between sips of coffee, the man casually asked how the boy’s senior year was going, what he enjoyed about school. Where did the boy go to church and so on.

 

Okay, so it’s not a father and son, I surmised. It was DNow weekend, so I thought maybe the man was mentoring the young boy or something. That’s sweet, I thought, sticking in my earbuds and turning up the volume on The Piano Guys channel to drown out their conversation.

I heard only a few bits and pieces between songs…

 “my daughter…” “How did you meet…” “I only have two rules...”

And then this:
  

“…You don’t put your hands anywhere on my daughter that I wouldn’t put my hands on my daughter…”

 

Wait… WHAT?

It finally dawned on me:
 

 

This father was “interviewing” the boy to see if he could date his daughter!
 

Well, what would you do? Yeah, me too. I hit mute on Pandora and totally eavesdropped on the rest of the conversation.

 

The man went on to explain how precious his daughter was to him. That she was his to protect until someday God gave her a husband and that he took that job very seriously. That whoever dated his daughter needed to be a man of integrity and honor. That his daughter was a treasure, and she deserved to be treated as such.

The father’s demeanor was agreeable and friendly, but you could tell he was serious about watching out for his daughter.

The conversation was peppered by a lot of “yes sir”s and nodding from the young man. A young man of such character, mind you, that he had been willing to meet with her father first.

 

Honestly, how many high school seniors would DO that nowadays?

Only the ones you want your daughter to date.

 

All right, I confess. I was tearing up at this point. Oh, what I would have given for my dad to have lived long enough to do that for me! And what I would give for my own daughters to have had a father like that!
 

I have no idea who this father is or who his daughter is. She may be glad her father is interviewing her potential dates, or she might be groaning in embarrassment that he’s sooooo old-fashioned.

  

Regardless, I know this: I’d give anything to be that girl. She’s the luckiest daughter on earth.

Dads of little girls, wherever you are, DO THIS for your daughters.

 

She might protest now, but someday, she will thank you.

 

I'm no expert on dads, but I know a lot about being a daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's the best gift a daughter could ever receive.

 

 

Freeze-Frame

I love lazy Saturdays.

My kids still haven't figured out how to sleep in, so they wander in my bedroom, one by one.

First, my middle child, carrying her Madame Alexander doll. "Can I snuggle with you?"

Of course. I scoot over.

Next, my young son. "Mom, I had a bad dream."

I groggily turn and pat the bed on the other side of me. There's plenty of room. He climbs in.

We cuddle, the three of us, somewhere between consciousness and dreamland. I don't know how many minutes pass. One? Ten?

Then my oldest child comes in. She's fully dressed, awake, ready to start the day. "Mom, can I play on the computer?"

"Mm-hmm," I affirm, rolling over to create some room for myself, resituating arms and legs that have streched across the mattress and wrapped around me, reducing my personal space in the king-sized bed to about ten inches. How can such small humans take up so much room?

I'm vaguely aware of the hall light switching on. The desktop computer playing its "powered-on" arpeggio. And the best sound of all: the gurgling of the coffeemaker.

I congratulate myself on what a great idea it was to teach my older kids how to make my coffee.

Soon, cuddles turn to conversation, and I resign myself to getting up. We make a game of it. I pretend to be dead weight as the kids scooch me over and grab my feet and pull me up.

We are a little parade of pajamas down the hall to the office, where my oldest is playing on the computer. The kids plop in the armchairs. I detour to the kitchen to pour my coffee.

In the two minutes I'm gone, the kids are already squabbling over the computer.

"Hey, it's MY turn! No fair! You've been on the computer forever."

"No, it's not! Mom said I could play it!"

"Hey, get out of my chair!"

My little guy, who had apparently climbed up beside his sister, wails in response.

Sigh.

I walk into the office, steaming mug in hand, and call a moratorium on the computer. "If you can't get along with electronics, then you'll have to get along without them." I shut down the desktop.

Three gripy children wander into the kitchen, variously accusing the others of it being their fault, reaching past each other to forage in the pantry and the fridge, aimlesslessly searching for food.

I twist open the blinds to a sunshiny morning and recruit them to help me make breakfast.

One turns on the music. Another stirs the batter. Another helps me flip the pancakes. The table is set. Vitamins portioned out. Apple juice poured. Jesus Calling for Kids devotional placed on the table.

Gradually, tattling turns to teamwork and breakfast is ready.

Between bites of blueberry pancakes, I tell the kids our plans for the day. I have to work today, so they'll be going to Gran's house. My younger sister is bringing her kids over so they can play.

My kids are eager to see their younger cousins, who weren't able to join us at the last family gathering. They can't wait to tell them all about their adventures in the big, country ranch house where we overnighted in Goldthwaite, graciously provided to us by a family friend as we gathered for my grandfather's funeral.

The kids remind each other of their stories--the "wild dogs" they encountered in the pasture (which turned out to be the next-door neighbor's pugs), the five cousins piling on top of each other in Keith's red truck as he took a bull out to join his cattle--and their mad dash to dive back into the truck once the two bulls met. Their "hike" to the windmill with their uncle. The time my little guy got to "drive" a pickup (atop the actual driver, of course).

The stories are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. My mom wants to know, would it be okay if she took my kids to see their other cousin's basketball game? If so, we'll need to be at her house a couple of hours earlier than expected.

The kids whoop in excitement. All the cousins! They'll get to see ALL of them!

Breakfast is hastily abandoned. I call them back to clear their spots at the table. And then I call them back again, reminding them for the upteenth time that "putting up your dishes" does not mean leaving them in the sink. I introduce them to the dishwasher. (Someday their spouses will thank me.) And I remind them that the pancake syrup isn't going to walk itself back to the pantry.

Three hopping, giggly kids quickly finish cleaning the kitchen and bounce off, Tigger-like, to get dressed.

One daughter insists on taking a shower first. Another wants me to braid her hair. Little guy is detemined to wear a "basketball outift" so he can shoot some hoops with his oldest cousin, who is twelve and, as the only other male cousin in our family, like a rock star to my son.

I wander up the stairs and into his closet. Basketball clothes? We settle for windpants and a T-shirt that reads "USA." He pulls out his only pair of Nike shoes, the ones with actual shoelaces.

A few minutes later, I'm in the downstairs office, editing a manuscript at my laptop.

My son, dressed down to his socks, carries his shoes downstairs. "Mom, can you help me tie my shoes?"

He passes his oldest sister, who is standing at the hall mirror, Stridexing her forehead.

"I'll help you, Buddy," she offers.

He plops on the floor, small legs extended, laces agape. She crouches down beside him and I pretend to be working... but I can't help listening as she shows him how to make the bunny ears and thread the laces. He can't figure it out. She patiently shows him again. And again... until his clumsy fingers can finally form the loops.

In the background, I overhear my middle daughter in my bathroom, belting out "How Great Thou Art" at the top of her lungs in the shower.

And I freeze-frame the moment.

This moment. This.

I don't want to cheapen it with a picture. That would turn the sacred ordinary into newsfeed fodder. Some moments are simply too precious for the mom paparazzi.

So I just hold the memory.

Snuggles and squabbles.

Tattles and teamwork.

The four of us have formed a new family. Our new normal. No longer feeling incomplete but whole.

All of us, finding our way amid preteen hormones and sibling drama and homework and manuscripts and school activities and book deadlines.

It's not perfect. At times, it's downright messy. But it's ours. Our little family.

This family.

This.