Laurie: The Bible Experience

I can't even convey what my heart feels, when I try to tell people about this, so I thought if I blogged about it maybe I could get the right words.

When Elaina and Scott were tiny I'd read them a bedtime story, and a little out of a children's Bible. We'd say our "goodnights". I'd tuck them in. Then their favorite part, I'd pop in a cute storytime cassette, as they fell off to sleep; David and Goliath, Daniel in the Lion's Den, or even ones about kids learning to make right choices from one of the fruits of the Spirit.

Elaina says, these tapes at bedtime are still one of her favorite memories.

Listening to the Bible when I was young seemed like something for the elderly and now writing this at 46, I must be there :0) But I wholeheartedly wish I could have had a Bible like this for my kids to listen to when they were little.

It's called "The Bible Experience", and it truly has come to life!
I bought the Book of John for $3.95 and have listened to it several times. When you actually hear the voice portrayed as Jesus, you're in awe. His heartfelt laugh when He's talking with His disciples, makes you wish you were there. And when He's speaking to the crowds you hear the amazed wondering and excitement, and even the waves lapping at the shore of Galilee behind Him as He talks and teaches them.
When the Pharisees bring the woman caught in the very act of adultry, you hear their anger and their desire to see what Jesus will do. Then the woman's soft, fearful answers, in her own sobbing voice and Jesus' kindness and gentlesness.

It is all so amazing, I began to think, what if our children could have these to listen to over and over again, as they fall off to sleep. They could picture the very scenes in their little minds and have such love for this Jesus they're hearing. How well they would know the word and be used by God and what a profound impact they could have even as children and teenagers on their peers. They could know the word better than any of us, the word would be in them!

You can go to www.youtube.com and type in "The Bible Experience" and see.
May God Bless you and your children!

Fran: Whose child is this?

This post is a follow up to a conversation I had today. I figured I'd post it here though because so many of us feel inadequate for the task of raising our children (or grandchildren). I didn't write this, it's from my Mother's Devotional Bible. I remember how much it ministered to me when I first read it and I hope it blesses you as well.

Whose Child Is This?

Scripture: 1 Samuel 1:21-28

Have you ever prayed Hannah's words as your own?

I have. Several times. Eagerly I've asked for God to take charge of my children. Out of fear that I might "ruin" them, I hand them over to Him.

But as I give my children to God, I often hear Him ask, "Do you really trust me with your children? Do you trust me to get them to school safely?"

"Yes!" I respond.

"Do you believe that I can guide them through an illness?"

"Of course!"

"How about deciding if they will marry - and who?"

"Better you than I!" I say

"Then do you trust me to select the very best mother for your children and for who I want them to become?"

We can be the mothers our children need because God divinely chose us for the job. Don't doubt it. He knows what He is doing.

And aren't we glad!

Additional scripture: Psalm 66:19-20, Proverbs 3:5-6

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Me again! Proverbs 3:5-6 is my favorite verse, perhaps because I take it as a promise.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths."

How much more comforting can you get? :)

When I have those times where I am doubting myself, whether it's parenting, being a wife, serving in some capacity at church or whatever, I go back to that verse. I don't understand why He gave these children to me, but I trust that it was for a good reason. On the days when Psycho Mommy is here I really wonder (they probably do to!) but I trust that He loves them enough to have put them right where they need to be.

And you know what else? He loves me and knew I needed them too. They are a gift from His hand, a blessing in so many ways.

Trust Him to work through and in you to accomplish what he wills for their lives (and yours!)

Shannon: Echoes

I wrote this for my blog a few years ago, but I came upon it this morning when searching through some old posts and thought I might reprint it here. I apologize right up front for the "c" word, but there's no other way to quote it.

Zac was only two when we started our goat adventure. No doubt, that played a big part in our decision to name the two brother goats "Grover" and "Elmo." I have no idea why we named the third "Mama Goat," unless it was the fact that she was old enough to have given birth to the other two. Or maybe our brains were tuckered.

Mama Goat owned a pair of horns--sharp, scary horns. I liked her fine when I went out alone to feed her, and didn't give her pointy weapons a second thought, but whenever Zac toddled after me, I went into full alert.

"No, no, Zac. Stay away from that one. That goat has horns that will hurt you."

The alarm in my voice chased his natural curiosity. He'd give her a solemn glance and slide a step or two closer to me.

I must have warned him plenty, because one afternoon, when my dad came to visit, we took him out to the goat pen to introduce him to the rest of the family.

"Zac, tell Grandpa Mike what the goats' names are," I prompted.

He pointed to the two brothers first. "That's Grover, and that's Elmo." Then he aimed his pudgy little finger toward Mama Goat. "And that's 'Horns-That-Will-Hurt-You.'"

It's funny what they pick up--and what they repeat.

I got another reminder a few months later when we left Zac with my uncle one evening and went out for a high-chairless dinner in a no-baby restaurant. We weren't gone long. When we returned, Uncle Doug was snickering.

"You'll never guess what I just overheard," he said. He then set up the scene: he was reading the paper upstairs in the kitchen, Zac was playing with his toy cars in the den just below the kitchen. The railings between the kitchen and the lower den allowed Uncle Doug to hear every screech and motor rev.

After driving one car around the floor for a few minutes, Zac said, in a high, momish voice, "Dave ... slow down."

Upstairs, Uncle Doug grinned.

Zac drove the car another lap around the carpet, and then said again--in my voice, only a tad more insistent this time--"Dave, I said, 'slow down.'"

Apparently, the imaginary Dave didn't obey the imaginary me. Because after one more trip around the imaginary track, Zac crashed his car into another. As the dust settled, he said, "See, Dave? I told you to slow down."

It's true, you know, that little pitchers have big ears.

Recently, while out shopping, I got another reminder. I was out on a yarn quest, down on my hands and knees in front of a bin at the craft store, when I heard a dad and daughter arguing. I looked up and saw them walking past my aisle. The little imp was adorable, and no more than three. He held her on his hip. Just as they passed my view, I heard him say, "Why don't you just shut up? I'm sick of your crap!" and without missing a beat, she said right back, "Yeah? Well, I'm sick of your crap!"

Oh, there are so many better things we can pass on to our children. Since we know they're listening, and we know they're little mina birds and love nothing more than appropriating our words and mimicking our tone and throwing it all right back at us, maybe we could give a little more thought to the words we pass along.

"I was wrong" is nice. Especially if it's followed up with, "I'm sorry ... will you forgive me?" And you can never make a mistake with "I'm proud of you" or "I'm glad you're mine" or, best of all, "I love you."

When we're purposeful about our legacy, when we take just a half second to think about the words we're releasing into the air, we sometimes get rewarded with unexpected and wonderful surprises. Sometimes, those echoes come back to us.

When Zac was little, the last thing I used to tell him every night, before turning out his little Ninja Turtle lamp, was, "I always wanted a boy just like you."

One night, after I'd had a long, hard day and really needed a back rub or a milk chocolate Dove bar or something equally comforting, Zac appeared in the doorway to my office and popped his head in. "Know what, Mama?" he said. "I always wanted a mom just like you."

I'm so grateful he was listening.

Kim: Invisible Women

I came across this online awhile back. My search to find the original author, "Charlotte", came up empty. I hope it encourages you. :)

I’m invisible...

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I’m thinking, “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

Obviously not. No one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I’m invisible.

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, “What time is it?” I’m a satellite guide to answer, “What number is the Disney Channel?” I’m a car to order, “Pick me up right around 5:30, please.”

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude -but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again.

She’s going … she’s going … she’s gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress;it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, “I brought you this.”

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription: “To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.”

In the days ahead I would read — no, devour — the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals– we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, “Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.”

And the workman replied, “Because God sees.”

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, “I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.”

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, “My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand-bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.” That would mean I’d built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home.

And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, “You’re gonna love it there.”

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

Fran: A Mom's Version of 1 Corinthians 13

I read this last night in our group and was asked by several people to post it here. This is from a devotional bible I have but was originally in a book called "When the handwriting on the wall is in brown crayon" by Susan L. Lenzkes.

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Though I lecture and harp at my children and have not love, I will be background noise to rebellious thoughts.

And though I wisely warn them not to use the street as a playground, or they'll be killed; and though I patiently explain why snails live in mobile homes, and I give endless answers to life's other mysteries; and though I have faith that can remove mountains of ignorance - yet never hug my children - I have taught nothing.

And though I slave over a steaming stove with balanced diets and complicated recipes and even burn my fingers - yet never smile as I serve - I have not really fed them.

A truly loving mother suffers through unfinished sentences, clutter, nicks on furniture, sleepless nights and adolescent insults, and is kind enough to think her kids are the greatest. A loving mother tries not to resent her children for being free like she used to be, and she doesn't brag about how she never talked to her mom that way.

Real love considers a childish nightmare more urgent than her need for sleep; is not shattered by the title "Meanest Mom"; doesn't shame a toddler who breaks training or a teen who still spills milk; steadfastly refuses to entertain visions of escape; and does not smirk as her child trips over the toy he refused to put away (but with silent wisdom rejoices in the effective lessons of experience).

Mother love has arms strong from lifting, a heart large with believing, a mind stretched with hoping, shoulders soft with enduring and knees bent with committing.

True mother-love never fails to point her child to the Author of Love.

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"And now these three remain; faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:13