A New Song

I have a problem.

I know that's no great revelation to those few regular readers I have, but I'm not talking about my ongoing battle with sanity. I'm talking about a different problem altogether.

My children are 14 and 12 years of age. When I was that age I listened to all the regular teenage radio stations that played all the regular teenage hits. I sang along with the best of them. Roberta Flack and I lamented about some guy killing us softly with his song. Elton John and I did the Crocodile Rock together. John Denver and I crooned about country roads taking us home. The Moody Blues and I dreamed about knights in white satin. Carly Simon and I sang about a really vain guy. James Taylor and I remembered Suzanne in Fire and Rain. I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

I am a child of the 70's. There, I've said it. And as a child of the 70's I am disappointed in what my children are being fed by way of their ears in this day and age.

Back in the 70's we had music. Not some people with poor language skills and even poorer writing skills trying to talk their way through some sort of off-color rhyme, but people who actually SANG. People who wrote SONGS and SANG them. Not only that, but the songs people sang were about things other than sex. There was no mention of the crude side of physical attraction like there is today. Songs were about love, about places, about feelings...not about animal lust.

Now before you youngsters get all up in arms about this, let me say one thing. I remember when I was a teenager that my parents lamented about the state of music and how it had changed since THEIR day. Parents have been complaining about this for generations.

But there's a difference this time.

I think the state of the airwaves today has reached an all-time new low. It's sad to me when my daughter and son sing along with "songs" without even realizing how very disgusting, carnal, and just plain WRONG the words of this so-called "music" can be. And when I call them on it, I get this statement: "Oh Mom, lighten up! It's just a SONG!"

Somehow I don't think this is what God was talking about when He said to "sing a new song." When I ask my kids what they think God would say about the songs they sing, all I get is rolling eyes and shaking heads. I'm obviously not cool because I'm so "rigid" with what I believe. But something's wrong with a society that sings about how it's OK to treat sex like an animal act.

Something is terribly wrong.

2 Timothy 2:22
Run from anything that stimulates youthful lusts. Instead, pursue righteous living, faithfulness, love, and peace. Enjoy the companionship of those who call on the Lord with pure hearts. (NLT)

Climb Every Mountain

Mount Washmore is becoming Mount Washless.

I'm working on the "divide and conquer" principal. Tonight, determined that I WILL be able to park the car in the garage again at some point, I started sorting laundry. Piles and piles and piles of laundry. Emmense amounts of clothing. More than any one person could wear in a lifetime, more towels than any one family has a right to own, more jeans than Carter has little pills.

And I'm still not done.

I'm ashamed of the mess I've let this become. Not that I'm entirely the only one to blame, but I certainly should have had a better handle on things. At the rate I'm going now, I think I could do laundry nonstop for at least 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for the next month and not be caught up.

Let's not even mention matching the socks.


NO!!! PLEASE...NOT THE SOCKS!!!

So suffice it to say there will be a MAJOR giving away of apparel as this conglomeration of clothing gets taken care of, and it WILL happen in my lifetime. And it will be CLEAN clothing, y'all. But there's something even more astonishing going on here.

IT'S NOT EVEN SATURDAY, AND I'M *CLEANING*!!!

This is SO not like me.


So just exactly what is God trying to do here? Not that I mind a great deal...in fact, I really like it! I feel like a gift has been given to me in this sudden urge to get up off of my behind and move and do and clean, so I guess I shouldn't look that horse in the mouth. But still, I wonder.


How long will it last? Will it be a "forever" thing, or just a passing fancy? Have I really grown up enough to actually start being responsible with my household? Will I be able to maintain the steam I seem to need to let off by doing these things? Is my mind really being renewed? Am I really changing?

Oh God, let it be so!


I WANT to be the Suzy-Homemaker-June-Cleaver-Donna-Reed clone. I want to be able to have people over to the house without stressing out. I want to have home-cooked meals on the table every night, clean sheets on the beds, dust-free shelves and furniture.

And I'm working on it. Really I am. And it will take time. Probably lots of time. And I won't be perfect. That one thing alone may be my downfall. Because if you can't do something right, why bother doing it?

Then again, it's better to take a lick at a snake than do nothing at all.

So keep on praying for this lost soul in Washing Machine Wilderness. I'll send up a flare if I need someone to brave the heights of my newly-formed mountain range to save me. I'll be the one standing on the pile of whites, waving the dirty towel....

Romans 12:2
Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is–his good, pleasing and perfect will.
New International Version © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society

Exercising My Belief

I did it.

Not only today, but for the past two days.

I actually exercised.

Me. The One Who Will Not Move Unless Fire Is Overtaking The Building.
Me. The Seated One.
Me. The Lover of All Things Sedentary.

I got up off of my hiney and moved. Really. And y'all? I even STRETCHED before I did it. Oh yes, I did.

At this point you may be asking the same question that has been running through my mind. No, it isn't "Will she continue?" although that has been a concern of mine. No, the question I have to ask is "WHAT ALIEN BEING HAS TAKEN CONTROL OF MY MIND AND BODY???" After all, not only have I been EXERCISING (did I mention that already?), but I have been CLEANING THE HOUSE.

Now, I wouldn't put it past God to work miracles in the modern day, but I must admit I'm somewhat of a skeptic when it comes to them happening in my own life. I can believe He parted the Red Sea. I can believe He made manna fall to the ground to feed those who wandered in the desert for so long. I can believe Jesus walked on water and healed sick people and raised others from the dead.

But when it comes to me? Not so much.

I tend to find it more likely that I'm somewhat manic/depressive and that I'm going through a mild manic phase. That would explain it, right? I mean, why bring the God thing into it at all? It won't last, and for now I've got it covered. I don't need the God aspect of the whole thing.

Or do I?

I know how things usually end up when I take control of them. Let's just say it ain't pretty. And the funny thing is, every time I try to do things on my own power, I screw them up.

So why can't this be my own little miracle? Why can't I rely on God to help me with these things I've been praying to overcome for such a long time? Why do I have such a hard time believing it could happen? Why can't history be changed, beginning today?

God, it's Yours. I give it all to You, right here and right now. You are the only way I will ever maintain the good that is going on in my life. You are the source of all good. You are the Holy One, the Miracle Worker. Work a miracle in me, Lord! I believe You can and You will. Help my unbelief, I pray.

Mark 9:23-24
"What do you mean, `If I can'?" Jesus asked. "Anything is possible if a person believes." The father instantly cried out, "I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!" (NLT)

A Day to Doze

Sunday is a wonderful day. I look forward to Sunday every week. Not only because I love to worship, not only because I love to fellowship with other Christians, not only because of Sunday dinner with the whole family present, but because of something I enjoy to the fullest every chance I get.

Ah, the joys of the Sunday afternoon nap!

After slaving over a hot computer from Monday through Friday, cleaning like a banshee on Saturday, and getting up early to sing with the band at two services on Sunday, I'm ready. Ready to do what God said to do on His day....rest.

Oh, but not just any rest.

My Sunday afternoon snooze is known near and far. My family knows that I get extremely cranky if I don't get to take advantage of that dark bedroom, those cool sheets gently warmed by my heated mattress pad, that soft pillow, that gently humming fan in the background. Those few short hours of dreamland, absent the screaming children, minus the demands, sans any worries....that is sacrosanct time.

Honestly, I can feel my eyelids starting to droop just thinking about it.

At 3 p.m. I will head up those stairs to the magical Palace of Peace, the Room of Relaxation, the Tomb of Snooze. Heaven help the child who wakes me before my time in the clouds is concluded! A pox on anyone who phones me during this time! Pestilence and plague to those who would dare darken my door during those precious hours!

Because really, I can get downright mean if I don't get my nap out. Have I mentioned that already? And you wouldn't want to see me get mean. Really. I can get scary ugly.

Yup, God sure knew what He was doing when He told us to rest on the Sabbath.

AND I FULLY INTEND TO OBEY.

Psalm 4:8
I will lie down in peace and sleep, for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.
New Living Translation © 1996 Tyndale Charitable Trust

Proverbs 24:33
A little extra sleep, a little more slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest-
New Living Translation © 1996 Tyndale Charitable Trust

Patience Is a Virtue...Just Not One of Mine

It's been another one of those days.

Here it is, Saturday, we've been cleaning (under great protest from the children), and I haven't quite figured out what the deal is. All of a sudden I can't go through a weekend without housework. Now, I'm not sure if this is because some of you have been praying about the state of my house, or if I'm hormonally prone to it (as evidenced by the migraine I feel coming on at this moment), or if I'm just sick and tired of the state of things, but it is happening. Little by little, it IS happening.

Today has been a constant battle, though. I feel almost like Attila the Hun in dealing with my children. At 14 and 12, they're both in that let's-ship-'em-off-to-Borneo-until-they're-30 stage. If I come through today with all of my hair and two living children, I'll count it a good day.

It started out just fine. I made whole-wheat pancakes for breakfast, and the kids actually LIKED them. Point for me. Then the tough stuff began....

I asked Son to do the dishes. We trade off weeks between the two of them, and it's his week. After asking a few times, I started telling. After telling a few times, I started threatening. After threatening I grounded. And then, and ONLY then, did he move.

It took him TWO HOURS to do the dishes. With a DISHWASHER.

In the meantime, I asked Daughter to do a load of laundry, then help me pick up the living room. In return I received a verbal assault. She yelled long, and she yelled loud. I took it to a point, and then ended up yelling back. She was sent to her room with orders to stay there until it was clean, with that task being accompished before she was to leave for the Homecoming dance tonight. Failure to do so would result in her forfeiting the dance. She had 5 hours to finish it.

Back to Son. After completing the dishes, he was asked to clean his room. Then he was told. Then he was threatened. Same yelling, same outburst of temper on both our parts.

I was in need of reinforcements. Or a vacation. Or both.

I went into my room and woke my husband, who sleeps until early afternoon due to his job. I told him the whole, sad tale. To his credit, he went in and laid the law down with Daughter. "It is now 1:20 p.m. You have one hour, and one hour only, to completely finish this job, or there will be no dance for you tonight."

It was amazing how quickly her room got clean.

Son was also given a deadline. As of this writing he has 30 minutes to complete the task, or risk losing a game night with the youth group that he's dying to attend. He's had two hours to do it, but didn't begin in earnest until five minutes ago.

These are the times that try my patience. Of course, patience was NOT one of my strong suits to begin with, so trying it isn't hard. And I really do try to hold my temper in check. Honest I do. But these are the times which try a mom's soul as well as her patience.

In comparison, I can only think of how I, as a child of God, try His patience sometimes. How many times does He have to explain things to me? How many times does He tell me what I need to do and when, only to have me ignore Him?

And yet, He is the epitomy of patience.

He tells me, then tells me again and again. He doesn't threaten, but there are eventually consequences if I refuse to listen. I know this, and yet I continue to disobey. Sometimes I even yell at Him when I don't see the reasoning behind what He wants me to do. The funny thing is, He never yells back, never loses His temper.

He simply loves me through it.

God, please give me Your wisdom and patience with my own children. Help me to love them through their disobedience, even as You love me through mine. Forgive my temper, Lord, and help me to overcome the lack of patience I have. You alone know what that will take and what I must do to accomplish it. Teach me Your ways, Lord.

Romans 5:3-4
And not only [so], but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope...
King James Version 1611, 1769

God Versus Evil

Sometimes I just think weird things.

I don't know when it started or why it began. The things I think aren't really beneficial in any way. Some of them kind of creep me out, to be honest. I tend to be a bit on the macabre side when it comes to make-believe. No, I'm not Stephen-King-ish or anything like that, but my mental wanderings do tend to list toward the dark side. Sometimes they're downright scary.

For instance, when I drive down the freeway, I'm constantly on the lookout for places that could serve as a shelter for me and my family in case we were ever homeless. It doesn't matter where I am, where I'm going, or who I'm with at the time. It doesn't matter that I've always, ALWAYS had a place to call home, or that I've never even been close to living on the street. I don't know if it has to do with reading The Boxcar Children too many times as a child, or listening to Danny Kaye read fairy tales on our record player, including The Little Match Girl. I always put myself in the middle of the story. I was the poor child who had no home and had to live in a boxcar. I was the little girl trying to stay warm by lighting matches. I was the one who was alone and cold and hungry. Me.

I tend to play What If? a lot. As in:

What if I was in the middle of a robbery situation? What would I do?
What if my husband (God forbid) should die? What would I do?
What if I had cancer? What would I do?
What if I let these thoughts take over my life????

That's where I draw the line. I may entertain thoughts of this sort for a moment or two, but they don't stay. I won't let them. Why? Because I firmly believe these are the Enemy's attempt to get a hold on me. And I won't let that happen.

Am I super-human? No. Am I able to beat Satan? Not on my own. But listen to this...

I have the power of the Three-In-One on my side. Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

All I have to do is call on them. They're better than any super heroes. They're able to do more than Superman ever thought, more than Spiderman ever dreamed, more than Batman or the Green Hornet or Wonder Woman. They conquer not only evil, but the source of evil. They tame the beast. And in the end, WE ALL WIN!!!

They change my thoughts. Instead of dwelling on the down side, I'm now concentrating on the positive. And with that, What If? takes on a whole new perspective.

What if I became more frugal?
What if I really studied the Word on a daily basis?
What if I could do something to bless someone else?
What if I applied more discipline in my life?

What if Jesus came back today???

Yeah. That's better. That's GOOD. That's RIGHT.

THAT'S GOD.

Philippians 4:8
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
American Standard Version 1901

If I Could Save Tears in a Bottle

Tears are a gift from God. I know this. But somehow I wish God wouldn't have "gifted" me so well in that area.

The waterworks and I go back a long, long, LONG way. As a child my parents used to tease me because if I even think about shedding a tear, my nose turns bright red and stays that way long after I stop. Because of this, I became known as "Rudolph" every time I cried.

I can remember way back when the hormones first started to rage, and the crying fits I had. Mom or Dad would be SO UNFAIR to me, and I would be SO DEVASTATED that I'd have to throw myself across the bed and wail for hours on end. While the depth of my emotion was very real to me at the time, it only served as fodder for family stories I'll hear for the rest of my life. Thirty six years after the fact my mother still takes great joy in bringing those times up, especially since I now have a teenage daughter of my own.

I have cried at funerals, weddings, speeches, graduations, promotions, parties, and PTA meetings. I have shed tears at family gatherings, meetings, church services, and during television shows. I have openly wept at home, in my office, the grocery store, parking lots, the yard, the shower, the car, hotels, theaters, restaurants.....you name it, it's probably stained by my tears.

And the kicker is that I'm really a very HAPPY person!

But I'm also one of those people that cry when they're happy and cry when they're sad. I cry when I'm tired, frustrated, overjoyed, moved, surprised, scared, blessed and angry. I get teary-eyed, I weep, I bawl, I howl, and I have been known upon occasion do an excellent rendition of the ugly cry. I play no favorites.

That's me.

If you were to gather up all of the tears I have cried in my lifetime, you could easily replace the water in Lake Erie. If all of my tears turned into rain, it could storm for a month and never let up once.

But guess what?

God knows about my tears. And He cares about each and every one. He cares about every joy, every sorrow, every emotion, every hurt, every love and every frustration I have ever had or ever will have. He knows about them all. And they all matter to Him.

Just as I do. Just as YOU do.

And because of that I can be the person I was created to be without shame. Tears and all.

Now, will someone PLEASE pass me a Kleenex???


Psalm 56:8
You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.
New Living Translation © 1996 Tyndale Charitable Trust

Psalm 126:5
Those who sow in tears
Shall reap in joy.
New King James Version © 1982 Thomas Nelson

A Time to Heal

September 11, 2001 was a horrible day.

I remember everything that happened that day. I remember watching the horror on television. I remember being in such shock I couldn't work. I remember the worrying I did over a friend who lived in New York, and the panic I felt when I couldn't reach him for hours on end. I remember the endless coverage on television, the thousands of people who lost their lives and the agony this country went through.

I remember.

At the same time, I have moved on. I have moved past that time. I don't think about it every hour or every day or even every week. I have grieved. I have cried. And I have gone past the ache, past the tears, past the shock, to live a normal life again. A different normal to be sure, but normal nonetheless.

However, there are those who are not allowed to move forward.

I watched a news program last night that chronicled the lives of the children of September 11th. Those who lost a father or mother in the attack. Those who have lived with the horror of that day for the past five years. Those who are not permitted to heal.

For them, every time they see the towers fall on television, their parent is murdered once again. And on this anniversary of the attack, this one day a year when we bring it all up again, those children suffer. They suffer the loss of someone who meant everything to them. They suffer in remembering the shock of when they first found out their beloved mother or father would not be coming home. They suffer the grief that should be fading, but is resurrected anew with each anniversary of death and destruction.

When will it stop?

One girl in the program explained how horrible it is. "They just won't let us get past it," she said through her tears. One child said the memories of her father were fading after five years, but not the memory of his violent and untimely death. She said she dreads this day every year, because she knows the footage on television will be of the exact moments her father died. All these children want is to heal from the devastating wounds inflicted on that September day.

When will it stop?

How would we feel if we had to watch the event that caused one of our own loved ones to die over and over and over again? It seems to me as though it would be bad enough just to remember it, without having to see it played out time and time again on television. Yet that's what we as a nation are putting these innocent victims of this disaster through. We re-injure them every time the events of that day are replayed on television and radio.

When will it stop?

When can we move on, remembering still, yet hurting less? When will these children be able to put their lives back together and get past this terrible event? How does it help us to relive this disaster over and over again?

Remember; always remember. But then we must heal. We cannot live in the past. We must look toward the future...the children.

And they will always remember.


Ecclesiastes 3
A Time for Everything
1 For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.
2 A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
3 A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up.
4 A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
5 A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
6 A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
7 A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
8 A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.
(NLT)

The Liz Monster

When I was a little girl I had a dog. He was a Boston terrier named Dinky. Dinky was MY dog. Oh, there were other people in my house, but it was clear to me that Dinky was mine and mine alone.

Dinky was small for a Boston. I know this because I was only three at the time and I towered over him. But as we say about my mother, he was "little, but MIGHTY." And mighty he was.

One of the clearest memories I have of him was a long-ago winter day. It had been snowing heavily the night before, and Mom decided it would be a good thing if I took Dinky outside to play. My father was doing something in the front yard, so I took Dinky on his leash out into the snow to say hello. Dinky had a mind of his own and decided to walk down the hill instead of toward Dad.

Unfortunately, there was a drainage ditch at the bottom of the hill. Snow had drifted into the ditch, and when I walked into it I found snow up to my waist. I promptly fell down, burying myself up to the neck. Dinky, sensing something was wrong, immediately started pulling on the leash I still held in my hand. He was trying to pull me out of the snow! As small as he was, he was trying to help ME.

Dinky was the only dog I ever had as a child. My parents decided not to adopt another dog after Dinky died, so I ended up growing up without another canine playmate.

Fast forward forty years.

My own children wanted a dog. They whined, they nagged, they cajoled, they pleaded for a dog. It never stopped. I was adamant about not getting a dog. So was my husband. I told the kids they could have a dog if they could find one that didn't poop, pee, or shed. That was my compromise.

The kids didn't want a stuffed dog.

They continued to whine, nag, cajole, plead, and they even added begging to the list. Finally we laid down the law. NO DOG. Not now, not later. NEVER. They could like it or lump it. There would be NO DOG. EVER. I have allergies, my son has allergies, and we could not risk having an animal in the house. Besides which, animals of the live sort tend to poop. And pee. And shed. We were NOT going to get a DOG. End of story.

That is, until we met Munchkin.

The retired couple down the street have a dog. Mr. Retired walks the dog twice a day, faithfully. As he walks, he whistles. Loudly. Show tunes, hymns, old songs, new songs. You name it, that man can whistle it, and whistle it so the whole neighborhood can hear. One day, as he was walking by with the dog, I happened to be outside. I complimented him on his whistling, and just happened to notice the cute little furball he had in tow. Turns out the little furball's name was Munchkin. Munchkin is a miniature poodle.

As we talked, I kept noticing how very...well...CUTE this dog was. I mentioned it to him, and he took the opportunity to show me some of her tricks. I was amazed at how smart this dog was. I told Mr. Retired I'd like to have my husband see all the things she could do, and Mr. Retired invited us to come over that evening.

We were sunk.

Before the evening was over he had convinced us to get a miniature poodle of our own. Seems as though poodles are hypoallergenic, and because of their thick, curly coats they don't shed. We were going to be dog owners. Us. The dog haters. The allergic people. The people who had an aversion to shedding dog hair. The ones who hate poop and pee. The people who were NEVER going to get a DOG, no way, no how.

Two months later, we were the adoptive parents of a beautiful, black, bouncing baby girl miniature poodle. We were in love. We named her Lizzie.

That was five years ago. September 9th marks Lizzie's fifth birthday, so it is appropriate I write about her at this time. She has literally changed our lives.

Five years ago when my son and daughter-in-law called themselves "Mommy" and "Daddy" when they were speaking of their dogs, I had to laugh. "How silly!" I thought. Today, Daddy and I (Momma), speak the same way.

Five years ago I would NEVER think of letting a dog climb on my furniture. Lizzie now spends most of her time in one of the chairs next to me, either dozing or watching what I do with great interest.

Five years ago my eldest son knew without a doubt I would never have a dog. Today he asks me what alien being has taken over his mother's body and mind...the change in me has been that drastic.

Five years ago there was no one who was so excited to greet me at the door. No one who snuggled up behind my neck on the chair on a cold winter's night. No one who obeyed me without question and loved me so unconditionally, and no one who wanted to spend time just sitting with me when I wanted to be quiet.

We have been given a gift in this little dog. Call us crazy, but we love her. And I know the feeling is mutual.

God gives us so many things in this life that it's hard sometimes to be adequately thankful for each one. But for this one, Father, I am truly thankful.

Happy Birthday, Lizzie!

James 1:17
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
New International Version © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society

Mrs. Clean and the Heathen Children

Did I ever mention the fact that I'm a really bad housekeeper?

Uh-huh. I thought so.

So today when I got what my husband calls THE URGE to clean, I attacked our bathroom. Suffice it to say you could write your name in the dust on the lid to the commode tank. Yuck.

I scrubbed. I scoured. I bleached everything in sight. I killed cobwebs, sanitized porcelain, eliminated soap scum, shined mirrors, emptied drawers and cleaned under the sink. I reorganized, rearranged, and removed bags of trash. I got rid of old medications, old makeup, old jewelry, and old dirt. I cleaned the ceiling, walls and floor. I bought disinfectant wipes to keep things nice and clean on a daily basis. I bought a plastic bin to store all of my get-ready-in-the-morning-stuff under the sink so I could take it out, use it, then put it away.

And there's still more to do.

Before I go to bed tonight I plan to clean out the cabinet above the commode and reorganize it. I'll wash the windows. I'll hang fresh towels. I'll take the curtain down and put it in the wash.

Then, and only then, will I look at this bathroom with happiness. Then, and only then, will I say to myself.....

"It is good."

And I will rest, knowing my bathroom is free of germs, free of smell, free of dust and dirt. My bathroom will be perfect. And I will sigh the sigh of a contented woman.

Until I look at the rest of my house.

Granted, the bedroom is not bad. Really it isn't. It needs a good dusting and a little picking up. It really has survived the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune quite well, considering we shoveled it out over three weeks ago. I'm actually kind of proud of our housekeeping in that area.

But let's travel down the hall, shall we? We'll pass right by the first two rooms. They belong to the children. The Heathen Children. My offspring. Those Who Know Nothing of Clean Rooms. Songs have been sung and legends created by those who have been fortunate enough to venture into those rooms and come out alive. Others have never been found amongst the piles of dirty gym clothes, nail polish, makeup, dishes, race car paraphenalia, artwork, photos, furniture and bedding that could walk by itself.

Those are some scary rooms.

Then we come to the hallway bathroom. This is not only the guest bathroom, but the main bathroom for the entire house. My children take turns cleaning this bathroom every weekend. The good thing about this is that they do clean it every weekend. The bad thing is what their definition of cleaning actually is.

My son believes that if he places all the dirty laundry in one pile in the bathroom, brushes out the toilet (sans any kind of cleaning solution), sprinkles Comet in the bathtub and rinses it out, he's done his job.

My daughter is almost as bad. When I told her to clean the bathroom today, she actually did remove the dirty laundry. She also scrubbed out the tub with Comet. And she regarded it as a job well done. When I mentioned to her that perhaps she might consider cleaning out the sink and scrubbing out the toilet as well as cleaning the mirror, I was called a "perfectionist" and given "the look" by my sweet little girl.

ME??? A PERFECTIONIST???? At HOUSEKEEPING????

However strange it may seem, I have become to my fourteen-year-old daughter what my mother was to me. How on earth could something like that happen? How could the standards for perfectionism have lowered so drastically in the time between my teenage years and hers?

But as I thought about it, I could see her reasoning. My perfectionism is what got me into this mess in the first place. Rather than just do what I can to clean, I have to do it PERFECTLY. If it can't be done PERFECTLY in the amount of time I have, with the amount of energy I have, I won't do it. If I look at a job that needs to be done and see that I will only be able to finish part of it, I won't start it. If I can't finish a job the way I want to, it won't be begun. As I was told growing up, "If you can't do it right, don't do it at all."

Take our bathroom, for instance. A normal person would have spent a hour in there, tops. I spent the greater part of the DAY making sure everything was done...to PERFECTION. When we have the family over for our yearly Thanksgiving dinner, I go into freak-out mode the week before. My family ends up hating me for what I've become during that time, because I want everything to be PERFECT before the dinner. We clean like mad, and I become crazed with making sure every little thing is spotless.

This is definitely something I need to conquer. The question is....how? How do I let go of these feelings? Why is it so important to me to be "perfect" in everything I do? Why do I feel so inadequate in this area?

I think that I am trying to become perfect by my works. Perfect so that no one can find fault with me. Perfect in not only the eyes of man, but also in the eyes of God.

I know better. I know I'm striving for something that will never happen this side of Heaven. I know nothing I can do here will ever reach the summit of perfection I strive for. And yet I continue.

Father God, help me to see the foolishness of my struggle. Help me to give it up and to be satisfied to do the best I can with the circumstances I'm given. Help me to accept when things are "good enough" for the time being. Help me not to judge my self-worth on what others think. Help me to see myself as Your child, and let that be my only source of perfection.

Because Your name is Perfect. And I am not.


Isaiah 64:6
We are all infected and impure with sin. When we proudly display our righteous deeds, we find they are but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall. And our sins, like the wind, sweep us away.
New Living Translation © 1996 Tyndale Charitable Trust


Hebrews 7:11
If perfection could have been attained through the Levitical priesthood (for on the basis of it the law was given to the people), why was there still need for another priest to come–one in the order of Melchizedek, not in the order of Aaron?
New International Version © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

There's no place like HOME!

As we drove in tonight, my thoughts went to my comfortable, messy home...sleeping in my comfortable, messy bed in my comfortable, messy room. There was no one to park the car for me, no one to carry my bags in, no one to come in and turn down the bed at night....and no one to tip every time I turned around just because they said hello to me.

I love my home!

Not that the hotel we stayed in wasn't nice...it was WONDERFUL. We were fortunate enough to get a four-star hotel for a mere pittance by going to a popular web site advertised by Captain Kirk of Star Trek fame. As we arrived we were greeted by uniformed doormen and valets, all eager to serve. Our vehicle was parked, bags unloaded and whisked up to our room in mere minutes of our arrival. The bed was the essence of comfort, the bathroom stupendous, the decor beyond reproach, the view was breathtaking, and all was sparkling clean and fresh. Towels were in abundance; fluffy, snow-white, thick, absorbent blankets of luxury. Scented soaps, shampoos and conditioners were all supplied for our convenience and bathing pleasure. There was a fully-equipped exercise room and indoor pool with a steaming jacuzzi. No less than a gazillion and five channels were provided on the television, and there was high-speed internet service available as well. A wide variety of the best food could be delivered to our door by merely calling room service. It was indeed a glorious place to stay.

But it wasn't HOME.

There were sights to see, new places to eat and explore. There were activities to fill our time in abundance, not including the wedding of my stepson. We navigated those unchartered waters with some trepidation, as evidenced by my previous post, but managed to come out unscathed. The wedding was small, intimate, and beautiful. The setting was a garden church with a view of nature that was breathtaking. The reception was aboard a riverboat, and both the cruise and meal were wonderful. We danced, we ate, we drank, we enjoyed the evening and all it had to offer. We returned to the wonderful hotel and slept like babies.

But we weren't at HOME.

This point was made clear to me more than once by my husband. He's the type of person who would be happy if he never had to leave the house again. He enjoys the same-ness of our life. He loves to be where he is most comfortable, most secure, most loved. He doesn't like sleeping in strange places. His perfect night consists of a meal at home, followed by television and going to sleep in his own bed with his own pillow and his own fan running comfortingly in the background.

Isn't that how it is with us as Christians?

We know that the life we lead now is not where we want to be. We're just visiting here. We long to be in the place we were created to inhabit, where we are loved by the One who created us in the beginning. We long to worship Him in the way He deserves to be worshipped, spending our days in that pursuit alone. We long for the day when we will experience eternal joy, peace, and freedom from all of the things we suffer here on earth.

We want to go HOME.

That doesn't mean we don't enjoy the journey. We don't have to be "so Heavenly minded we're of no earthly good," as the saying goes. We can live and love those around us. We can rejoice in the creation of God, from the smallest flower to the magnificent sunsets. We can glory in all that He has done for us here, and rejoice in what is yet to come.

We can dream of HOME.

And for now, that's enough.


Psalm 90:1
Lord, through all the generations You have been our home! (NLT)


2 Corinthians 5:8
Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord. (NLT)