Category Archives: parenting

living with a 92%…

My son came home sobbing yesterday.

“I can’t do it again, mom. It’s not fair. I missed one problem on my Math test… one problem, and she’s making me take it all over again. And she said it would be harder … 28 problems instead of 12. I made a 92%, and it wasn’t enough, mom. I can’t do this.”

He kept repeating the phrase as he collapsed onto his bed in a heap of tears.

“One problem… one stupid problem.”

It was then that I had a problem… an angry kind of problem. A problem that wasn’t going to work itself through quietly. This time, I would not ignore the injustice. This time, I would speak up on behalf of my son and his diligent efforts at trying to “make the grade”… his grade … the fifth grade.

Jadon has a learning disability, not unlike many of his peers. It’s been difficult to adequately diagnose his issues over the years. Some term it dyslexia; others ADHD. Still others, a combination of both and then some. I’m not convinced about his labels. There doesn’t seem to be one that accurately describes his problem. Consequently, I spend a lot of time trying to educate his teachers about how to best educate him. This learning process, both for him and them, doesn’t always flow smoothly. Case in point? Yesterday’s debacle.

We’d spent a lot of at-home hours preparing for this Math test. Angles, parallel lines, polygons and the like had been on the after-school menu for several days. S.E.V.E.R.A.L. D.A.Y.S. Those of you who have kids with similar issues get this one. No small amount of blood, sweat, and tears were shed in preparation for this test, not to mention all the other tests that are being crammed into these final days of the nine weeks. Accordingly, we would have been happy to take our 92% (yes, I said “ours” as this learning process is a collective effort) and walk away with a smile. Instead, Jadon’s achievement was met with disapproval and with his tears as he realized, yet again, that a 92% was not enough to appease his teacher’s expectations. Those who scored a 100% received a pass on a second test; those who didn’t score perfectly will sit for another try at it this morning.

And I am angry. Not because there isn’t merit in trying to do better (especially for those who bombed the test) but because a 92% is Jadon’s better and should be celebrated rather than diminished.

Is this where it begins, readers? When did we start believing that our 92%’s aren’t good enough? Did it start in our younger years at school? Maybe even earlier in our homes when the beds weren’t made perfectly, the toys weren’t organized correctly, the dishes weren’t rinsed properly, the clothes not folded correctly? When did our best efforts at living life, accomplishing life, become not good enough? Further still, who gets to make that determination?

I’ve spent my lifetime feeling the weightiness of my 92%’s. Rather than celebrating my achievements, I’ve languished in my desire for perfection. Rarely have I been satisfied with the outcomes of my efforts, and there have been others who’ve been all too willing to agree with my personal assessments. There have been times when a 92% just didn’t cut it.

As a daughter.
As a sister.
As a student.
As a wife.
As a preacher’s wife… twice.
As a mother.
As a friend.
As a writer.
As a homemaker.
As a teacher.
As a speaker.
As a patient.
As a survivor.
As a Christian.

Time and time again, when my best efforts didn’t warrant personal celebration. Times when I was forced to take a second test, a third one, in hopes of getting it right, making my grade, all the while choking through my tears,

I can’t do this … it’s not fair. One stupid problem … one stifling obstacle keeping me from a 100%. I’m not good enough, not smart enough, not spiritual enough to past this test. My learning disabilities are preventing my perfection.

Perfection. Isn’t it time we move past our notions regarding our 100%’s and start living in the realities of our 92’s? Sweet ones, hear me on this one. Our perfection is coming. Each day that we live with Jesus Christ and his Holy Spirit as our compass, we move further along in the process of our perfection. From glory to glory, one beautiful, God-shaped step at a time. We’re getting there, being conformed into his likeness with every deliberate faith-filled choice we make and with every heaven-filled grace we’re given. We’re getting there. But, until we do, wouldn’t it be gloriously freeing if we could celebrate our best efforts … our 92%’s? Why must we continually force an expectation on ourselves and others that is impossible to achieve on the front side of heaven?

Would it be alright for us to celebrate the gains today rather than to unnecessarily focus on our almost’s? Is one stupid problem tripping you up and limiting today’s effectiveness, today’s joy? I know that we should always strive to be and to do our best, to be God’s best. To tell you to live lesser would be a false teaching and not in line with biblical standards. But when our best levels at a 92%, couldn’t we just acknowledge that achievement with joy and call it a win? Call it enough?

I don’t know what test you’ve recently scored a less than perfect grade on. I don’t have to look too far back in my history to find mine. But as I see it today, I’m willing to afford some grace to the situation and to realize that all is not lost with my 92%. In fact, there’s been some great gain because of it. I’m not perfect, not yet, but I’m closer today than I was yesterday, and so are you.

Give your best at living life today. Give it all in the name of Jesus Christ, and then let it be enough. A 92% in God’s book is pretty darn close to glory. Keep to it, friends, knowing that the grace of God is working in your heart and life to finish you home perfectly. Look toward that end while taking the time to celebrate the progression. I love your 92% and so does our Father. As always…

Peace for the journey,

coming home to daddy’s arms…

My dad is the funniest man I know. Not the stand-up comedic kind of funny, but the everyday conversation kind of funny. As the man walketh, so does his humor. Those of you who know him well, know this to be true. Those of you who know me well, know this also to be true of me. I know this shocks some of you. I’ve even heard it from some of you upon meeting me for the first time.

Elaine, I thought you’d be this serious, contemplative type of person who sits around all day thinking profound thoughts about God. Instead, you’re funny.

I’ve never been offended by the conclusion. After all, I write about some fairly heavy stuff here at “peace for the journey.” But I like knowing that I can be both—contemplative and humorous. I have my father to thank for this genetic DNA. My daddy makes me think and makes me laugh, sometimes within the span of a few minutes. He’s the most generous man I know, giving the best of himself away to all who cross his path. He’s not impressed with things, more importantly, not impressed with himself. He is, however, impressed by the story. Your story; my story; God’s story.

My daddy sees God everywhere, because my daddy is connected to life. To joys and pains equally. To highs and lows. Griefs and graces. Sorrows and celebrations. Regardless of the occasion, my dad has discovered how to live with a balanced perspective. My father lives contentedly and always tempers the tough times with large doses of humor.

I’m so glad I still have him around. He was the first man to ever hold me, to ever love me. The first man to wipe my tears, to tell me bedtime stories, to pray the prayers that all good parents should be praying with their children. He was the only man who loved me when others would not … could not. And his were the arms that stretched wide-open for me and welcomed me home after a long season of loveless wandering in the wilderness. In doing so, my daddy told me the story of Jesus all over again. That one moment in my personal history did more to script the eternal witness of God into my life than any other.

And so, today, I tell you again this story I’ve told you before via this video that I posted on my one-year blogging anniversary, nearly three years ago. It’s a bit painful for me to watch it, considering the many miles that have been walked in the time since first posting it. But one thing, one thread remains the same to this day.

My daddy is still stretching his arms wide-open to welcome me home. He’s still making me laugh, still telling me stories. Still connected to the world, and still making sure that I know the way back to Jesus. Today, I honor my father by sharing this witness again. He’d want you to know that, even if you’ve never had an earthly daddy to love you, you have a heavenly Father who loves you perfectly and whose arms are stretched wide on your behalf.

I love you, daddy, for so many reasons, but none more so than for telling me … showing me God. You tell him well!

~Lansey 

I love you this big…

I love you this big…

“Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their enemies in the gate.” (Psalm 137:3-5)

I jokingly commented to my neighbor last evening…

“Of all the women least likely cut out for motherhood and children, somehow I wound up with a quiver full of them.”

I’ve been a mom for at least half of my life—twenty-two years of rearing and raising a brood under my roof. Sometimes getting it right. A lot of time failing miserably at the task of loving, but at all times with the understanding that mothering is a privilege … a sacred trust not to be taken lightly.

With parenting comes pain. Unavoidable pain—good and bad. Good pain issuing forth because of the natural flow of give-and-take while growing a child into an adult. Bad pain because sometimes that growth is accompanied by the willful, stubborn choices of both the parent and the child.

Today there’s some good pain in my heart. An ache not unfamiliar to me as a mother of four beautiful children. Today, my eldest son moves to Charlotte where he will be attending graduate school in the fall. A van load and car load just pulled out a few minutes ago, and my obligatory wave at the end of the drive-way was met with a few tears and the all-too-familiar, wrenching kick to the mothering gut.

I first felt it four years ago when we left the parking lot of Nick’s college campus. Sobbed most of the way home and then sobbed some more when I opened the back door and found a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the counter. I still have the card on my nightstand.

“I love you so much! Thanks for an incredible 18 years. I am so grateful to have you as a mother and you have my love and respect. Reliant K writes: ‘If home is where the heart is, then my home is where you are.’ Your Son, Nick XOXO” (August 18, 2007)

Today there are no flowers to greet my pain. Instead, I take one from my quiver and give it back to the world. Today I release my “twenty-two-year-old, so-much-like-his-mother” son to his life as an adult. Today I trust and believe in those two plus decades’ worth of heart investments that we’ve made together knowing that they have been enough to grow a boy into a man. A man of honor, respect, depth, and godly intention.

I will “not be put to shame when my enemies come and contend with me at the gate.” My son’s got my back. Nicholas, he whose name means “victory of the people” is strong and courageous and will be a leader in this world. A name well-suited for this man who has overcome many obstacles in his short tenure upon this earth and who has always done so in the light and shadow of the cross.

It’s time for you to run,my boy. Time for you to live your life as a man. This mother will miss you; but even more so, this mother is ready to release you to the world.

Live it like you mean it, Nicholas, and always, always, always, take good care of your heart. I love you this big.

Mom

relying on a miracle… {growing a boy into a man}

relying on a miracle… {growing a boy into a man}

“One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.”

So says Dr. Barbara Walker, commencement speaker at my eldest son’s college graduation this past Saturday.

It was a beautiful day; one of the best days of my life. Over the past twenty-two years, I’ve often wondered if we’d make it here—to this one moment in time where ABC’s, 1-2-3’s, and 16 years plus of learning would culminate into rhythmic chorus to “sing” to me this mothering refrain that I shall never forget. The depth and witness of this memory has seared into my soul and birthed in me a fresh perspective about my remaining days, mothering days and otherwise.

One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.


Where would we be without the daily, miraculous intervention of our God? Miracles come to us, most days without our ever acknowledging their worthiness. Certainly the big ones get the press—miracles of physical healing, relationships restored, prodigals returning home, financial blessing prayerfully sought after and received. But is that it? Are miracles limited to sacred flashes of light and bold strokes of God’s heavenly paintbrush? Can miracles birth outside the limelight of the spectacular and yet still hold the potent witness of the Divine?

Yes, I think that it is in these lesser staged moments when our reliance upon miracles bares its witness most profoundly. Our everyday living serves as the backdrop for some of the most weighty miracles ever given to us as God’s children. We may not recognize them as miraculous when then arrive on the scenes of our lives, but they are holy relevant and deserve a moment of prayerful, thankful, and humble recognition of the One from whom all miracles initiate. Accordingly, I take a few moments today to give praise for the miracle I witnessed over the weekend.

 

Some of you might not think that a child graduating from college is any kind of a miracle. I might agree with you if I wasn’t the parent who had lived out these last twenty-two years with my boy. But what would you say about this?

What about a child graduating from college whose parents are both cancer survivors? A boy whose father’s initial prognosis nine years ago didn’t grant him much hope beyond two years? A boy whose mother heard the devastating news that both of her breasts would be removed because cancer had taken up residency within her body? A boy who, at age five, navigated the critical, stinging pain of his parent’s divorce and who has, in recent days, navigated the pain of their life-threatening illnesses? A boy who’s changed addresses nine times in twenty-two years and who changed schools eight times before graduating from high school? A boy whose anger at an early age had his mother wondering if he’d ever cycle around to kindness? A boy whose strong willfulness would have James Dobson writing a second book on the matter? A boy who had to adjust to a step-dad… to live by his rules and to learn by his love? A boy whose bent toward perfection might have crippled his growth? A boy whose introversion might have kept him behind closed doors?

What would you say about him, especially if you knew him now?

No longer a boy, but a man named Nick. A man who, now, has cycled around to immense kindness. A man whose anger has turned into humility. A man whose will is tempered by his Father’s. A man who moves outside his introversion to skillfully function in an extroverted world. A man who is willing to live with one “B” on his transcript despite the “A’s” that surround it. A man who lives, loves, and laughs with all of his parents—biological and step. A man who honors his father and mother, his grandparents, and who actively invests his energies into the shaping of his younger brother and sister. A man who loves the Lord, serves the Lord, and wants nothing more than to be a man after God’s own heart.

Would you call that a miracle? Would you say that, despite all odds, his daily reliance upon God has given him a miracle? That his mother’s daily reliance has given her one as well?

I would say so. I do say so. I’ve relied upon the miraculous, keeping, daily grace of God over these past twenty-two years, and my heart tells me that I’ve just witnessed one of the greatest miracles I will ever know as a human being—

the miracle of growing a boy into a man.

There were days and seasons when I didn’t fully believe it would happen; but always did I rely on the greater heart and hands of God to get us here.

One must not only believe in miracles, one must rely on them.

How is your reliance in miracles living this day? I pray that the witness and abiding treasure of my recent miracle will be more than enough to buoy you along in your belief. Rely on God with your everyday understanding and trust him for the outcome.

This one really blew me away!

Congratulations, son. I love you.

As always…

Peace for the journey,
Mom, aka ~elaine

from trash to treasure

from trash to treasure

I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Tears were forming in hers. We’d just settled into our evening watch of American Idol when I noticed her sadness. The “boys” present in the room shrugged it off as insignificant. Boys are like that sometimes, not seeing past the tears to the deeper issue at work. But this momma… the girl in me… recognized her tears. I cried some similar ones in my younger years. Tears that now, in hindsight, seem frivolous and unwarranted, yet tears at the time of their initial release important in keeping with the moment.
A letting go kind of moment.
Let me explain.
My eight-year-old daughter is attached to her stuff. Whether it be her well-worn blanket (a.k.a. burp cloth from her infant days), her stuffed animals (enough to allow her only an eighth of an inch of her mattress for sleeping purposes), her hidden stash of Kit-Kats from Halloween, or her Sponge Bob Crocs from two years ago, my Amelia isn’t keen on letting go of her belongings. She’s a keeper of things, believing in their significance even if they’ve outlived their practical usefulness. She’ll fight hard for their survival, and last night would prove the same.
Occasionally, my daughter drinks from a sippy cup; she wouldn’t do so in mixed company, but in the safety of home, she prefers the cups from her toddler days. Over the years we’ve thrown several out, but two remain… until last evening. Alas, one of the screw-on tops to the cups did a dance with the dishwasher and came out mangled. My husband made the tragic mistake of announcing its demise and, subsequently, threw it in the trash can. My daughter was stunned by the revelation but kept her emotions in check. For a few minutes. Until the familiar intro to Idol began. And that is when I noticed her tears.
Amelia, what’s wrong?
Silence. More tears. (*Note to self… asking the question usually opens the floodgates to further tears.)
Amelia, are you upset about something?
Silence. Tears now freely flowing down her cheeks; body beginning to shake.
Amelia, are you crying about your cup?
Hesitantly she spoke, carefully camouflaging her angst so as not to attract the attention of the boys in the room…
Mommy, I need that lid.
I thought that might be the case, daughter. Would you like to keep it in your room?
Yes.
Then go get it.
Tears stopped, eyes were wiped, and a bee-line was made to the trash can and then to her room. Moments later, she settled herself back onto the couch and all was well with her heart. And I got to thinking.
About attachments. About the heart of a child that is willing to hold onto “things”… needs to hold onto things even though others deem them unnecessary, unimportant, limited in their usefulness. About what makes a “thing” more than a “thing.” About when a “thing” becomes something valuable and about why, as adults, we sometimes think it necessary to make that something lesser in its status.
As adults, we’re well-informed and well-trained with our “letting gos.” We don’t get too far into our maturing without experiencing a few painful ones. The capacity to “let go” and do so with some measure of grace is often the mark of maturity. We preach it, teach it, write about it, and live it. My life history is replete with such benchmark moments. I hope they’ve aided in my maturation at every level, but just last night I started thinking about it all. Wondering if maybe it’s OK to keep some attachments to certain things. To store them away and keep them hidden because they became a something to me in a previous season.
That maybe, sometimes we rush the “letting go.” That we are quick to throw away the “things” that have become something to us just because they’ve gotten a bit mangled and torn by the daily wear and tear of our handling therein. That, perhaps, by keeping a few of them, we’ll have a better chance of remembrance in years to come when recall becomes paramount to our moving forward.
Indeed, we need to “get on with the gettin’” on as it pertains to our growing up on the inside, but what if our growing up is, at least in part, related to our holding onto a few things? What well-worn things have we prematurely let go of in favor of shiny, new ones just for the sake of usefulness? I have no illusions that the lid to my daughter’s sippy cup will ever serve as a functioning lid again. But to her it is useful, at least for a little while longer. Why?
Because it’s part of her history.
She and that lid have some longevity. They’ve shared some years together, been as close to one another as a temporal thing can get to an eternal beating soul. When she was a toddler, she carried it with her everywhere she went. At eight, she limits her carrying to times of thirst. And I imagine in another year or so, she’ll outgrow her need for its companionship. But for now, it’s still something to her. And I find that beautiful and poignant and a message of grace meant for my own soul this day.
She needs her lid, and I need a childlike heart that is willing fight hard for a few things worth preserving. Things that are worth holding onto because they’re part of my history. Things that are meant for the treasure box and not the trash can. Things that are more valuable because of their wear and tear over the years and because of my handling therein. Things that, in the eyes of others may not seem like much, but things that are precious to me because they have “touched” my lips and made their way into my heart as a forever keeping.
I’m not into hoarding or collecting stuff for collection’s sake. And if you’re a regular reader of my words then you know I’m all about the “letting go” process. But I will tell you this… I’m a proponent of holding onto a few things that have become somethings to us. If we don’t have a few somethings, then our lives run the risk of floating aimlessly through our earthly tenures.
We all need an anchor in this season. A tried and true, reliable “holding onto” that will see us through to tomorrow. I don’t know what yours is—the one thing that you are willing to dig out of the trashcan and hide away as a treasure in the deep recesses of your heart—but I do know what mine is. And in many ways, it resembles a well-worn, well-chewed upon, overly used, and mangled sippy-cup lid.
A holding faith.
And I will fight to the death for that one, friends. Cry some tears over it and make sure that everyone in the room, including the boys, understand the fact that my faith isn’t made for the trashcan. That instead, I’ll store it away where my daughter has chosen to store her lid.
 
In my treasure chest… my heart (I had to search hard to find it in her room this morning). There’s a history we share, my faith and me, that’s worth holding onto. May it be the same for each one of us. Let us not be quick to discard an old faith as unnecessary, unreliable, limited in its usefulness. Let us, instead, be quick to hide it as newly discovered wealth to serve as a continual anchor in the seasons to come. May your faith be your something… the one thing… you’re willing to fight for today.
Keep to it, my good companions on the journey. Keep to the road of faith. As always…
Peace for the journey,

PS: I’ll be MIA most of next week as I’m scheduled for surgery on Monday at 8:00 AM. I would appreciate your continuing prayers. Shalom.

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