The principles I’m still learning to live by… more listing for my kids

As a kid, I had this notion that for me, parenting would one day be an easy thing. I pictured hot breakfasts every morning, clean laundry, and adoring cherubs who never had to help wash the dishes. Not the world I grew up in with its havoc and mayhem. I didn’t understand my parents struggle to raise four kids. With so many to practice on, why weren’t my parents pros? Then I grew up, married, and had kids of my own.

Parenting is not for the faint of heart. With each child, I found the challenge greater, not easier. With time, I did begin to gain some knowledge and wisdom, but I’m still adding to those particular banks. I wish I could have known the things I know now. I wish I’d written lists of lessons learned rather than lists of chores and goals during those learning years. I can’t say the list I’ve added to this post is complete or set in stone or even that it’s always rock solid. It is instead, a list of principles, my determination to raise kids who will hopefully be better than me, do better than me, and one day, raise my grandkids to do the same. So, here we are, the next list, in no particular order, of things I want my kids to know that I said.

  1. Being a parent is the hardest job in the world.
  2. Take off your mask. Don’t be afraid to be real.
  3. Share your life. You have so much to give.
  4. Wake up every day with a renewed determination to do better than the day before.
  5. You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but yes, it could hold all the answers. You’ll want to wake up and find out.
  6. Spend plenty of time having fun. Work will always be there.
  7. Do the unexpected thing.
  8. Forgive. Grudges are for the weak.
  9. Say you’re sorry first.
  10. Compliment your spouse everyday. They need your affirmation.
  11. Dreams are worth having. Dream big.
  12. Take a vacation or a day off often. You need restoration.
  13. Love your loved ones with all your heart. Why hold back?
  14. Be faithful. Be trustworthy. Have integrity. Earn respect.
  15. Be honorable.
  16. Don’t manipulate. You’re better than that.
  17. Don’t be afraid of hard things. Good things come from hard things.
  18. Don’t be afraid to look at sufferIng and let yourself feel with raw emotion.
  19. Have deep conversations. Fluff talk dissipates.
  20. Finish strong.

I wish I could say I have this parenting thing all figured out. Perfection. But I don’t. That doesn’t stop me from trying.

There are more lists to come, but they’ll have to wait for now.

Until next time.

Love,

Mom

An honest list for the daughters in my life…

IMG_4255I keep thinking about that last post with its list and those sons. One list has bumped its way into a next, falling into line, one thought after another. See, we started adding daughters in law to our family mix a little over two years ago, and our family dynamic quickly changed. Now we’re up to two marriages and one very serious relationship. There are some things these girls really need to know, like, how I fear failing them. I fear not measuring up against their own amazing moms. I fear giving them bad advice. I fear they’ll see all my mistakes and faults, and not through any character shortcoming of their own, simply not be able to see past mine.

And so, another list of things I’d like these kids to know I said.

  1. I think you’re beautiful.
  2. I don’t how how my son got so lucky.
  3. God blessed our family with you.
  4. I admire the woman you are and wish I’d known the girl.
  5. I think you’re scary brilliant.
  6. I couldn’t have made a better choice for someone to love my son.
  7. Your talent continually amazes me.
  8. I’m grateful, thankful, and thrilled for the way you love Jesus.
  9. You’re going to be an outstanding mom.
  10. I owe a debt of gratitude to your parents for the way they raised you.
  11. I hope and I pray that we become better friends every year.
  12. Sometimes, I wish you lived next door.
  13. You’re the daughter I always wanted.IMG_4254
  14. The way you look into his eyes, melts this momma’s heart.
  15. You should open that business you dream of.
  16. You’re the woman I wish I could have been at your age.
  17. I prayed for you all your life and still do. Every. Single. Day.
  18. Being a soulmate is the second hardest job in the world. You are doing fantastic.
  19. I’ve prayed every single day of his life that he’d be the man of God, husband, and father of your future children that you need him to be.
  20. Thank you for being the daughter, sister, and example that you are to your family and ours.

IMG_4257The thing I’m learning about listing is that none of the numbers apply to just one person. The numbers all have their niche in each life. So, there are more lists to come, but this is the end of this one for now.

Love,

Momma Ruth

More listing next time…

What I would say to my kids… the beginning of listing

In a Facebook post I read this morning, a mom listed the things she wanted her daughters to know, and this got me thinking. There are things I want my kids to know too. There are things I want them to know that I said, but the thing is, I didn’t say them all. At least not until now. So this is that post. It may be one of many. There are a lot of things I’d like to say even though the sons are all grown, and married, or in one case, practically married. And believe me, it’s not that I haven’t said a lot of stuff, because I have, and I’ve said some things I regret saying. But there are things I want to say for possibly the first time, or a little better, or louder, or more often, like, I love you. I’m proud of you. You stole a piece of my heart the day you were born. You are the best memory I will ever have.

There’s so much more that there’s got to be a list, but first some confessions to my sons. Not that there won’t be more, but here are a few to start this off.

  1. You know that time you spilled your milk across the table and it ran down into the rope weave of the chair seat, down the table legs, and onto the floor, and took so long to clean up, and I got mad at you and yelled? I’m so sorry.
  2. I’m still working on that patience thing.
  3. The way your smile reaches your eyes makes my heart ache.
  4. I still love the way you curl your hair around your finger when you’re tired.
  5. The way you love your wife fills me with incomprehensible joy.
  6. Do you remember all those times I dropped you off at daycare? I hated every single one of those days. I wanted to be one of those moms who’s good at staying home. I wasn’t so much.
  7. I wish we had gone camping instead of making you play baseball.
  8. We should have put you in theater for kids. You are so talented.
  9. You are truly funny, and I wish you smiled more.
  10. I wish I’d said those bedtime prayers with you every single night.
  11. I wish I’d spent more time reading with you and less time watching television.
  12. I wish I’d spent less time worrying about what others thought of my momming skills and spent more time impressing you.
  13. Remember when you wanted to plant your own plants in the garden? I should have let you.
  14. I’m sorry we didn’t keep that dog you loved.
  15. You were a great kid, but you’re an even better man. I’m still so proud to be your mom.
  16. Momming is still hard. I wish there were do-overs.
  17. The way you challenge yourself scares me to death and makes me silly proud of you all at the same time.
  18. Your tenacity, courage, and strength are character traits I love most about you.
  19. The way you look at me with grown man wisdom takes my breath away.
  20. I love that you love God more than I taught you to. That’s huge to me now.

I’m sorry these thoughts aren’t in any kind of order. They’re kind of like the way I raised three grown boys. Seat of my pants, random luck of the draw, taking lots of chances, and praying they’d forgive me for the mess. So, that’s all for now, because this listing business is turning out to be hard stuff.

With every bit of my heart,

Love,

Mom

More listing next time…

The hard honesty and the harder thank you’s

There Is A Cloud – Elevation Worship.  The hard thank you’s rolled through my mind last night displacing complaints. Somewhere I learned to expect more. By fifty-two, isn’t there more? Wisdom. Understanding. Grace, at the least? And all things financial. I’ve worked almost every year since age nineteen. Shouldn’t I be successful by now? Shouldn’t I be living my dream life? Working my dream job?

My surroundings don’t inspire awe, and in fact, often cause me to wonder what I’m even thinking. My thoughts chase me down the rabbit hole, and I get a glimpse of the small girl I left behind–the one whose princess and castle dreams went sideways in one dark moment. Her pain ruled the kingdom of my mind far too long. But there I am again. The blame. The guilt. The fault surely my own. And all this dream I’m not living — the confirmation of condemnation.

Since laying down old hurt and painful sin, the old mindset, I no longer chase after or run from childhood things. The pain has healed. The scars have faded. But sometimes, there’s this feeling like regret that tells me I’ve messed up too much, and as a result, I’ve missed out.

The “if’s” came to visit and all my failures were tallied and calculated. I’ve gone to bed weary in spirit. Maybe I am a failure. Maybe I will never be enough. Shortcomings play reel to reel in my mind worsening with the passage of days until bone-tired and soul-aching, I admit defeat. I’m worn. I confess I’m not enough. The judge and jury are surely right. I’ve failed. Over and over. I haven’t achieved all, accomplished all, conquered all, and I’m aging, so I’m daily running out of time.

Midnight crawls round the face of the clock, and I’m soul searching, but not for more of me. I’m searching for the words that whispered into my spirit earlier in the day, “whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” I’m struck with the comparison to the taunting voice in my mind.

I close my eyes and give thanks for the roof over my head. For the dry floor and dry walls sheltering me in my flooded state. I give thanks for the job and thanks for the family. Thanks for things great and small. I list the hard thank you’s for the things and times that I struggle to appreciate. Without planning, without contemplation, but with the simple innocence of gratitude, I deny the voice of condemnation and open the door to conviction.

Conviction always displaces condemnation.

We are not the sum of our accomplishments and failures. Success is not our measure. We are not our past. We are not held by our sin or by the sin committed against us. We are the forgiven. We are the loved. We are the saved. In Christ, we are the made new.

Sleep came somewhere in the middle of the thank you’s. Rest for the weary soul. The song above came on an early morning Instagram moment posted by a friend. Balm for the ache. The song below, my warrior cry this new day and in the days to follow.

“I will only sing your praise.”

God bless.

More next time.

Hillsong United – Even When It Hurts

Being the hands and feet when waters rise 

Flood waters rose in Southeast Texas almost two weeks ago. If, like me, you’ve never stepped foot in a flooded home, then let me tell you what you don’t know. First, wear old, rubber shoes. You’re going to throw the disgusting things away when you leave. Second, I have one word for you–mask. As in, cover the nose and mouth. The smell combined with the dust will make you want to run away. Last, wear glasses,  even if, like me, all you have are sunglasses, or like my friend,Vanissa, reading glasses. Old, wet sheetrock dust burns your eyes. Wear some clothes you won’t mind depositing in the trash, and you’re all set.

I sound like I’m complaining, and I’ll be honest, my back is killing me. My feet hurt. My aches ache. But I’m smiling, and I can’t seem to quit. In the midst of a really tough couple of weeks, I got to see hope, faith, and love in action every single day.

There were disagreements, yes. There was out and out arguing, yes. There was worry-there still is. There was fear-there still is. You don’t lose everything you’ve ever worked for, get some help, and wake up the next day with all the world right again. We have close friends who need homes. We have family members who need cars. People in our towns are being fed and clothed through donations. Just because we spent a week, a day, or a few hours helping, doesn’t mean the work is done.

This storm, this time, many of us go back to work tomorrow. Our days return to a routine. And for so many more in our community, they also return to work or school tomorrow. But after, they go back to a temporary bed and a home in need of repair. 

We can’t stop. We’re tired, but they’re more tired. So, be ready. Do the hard thing.

Preaching to myself. 

Go. Just show up. Be the hands and feet of Jesus.

When waters rise, homes flood, and the weary grow stronger

This has been the strangest week, and it’s still just Thursday. In Southeast Texas, we’re in the recovery phase of Hurricane Harvey, or what became subtropical storm Harvey. The rivers, creeks, and bayous broke records as they rose as much as ten feet or more above the last record. More than thirty thousand people in my small corner of Texas are displaced, and that number is kind. The largest city near me, a town of more than one hundred thousand, is limping on a temporary water supply and has been for over a week, and there isn’t a correction date in sight. Every city within a fifty mile radius of my home suffered unprecedented flooding (and that might actually be a one hundred mile radius.) Everyone I know personally within this questionable radius either flooded or personally knows someone who flooded. 

You may think I’m exaggerating. You’re wrong. I know more than twenty-five families who lost almost all of their personal possessions in less than two days. Because you may not comprehend this, I’ll clarify. Staggering totals of six to eight feet or more of water in your personal residence drowns your possessions. 

It’s late now, and I’m weary to the bone. We’ve packed off the personal belongings of two families this past week. Storage facilities in space sizes of ten by fifteen run one hundred and seventeen dollars a month-and that’s before insurance and locks. Oh, and most families need at least two spaces. Pots and pans, blankets, clothing, hobbies, and memorabilia can be packed in a box, labeled, and stored without any idea of when anyone may see them again. 

Room controlled storage–the newest catch phrase: Stuff kept at temperature control. Except when the sliding doors open every few minutes to allow yet another flood victim to unload.
So, after this past week of watching others lose their homes and helping others pack what’s left, I’ve come to some conclusiins.

First, we have too much stuff. Second, we worry a lot about keeping stuff–just in case. Third, we have a lot of stuff that can be left by the road when the stuffs usefulness is gone. Fourth, we can strangely covet other people’s stuff left by the side of the road. Fifth, we are more than our stuff.

I’ve watched good people come together this past week to help one another tear down, pack up, and rebuild. I’ve watched good people butt heads over the coming together, tearing down and rebuilding, and they still come out okay on the other side. I’ve watched the broken healed, and I’ve watched the hardened break down. I’ve watched full pour into empty in ways that have nothing to do with water. 

I’ve also seen the negative this past week, and sometimes I’ve spoken in the negative. But this week, I’ve seen the good outweigh the bad far more often than not. I’ve seen darkness die in the presence of light. I’ve seen fear, and I’ve seen hope reborn.

It’s been a strange week. And it’s only Thursday. There are a multitude of storms headed inland. There are fires spreading. But we can be the difference makers.
I’m asking you to be the good in the rest of this week. Lend a hand. Encourage someone. Pray with someone. Help someone. Step out of your comfortable or uncomfortable home and be the hands and feet of Jesus this week. 
You are stronger, wiser, braver, and far more compassionate than you think you are. Run to the battle.

When waters rise and we learn an awful lot about letting go

This has been a hard day. My family is in the Hurricane Harvey zone of southeast Texas, and we spent the entire day cleaning out a flooded home. The Entire Day. I still smell the stench of rotten food, wet carpet, and the mud.

Water soaked four to five feet high of everything. The ground. The furniture. The walls. We set mildew covered shoes out to dry, and I thought about yesterday when I stopped to tell a total stranger how sorry I was about his apartment flooding. That man shook my hand and thanked me for caring. Simply for caring. I still tear up remembering.

But today, I lost a little of myself. And now I’m dealing with that left over bad taste of anger that somehow mingles with regret and makes you feel a little sick inside. So here I am, and I don’t even know you, but I need to tell you something anyway. See, we’ve come around this table. We’ve come here to a common place, and I hope you’ll bear with me.

I lost it today. We salvaged what we could from the flooded house. And then we salvaged water ruined things. The unsalvageable, the irreparable, the soon to be molded and mildewed. (Is that even a word?)

Yesterday, I spent all day traveling around the area, seeing home after home with piles of debris. I kept trying to fathom how you lay all your hard earned possessions at the curb, water soaked and ruined, and just walk away. Then, I spent today arguing with someone who needed to and wouldn’t.

Neither day felt right. I have this ache inside spreading slow though my veins. The grief for their loss. The heartbreak over my angry words. I’ve spent a week distraught over what others have lost and in one day, I’ve demanded that someone see reason, let it all go, and walk away. Turns out, for some, it really isn’t all that easy. It isn’t just stuff and those two benign sounding words are cruel.

I’m wishing hard this were someone else’s post, someone else’s day. I had expected to feel good about our labor today. Instead, I’m sore body, heart, and soul.

Floods take away more than stuff; floods take away pride, possessions, comfort, and memories. Floods leave behind ground that needs to be found again, turned over, and revived. It turns out that getting to the good ground is the real labor, and the stuff is the harvest of previous labor.

Tomorrow we’ll try again with the pulling out and packing up. Tomorrow I will find myself. I’ll apologize. I’ll extend grace. And I’ll quietly pray for the flooded out to find the ability to throw out and start again.