tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63565633629708276642024-03-04T21:57:43.559-08:00Raising Golden Boysraisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-8160925256538376602014-08-27T14:57:00.000-07:002014-08-27T14:57:08.745-07:00A Few Tidbits I've Learned From Mothering Boys<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqC7td72jqlZeVW1Bxsa0sobAsxsTtxPcDOi54fp7yQhJx6DojFc92tGhLiMyFiyaCZOjRhnN-5dc3a3Ls5wxNJSJ8qyETN246L-fQi-jCthblPyhHEdXu87q6Wj5qc0N9rk2UpPpkDw/s1600/photo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqC7td72jqlZeVW1Bxsa0sobAsxsTtxPcDOi54fp7yQhJx6DojFc92tGhLiMyFiyaCZOjRhnN-5dc3a3Ls5wxNJSJ8qyETN246L-fQi-jCthblPyhHEdXu87q6Wj5qc0N9rk2UpPpkDw/s1600/photo.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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Because I'm a boy-mom, I'm often the only fully clothed
person in our house. I'm also the only
one who thinks that a new school year calls for new clothes. Or underwear.</div>
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Once a pair of tennis shoes gets wet, there is little hope
that it will ever smell non-toxic again.</div>
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Someone should invent glow-in-the-dark Legos.</div>
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Generally speaking, my boys' days were "fine,"
"good," or "OK." Nothing
more. Apparently the only thing that
happened the whole school day worth talking about was lunch. And what they ate.
And how much they ate. And how good it was. I would consider this to
be an excellent amount of communication...if I hadn't packed their lunches.</div>
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I have found that it takes less than 24 hours for a boy to
wear a hole in the knee of his jeans, outgrow his shoes or eat an entire
package of Oreos. It takes forever for a
boy to clean out a toy box.</div>
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Grubby and tired is better than clean and bored.</div>
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I do not unload groceries.</div>
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When a boy asks "What's for dinner?" before he
eats breakfast, he's going through a growth spurt. </div>
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Also, boys believe after-school
snacks are absolutely necessary. Showers
are not.</div>
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I've learned that if you can beat them at playing anything -
hide & seek, Clue, tossing a ball in a trash can, eating ice cream the
fastest - they will revere you. Boys
respect skills.</div>
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Farting is funny.</div>
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Boys thrive on praise.
Days, months, even years later my boys have unexpectedly quoted a
compliment they received. Their bodies may be in constant motion, but their
minds - and hearts - hear every word.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Wrestling is a form of affection.</div>
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If you accidentally bump their momma's cheek and give her a
black eye, they will threaten to "smash in your face." This is also affection.</div>
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The difference between a good day and a bad day is one good
buddy.</div>
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Bedtime is the best. Bravado is gone, they smell like Axe
body wash, and they're unashamed to hug their mom extra tight before rolling
over to dream of conquering the world.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just love being a boy-mom.</div>
raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-74695203211787262242013-09-26T09:38:00.001-07:002013-09-26T09:40:38.482-07:00Warriors in Training<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJyDi6BVY25EY8JolCw0U16XZxx4b2feQ1PaAKM0aVmkYHfstrd5a6vJBcEUC5rzG8mtenciY1YDrW1QxbD4B74r-o8za3ZU8EoLMDIh6LBdJNswQfGEAkkEm9t-IuRAuQ06oHO_q8pXc/s1600/IMG_3731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJyDi6BVY25EY8JolCw0U16XZxx4b2feQ1PaAKM0aVmkYHfstrd5a6vJBcEUC5rzG8mtenciY1YDrW1QxbD4B74r-o8za3ZU8EoLMDIh6LBdJNswQfGEAkkEm9t-IuRAuQ06oHO_q8pXc/s400/IMG_3731.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My son,<br />
<br />
You are strong. You are mighty. You are capable.<br />
<br />
Your shoulders aren't ready to bear the weight of a family and its finances and its worries. Not yet, anyway. But you're learning.<br />
<br />
Remember when you told me how hurt you were that your best friend didn't like you anymore? That boy still won't talk to you and yet you pray for him every night. You're learning faithfulness.<br />
<br />
Remember when you used the last of your craft supplies to make a bracelet for me? You're learning thoughtfulness.<br />
<br />
Remember when you had to carry your books and lunch to school in a grocery bag because you forgot your backpack at school? You remembered that backpack the next day. And every day after. You're learning responsibility.<br />
<br />
Remember when you held open the door at the doctor's office for every. single. person? You're learning respect.<br />
<br />
Remember when you were coughing late in the night? When I came in to check on you, you said, "Momma pray." You're learning to rely on the Source of life.<br />
<br />
Remember when you befriended the new boy in your class because you know what it's like to be the new kid? You're learning kindness.<br />
<br />
Remember how you played with the toddler at church so her momma could have an adult conversation for a few minutes? You're learning gentleness.<br />
<br />
Remember when we were driving and you pointed out the stunning sunset and told me that "God must be an artist"? You're learning to appreciate beauty.<br />
<br />
And in these ways, and thousands more, you are teaching me each day of God's great love and grace and faithfulness.<br />
<br />
When the world tries to crush your spirit, demolish your joy and make you doubt your worth, <br />
<br />
Remember:<br />
<br />
You are strong. You are mighty. You are capable.<br />
And you are loved.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-41276788499676152572013-04-22T14:33:00.000-07:002013-04-22T14:34:34.468-07:00A Psalm for Today<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mind is reeling, heart is aching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All day long the television tells me of
destruction and manhunts and explosions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Evil struts boldly down the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Terror stalks and devours peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The enemy of my soul horrifies me with his unthinkable, vile acts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will the next ambush be worse than the
last?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From where will it come?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can I protect myself from an adversary I
can't see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what about my precious
children?!?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Come, all you people that I love, and we will hide out!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will arm ourselves and stockpile supplies
and dare anyone to threaten us here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
two-story cul-de-sac fortress can shelter us from the darkness that lurks
outside my door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well it can, can't it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, even here, protection is only physical
and temporary at best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need a more
permanent solution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I remember - YOU, Lord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn to You, battered and shattered
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My spirit is bruised and I need
someplace to heal, to process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You are the God who was, and is, and is to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of this world's craziness is a surprise
to You.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trust Your all-knowing
goodness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I think about Your power,
it's like my spirit takes a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>YOU are my security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are
worthy of my belief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of my
confidence is in You.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And even when my newsfeed blows up with the next appalling act,
I know that You are still in control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh
Lord, help me not to let my life be dictated by my 24-hour streaming, tweeting,
live reporting, late breaking news culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Either I trust You or I don't. And I do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your Word is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Your character is holy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
motivation is love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are unshakable,
steady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the foundation on which
I build my life and to which I point my kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thank you, thank you, thank you that because of who You are, I can live
free from fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fear. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truly blessed assurance.</span></div>
raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-40853211549970190942013-01-09T07:53:00.000-08:002013-01-09T07:53:12.883-08:00In a Year, or TwoAs this blog has suffered neglect, time has marched on. My love and I celebrated 12 years of marriage. We have purchased a house. Our baby (baby!) started kindergarten. All three boys have become soccer players. I have become a soccer taxi driver.<br />
<br />
And Christ is King.<br />
<br />
We have been through a difficult time at church. And finally came to a resolution! The trials of my dear husband working in a cutthroat, secular environment have worn us down.<br />
<br />
But Christ is King.<br />
<br />
We have celebrated birthdays. Our oldest became a Christ follower and was baptized by his Poppa (my father.) We have prayed over, been prayed over, studied, taught, rested in and claimed the Word of God.<br />
<br />
Oh, how Christ is King.<br />
<br />
Our nation has gone through a presidential election. And storms. And shootings. And Olympics. And war.<br />
<br />
Christ, be King.<br />
<br />
We have made new friends. And served countless bowls of salsa. We've played games together and prayed together. And watched our children form friendships while wearing superhero costumes and running around like their capes were on fire.<br />
<br />
Our Christ is King.<br />
<br />
And I have thought and contemplated and examined and considered. I have doubted and feared and grappled and resisted. I have rejoiced and comforted and triumphed and encouraged.<br />
<br />
And through it all, Christ has been King. King of my days. King of my years. <br />
<br />
King Jesus. My King.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-11641199243223432792011-06-19T20:15:00.000-07:002011-06-19T20:27:59.629-07:00My Daddy's Words<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCt-189CERR9NCA-Zt7Hp6fBCMmB4ajSN5fOGymH36VMhK6sKYkVbC63st6tGH6vNaok-WzSHx52Iz0-Iph1onljuJgXy5BIUesmtbwoF9hKR-wxkalLCjbEfh8g3kCyJD2qc1VhHAdjU/s1600/dad%2526me.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 271px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620136574694823410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCt-189CERR9NCA-Zt7Hp6fBCMmB4ajSN5fOGymH36VMhK6sKYkVbC63st6tGH6vNaok-WzSHx52Iz0-Iph1onljuJgXy5BIUesmtbwoF9hKR-wxkalLCjbEfh8g3kCyJD2qc1VhHAdjU/s400/dad%2526me.jpg" /></a> He said, "You are my delight." I heard, "You are accepted."<br />He said, "You'll never get too big to sit on my lap." I heard, "You are adored."<br />He said, "Jesus is the way, the truth and the life." I heard, "You can trust Him."<br />He said, "You are beautiful because of who you are on the inside." I heard, "Your heart is lovely."<br />He said, "Help me stack the firewood." I heard, "You are strong."<br />He said, "You will be a good driver one day." I heard, "You are capable."<br />He said, "Call me when you get there." I heard, "You are precious to me."<br />He said, "Never settle for someone who mistreats you." I heard, "You are worthy."<br />He said, "I give you my blessing." I heard, "You are safe with him."<br />He said, "You're doing a good job with those boys." I heard his approval.<br />And once again, my heart sang at the words my daddy said.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-1940300669712009342011-05-26T15:03:00.000-07:002011-05-26T15:43:00.443-07:00To Be a Little Boy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLWpXRayGGvB6cTXflUprS-0EuH07ThZPQsnHmOhIdRRcs_hoBk0IfYbGbOvzayVlnmzHzExhPa7G1ecP8fBqSdH4z0N9_v0ayS8VyjpJBU70X1vmOsj8lQD_Yyk7kUeCzKEqPM2dEg4/s1600/My+guys+-+love+%2527em%2521.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 289px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611156561364612626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLWpXRayGGvB6cTXflUprS-0EuH07ThZPQsnHmOhIdRRcs_hoBk0IfYbGbOvzayVlnmzHzExhPa7G1ecP8fBqSdH4z0N9_v0ayS8VyjpJBU70X1vmOsj8lQD_Yyk7kUeCzKEqPM2dEg4/s400/My+guys+-+love+%2527em%2521.jpg" /></a> What must it be like to be a little boy?<br />To have unidentified substances under your fingernails.<br />To make things with boxes and paper and tape and feathers.<br />To devour an afternoon snack with great gusto.<br />To slay imaginary dragons with sticks and plungers and wrapping paper rolls and brooms.<br />What must it be like to be a little boy?<br />To always smell faintly of puppy.<br />To take such delight in rocks.<br />To glow at the praise of your daddy.<br />To want to be just like him.<br />What must it be like to be a little boy?<br />To flex bony arm muscles.<br />To dig.<br />To long to be in charge of something.<br />To be allergic to baths. And homework. And girls.<br />What must it be like to be a little boy?<br />To be fascinated with trucks and rockets and robots and airplanes.<br />To climb.<br />To practice whistling for hours.<br />To practice spitting every time you go outside.<br />And what must it be like to be a man?<br />To bear the weight of your responsibility on your bended knees.<br />To slay the dragons that try to devour your family's unity and faith and finances.<br />To glow at the praise of your spouse.<br />To still be fascinated with trucks and rockets and robots and airplanes.<br />And to tell your little boy how very proud of him you are.<br />Because you know exactly what it's like<br />To be a little boy.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-62851318519772259622011-05-06T12:05:00.000-07:002011-05-06T14:15:32.468-07:00do not open intil mothers day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1tebF9RYrf1V-SPnA4bxZ-ji8GonYOIyR6D0kv-dkmQmoZPaG6g7Fnm3ZWRBy65MJ6_3Va_YMfuckH5wVmxayfsdJ5axfr6qQyT4ugZTM7REle5IQOqh793K3wbAAzlWkFV0g2tHepg/s1600/mothersdaygift.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603703634625991538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1tebF9RYrf1V-SPnA4bxZ-ji8GonYOIyR6D0kv-dkmQmoZPaG6g7Fnm3ZWRBy65MJ6_3Va_YMfuckH5wVmxayfsdJ5axfr6qQyT4ugZTM7REle5IQOqh793K3wbAAzlWkFV0g2tHepg/s400/mothersdaygift.jpg" /></a> <br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I just love surprises, so when our 8-year-old handed me this gift yesterday, I felt so special! It is a piece of copier paper that has been folded over and over and taped closed. When I shake it, I'm pretty sure there are two quarters inside. Or maybe they're nickels. Either way, how precious is that?!?</div><br /><div align="left">The only income sources for this kid are the couch cushions, birthday gifts, and the tooth fairy. So for him to give me two coins is so very sweet. It speaks of his generous heart. And it reveals what he treasures - me!</div><br /><div align="left">In Matthew 6:21, Jesus says, "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." If heart follows treasure, where's mine? I can proclaim my heart's devotion, but to really reveal the truth of the matter, I need to do a treasure hunt. Aarrrrgh, mateys.</div><br /><div align="left">What (who) do I think of most? In what do I invest my money? How do I spend my free time? Would those people who know me best see love in my actions? What about my motivation? If I looked into a golden chest containing the most important thing in the world to me, what would I see? My husband and boys? My home or friends? Jesus?</div><br /><div align="left">It strikes me that Jesus knows how my heart works. The question is not whether I will have treasure, but rather what it will be. The things that I value the most have my devotion. They receive my attention. They get my quarters. Nickels?</div><br /><div align="left">So this Mother's Day I will enjoy the surprise of opening my son's gift. I will bask in the blessing of being someone's treasure. And I will try to figure out what I can buy for 50 cents. Or is it 10 cents? Hmmm. </div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-10049486396134730862011-01-12T10:27:00.000-08:002011-01-12T11:10:11.833-08:00One Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3R6rBLoe2YfWqz3Ivq02LeyuzJbIPZvN9MqHxzqzelrWeT0XBuuCHev5Z6h6mY5U14AEviZOsO7xxkQBxUAoETY1RySG54Hn_Zis_-e-F7PEP0XqY1KYDRW6G03MOEpZU9mbyCx-Llx0/s1600/boyssepia.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561373042893989474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3R6rBLoe2YfWqz3Ivq02LeyuzJbIPZvN9MqHxzqzelrWeT0XBuuCHev5Z6h6mY5U14AEviZOsO7xxkQBxUAoETY1RySG54Hn_Zis_-e-F7PEP0XqY1KYDRW6G03MOEpZU9mbyCx-Llx0/s400/boyssepia.jpg" /></a><br />One day when I'm old and sweeping, remind me of when my broom always found Hot Wheels under the cabinet's edge.<br />One day when I'm old and singing, remind me of three little voices joined in unison in my back seat singing, "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Acts and the letter to the Romans..."<br />One day when I'm old and cooking, remind me of spilled milk, and tall tales, and laughter at our table each night.<br />One day when I'm old and writing, remind me of handwritten "I love you's", and countless scraps of paper with carefully drawn robots and monster trucks and dinosaurs.<br />One day when I'm old and spending, remind me of the wealth of having a single penny carefully tucked in a pocket with rocks and Legos and the occasional roly poly.<br />One day when I'm old and praying, remind me of little heads bowed, little eyes sometimes closed, and little voices talking to the Father with full assurance that He would answer.<br />One day when I'm old and waiting, remind me of the flurry of activity each morning as we brushed teeth, brushed hair, grabbed backpacks and rushed off into another day.<br />One day when I'm old and trembling, remind me of how my arms shook under the weight of a sleeping boy.<br />One day when I'm old and dreaming, remind me of midnight feedings and fevers and tummy aches that could only be soothed by my nearness.<br />One day when I'm old and worrying, remind me of unexpected hugs from arms that were too short to stretch all the way around me.<br />One day when I'm old and cleaning, remind me of countertops smudged with watermelon toothpaste, doorknobs coated in mysterious goo, and glass doors perpetually coated in boy-sized handprints.<br />One day when I'm old and walking, remind me of chubby hands holding mine and little feet trusting me not to lead them astray.<br />One day when I'm old and counting my blessings, remind me that, for a time, I was their world.<br /><br />I don't think I could, but if somehow I do forget - remind me. One day.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-72687150417007872392010-11-02T20:08:00.000-07:002010-11-02T21:12:56.359-07:00Sticks and Stones<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0A-JVWv1HV1MVCBqPOLGKsaATIPbvjlaa6WTL1L1116qclrkm6gLwqbb3HCKqtlFZkYlFtfmRO72QoaFTOi5Bck36EndiuSAuiKhwaXs8oeswkDYOL3G3NlVeVpGNu351c_ZZ1pHh1BM/s1600/IMG_2281.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 267px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535168547978192674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0A-JVWv1HV1MVCBqPOLGKsaATIPbvjlaa6WTL1L1116qclrkm6gLwqbb3HCKqtlFZkYlFtfmRO72QoaFTOi5Bck36EndiuSAuiKhwaXs8oeswkDYOL3G3NlVeVpGNu351c_ZZ1pHh1BM/s400/IMG_2281.JPG" /></a><br /><div>"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." Ephesians 4:29</div><div></div><br /><div>Oh, how this verse has hit our home this week! Our kindergartner was angry. He had a bad day at school. And then he got in trouble at home. Double trouble. Discipline was a'comin' and he wasn't happy about it.</div><br /><div></div><div>So, precocious little guy that he is, he decided to lash out verbally and the unlucky recipient of his frustration was his older brother. "Mean words, ugly words, blah, blah!" (I'm paraphrasing.) </div><div> </div><div>What?!?!? You have GOT to be kidding me. Who taught him to talk like that? Why would he think that is OK? Sure, he had a bad day, but slinging angry words at his brother wouldn't make it better. Turns out, it made it much worse. </div><div> </div><div>Unfortunately for him, both his daddy and I heard his tirade...and <em>more</em> discipline was a'comin'! In case you were wondering, it takes a kindergartener a <em>very</em> long time to write "I will speak blessings" 50 times.</div><div></div><br /><div>So now I'm examining my own speech. I'm not given to fits. Never swear. Don't even raise my voice very often. But do my words build up according to the needs of those around me? (Do I even know their needs?) Is what I'm saying beneficial? I give a lot of instructions to my boys. But are my words edifying and helpful? Life-giving and uplifting? Hmmm. I think I've got some sentences of my own to write.</div><div></div><br /><div>I will encourage. I will edify. I will repent. I will apologize. I will change. I will definitely encourage my little red-head as he learns to control his tongue. And I too, will speak blessings.</div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-39812433408128106182010-10-28T07:32:00.000-07:002010-10-28T08:54:09.740-07:00Oldest Siblings Unite!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8E6G-O5kzQ7d9mYPrXbrlyRXULFi1v94S7QuNBi5J4bDWM3HbX8HM2bS23Vv-eRz3yj4eWpTUIikFC8EtUzFcyrcu7I-hz_goHCVUCs-YBmSLIsb5qcOnFW0DDgT5CmNmVJKUXGSALZg/s1600/lukelego.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533125398289214738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8E6G-O5kzQ7d9mYPrXbrlyRXULFi1v94S7QuNBi5J4bDWM3HbX8HM2bS23Vv-eRz3yj4eWpTUIikFC8EtUzFcyrcu7I-hz_goHCVUCs-YBmSLIsb5qcOnFW0DDgT5CmNmVJKUXGSALZg/s320/lukelego.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Now clearly, our oldest son was playing with Legos. This is not unusual. He loves to build intricate contraptions with the tiny pieces. The unusual thing was that he was alone...all alone.<br /><div></div><br /><div>"Whatcha doin' buddy?"</div><div></div><br /><div>"Playing hide-and-seek."</div><div></div><br /><div>"Um, looks like you're playing Legos to me."</div><div></div><br /><div>"Yeah, I'm seeking. They're hiding."</div><div></div><br /><div>"Welcome to the club, little dude."</div><div></div><br /><div>And with that, I left him alone to build his contraptions in peace. I'm the oldest sibling too, so I understand his logic: Little brothers hide. I don't seek. Little brothers stay out of my stuff for a few minutes.</div><div></div><br /><div>I know, I know...middle children are neglected, ignored, and generally deprived of attention. And the baby is, well, the baby. Blah, blah, blah. Today I'm cheering for the oldest siblings among us.</div><div></div><br /><div>We are the ones with whom our parents made their first parental mistakes. We were held to a higher standard and expected to be the example. Whether we were on the bus, at church, crossing the street, in the mall or at the dinner table, we were looking out for our siblings. Who can blame us for being a little bossy?</div><br /><div></div><div>Sure, there are more photo albums of us. And when we came along, we got ALL of the attention from our parents and grandparents and the world at large. But with all of that attention came scrutiny. As a result, many of us are perfectionists, rule followers to the core.</div><div></div><br /><div>In my own life, I find comfort in knowing the rules. I like to mark things from my list. Checking off boxes makes me happy. The problem comes when I allow this to bleed over into my spiritual walk.</div><br /><div></div><div>You see, the christian life is not a list of rules to be followed. Checking a box beside "Bible read daily" is not what brings glory to God. Rather, He desires a relationship with me. Jesus is more interested in my heart being His than in my perfect attendance at every church function. And this is a struggle for me! I like my checked boxes!</div><br /><div></div><div>But the funny thing is, when I operate in my love relationship with Him, I WANT to read His Word and worship Him with His people. Furthermore, when I seek Him, He doesn't play with Legos. In Jeremiah 29:13, His own words are "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." And with that kind of promise from the King of creation, why would I hide?</div></div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-44180597591801900652010-09-26T13:41:00.000-07:002010-09-26T14:29:10.549-07:00More Lessons from Our Boys<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BGBmEfy9klA1jVFaoe56zDZaukbLhiFl7ScCyNK7yaXTdSETbYhEmfsZqLv3HkyhcM2kFgRmQNMyJTCrxvPIQC3Trt0HHsTsud9eyDNNUmF99YXeJv1gdiooTjft89RLW577XWm2mEE/s1600/myheroes.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 198px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521335177876549522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BGBmEfy9klA1jVFaoe56zDZaukbLhiFl7ScCyNK7yaXTdSETbYhEmfsZqLv3HkyhcM2kFgRmQNMyJTCrxvPIQC3Trt0HHsTsud9eyDNNUmF99YXeJv1gdiooTjft89RLW577XWm2mEE/s320/myheroes.jpg" /></a> I'm constantly learning things from our boys. Here are a few tidbits I've picked up recently:<br /><div></div><br /><div>1. It's not OK to call your son "Punkin'" during a baseball game. Not OK at all.</div><br /><div></div><div>2. Drinks taste better with a blue straw. Green straws are fine. Yellow and red are iffy. And pink (gasp) is terrible. No boy should be forced to drink anything through a pink straw. Ever. Yuck.</div><div></div><br /><div>3. Even when I don't think they're paying attention...they are. When my husband kissed my hand while driving the car, I heard giggles in the backseat. And then a chorus of "Mommy and Daddy sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"</div><div></div><br /><div>4. I don't care if they giggle or gag. I want them to always see affection between their parents. </div><div></div><br /><div>5. When you love someone, you show them. Our middle son FINALLY earned two prizes from the treasure box at school. And for one of his selections, he chose a lovely, plastic ring with a sparkly orange jewel for me. I think I'll keep it forever.</div><div></div><br /><div>6. Slushies make everything better. Well they do, don't they?</div><div></div><br /><div>7. When Daddy gets home, the tv is abandoned, the toys are tossed aside, Leapsters hit the floor, and homework is forgotten. They run out the door and into the arms of their father. They know they will find acceptance there. They know he will want to hear about their day. All they have to do is run to him. Wouldn't everyone love to be greeted like that?</div><div></div><br /><div>8. Makes me want to greet that wonderful man with their kind of enthusiasm.</div><br /><div></div><div>9. Do I run to Father God with that kind of enthusiasm? Hmmmmmm.</div><br /><div></div><div>10. You will fight with your brother at home. You are probably going to argue, tussle and fuss. You may swipe his stuff. He may swipe yours. And you will likely tease, poke, chase and harass your brother mercilessly. And he will return the favor. But when you are in public, you make sure no one messes with your brother. No one. Because he is your brother. Period.</div><br /><div></div><div>11. Boys are always hungry. Always hungry. ALWAYS.</div><div></div><br /><div>12. And finally, when you dress up like a superhero, you ARE a superhero. You can leap higher, you can run faster, you can banish the bad guys forever. Especially if your brother is a superhero too.</div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-80343731876316918242010-09-20T10:50:00.000-07:002010-09-20T19:28:42.580-07:00Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOSxwVRAzdXrmOT4HJDLsDWkzIYx9u1gjYQXPp8SQ85Vi2L64oqPrC3pLEn3ntA3KY9LYORxVW-L7wILZwVUoXYXt1ijH9RUZy3ex7tBvNY3TxDNCYB9bMzdatyV4khyiLynr8qSoh-ig/s1600/IMG_0287+(2).jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519068686301412018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOSxwVRAzdXrmOT4HJDLsDWkzIYx9u1gjYQXPp8SQ85Vi2L64oqPrC3pLEn3ntA3KY9LYORxVW-L7wILZwVUoXYXt1ijH9RUZy3ex7tBvNY3TxDNCYB9bMzdatyV4khyiLynr8qSoh-ig/s320/IMG_0287+(2).jpg" /></a> <div></div><div>Well folks, it's official. I won't be receiving the "Mother of the Year" award this year. I messed up big time. I lost one of my boys! But wait, before you gasp and declare that you would never do such a thing, let me explain.</div><div></div><br /><div>Our youngest Golden boy and I were shopping at a used book store. These musty places with various books, toys, DVDs, and workbooks crammed into overflowing shelves are some of my son's favorite places to be. He loves books. He would love to buy a hundred of them! But our deal each time we go is that he gets to pick out one book for me to buy.</div><div></div><br /><div>So today, while I was scanning titles to find a "robot" book as he requested, he was sitting on the floor behind me looking through a Disney search-and-find volume. I found lots of dinosaur books, animal books, truck books, food books and strangely, an entire section of "farting dog" books. (Not kidding.)</div><br /><div></div><div>But while I was diligently searching for his requested robot book, he apparently got bored and decided to do some searching on his own. I turned around to find neither my son, nor the book at which he had been looking. I tentatively called his name, and then called it louder, more firmly.</div><div></div><br /><div>This drew a few looks from other book store shoppers, but at this point I did not care. Not one bit. My precious three-year-old with big brown eyes and curly hair, who loves to sing, loves his Ducky, and has his momma wrapped around his little finger, was missing. Missing. </div><div></div><br /><div>My heart dropped and I began to run through the aisles calling his name. Have you ever been there? My little one has no idea about the evil intentions of some people in this world. But I do. By this time, I was telling the people that I passed that my son is three years old and wearing a green shirt. Strangers began to look around for him too.</div><div></div><br /><div>And just as quickly as he had disappeared, I found him. He had discovered a kiosk with train books that were just at his eye level. He was happy to see me and show me what he had found, blissfully unaware of the mini-heart attack he had given me. All-in-all, only about 20 seconds had passed since I discovered his absence, and he was only a few aisles away...but still.</div><br /><div></div><div>Once my heart stopped racing, my mind began churning. I wonder if this is a tiny taste of how the Father felt when Adam and Eve fell. When they stepped outside of the protection that God provided, they were vulnerable. And although they were unaware of their precarious position, God knew the vile hatred that Satan had for them. While they were coming up with new apple pie recipes, Satan was planning to steal, kill and destroy them (and us) in the most heinous ways.</div><br /><div></div><div>So what is a parent to do? I ran around calling my son's name and soliciting the help of strangers to find him. To make him safe. To keep him with me even though he loves to wander. Father God went to far greater lengths to secure our safety. Since our sin debt could only be satisfied by One who is holy, God chose to pay the price Himself. He allowed His Son to pay the ultimate sacrifice - His life, His blood - for us.</div><br /><div></div><div>When I found my son and scooped him into my arms, it would have broken my heart for him to reject me and say that he preferred to take his chances with the book store shoppers. He's only three! What does he know about life? I would have carried him to the car with me and taken him home, whether he liked it or not.</div><div></div><br /><div>But God doesn't strap us into a carseat and make us go to heaven. He has provided the way. He has fulfilled the requirements Himself. And He graciously allows us to choose. Amazing grace, indeed!</div><br /><div></div><div>I've got a long way to go to become the perfect parent. And I don't think that a "Mother of the Year" award is in my future. But I'm committed to protecting my sons and teaching them about God, the perfect Father, who loves them far more than I do.</div><div></div><br /><div>And you can bet your bottom dollar that I bought that sweet baby TWO books today! </div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-31209431358246946292010-08-11T09:10:00.000-07:002010-08-11T09:32:21.037-07:00How Great is Our God - Sing with Me!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOlFvQKtW8V4eexbtbYUsC12k16zZ0GIUaqGGGDip-ZXlWLcKI4H0vD7yPwQvrOc9uvVHA1NnuPOdf7dZmPueDGGdTZCfvvCnGiq4HyxFbU3z5MCxj1KGchAjWjinVofzXQg1P_mI3io/s1600/lauren1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504190731639014834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOlFvQKtW8V4eexbtbYUsC12k16zZ0GIUaqGGGDip-ZXlWLcKI4H0vD7yPwQvrOc9uvVHA1NnuPOdf7dZmPueDGGdTZCfvvCnGiq4HyxFbU3z5MCxj1KGchAjWjinVofzXQg1P_mI3io/s320/lauren1.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div>It's not about me. Whatever "it" is, it's definitely not about me. Life, worship, power, fame, adoration, strength - I am not the focus of any of it. And boy, has this become evident to me this week.<br /><br /><div></div><div>I have a friend whose baby was born two days ago. She is a beautiful, chunky-cheeked, dark-haired little thing who was not expected to survive outside of the womb. The prognosis was grim. And every single ultrasound confirmed that prognosis. She just wasn't developing in a way that would allow her to survive. Her chest was too small for her lungs to develop. She had no muscle tone. Her bones were too short. And that was that.</div><div></div><br /><div>Furthermore, this friend gave birth to a baby girl a few years ago who had the same condition. That child only survived a few precious minutes. So we all knew what was going to happen this time. We didn't do a baby shower. We didn't talk about the child's future. We just prayed and prayed and prayed for her parents. We accepted what we knew would happen based on our experience.</div><br /><div></div><div>BUT WAIT JUST A MINUTE!!! Our God doesn't act based on <em><span style="color:#3333ff;"><strong>our</strong></span></em> experience. He is not restricted to only perform miracles for which we ask. His power is not limited by medical science, by us...by me. He is wholly independent of me. He does not need me, my approval, my instructions, or my pleading in order to act on my behalf - or my friend's.</div><br /><div></div><div>Yes, God loves me and has fully paid the price for me to be His. He does hear my prayers and generously answers. My relationship with Him is deeply personal and intense. But the God who created the universe does not need my permission. Whether I choose to serve Him or praise Him does not change who He is. He just is. </div><br /><div></div><div>So, with great humility, it is my privilege to pray for my friend's daughter. That precious baby's health is still precarious. But her bones are developed and she is breathing on her own. On her own!!! And with a renewed awe of who He is, I am praising the God whose "ways are above my ways and thoughts are above my thoughts." Amen.</div></div></div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-25012428969975656192010-08-03T11:23:00.000-07:002010-08-03T11:39:08.741-07:00Ode to My Boys<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlanMvvBZLO61LlupUMWwqA6Q6n1w-Cr9ikjokofvPt5MsJ4_WTbgCBhjapKrWvWApvR2xJAusZhCNp-oD5_Ov8aROMG62GWi2iLhK5V4Y3hbyn2HYZOdrwxcx1DLPZhRY7TuWrmeyzs/s1600/IMG_6119+(2).jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501251808235072978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlanMvvBZLO61LlupUMWwqA6Q6n1w-Cr9ikjokofvPt5MsJ4_WTbgCBhjapKrWvWApvR2xJAusZhCNp-oD5_Ov8aROMG62GWi2iLhK5V4Y3hbyn2HYZOdrwxcx1DLPZhRY7TuWrmeyzs/s320/IMG_6119+(2).jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center">Ode to My Boys</div><div align="center">Stinky and sweaty and sticky and sweet</div><div align="center">Dirty fingernails, grubby feet</div><div align="center">Three little guys consume all my day</div><div align="center">"Mommy, I'm hungry. Mom, can we play?"</div><div align="center">A trail of tractors and blocks in their wake</div><div align="center">And train tracks and dump trucks and Legos and cake</div><div align="center">Yes, cake.</div><div align="center">For wherever my boys are, I'm sure to find food</div><div align="center">And wrappers and crumbs, and things left half-chewed</div><div align="center">For they're growing, I tell you, too fast for my liking</div><div align="center">Their shoes are a'shrinking, their pant legs are hiking</div><div align="center">They eat and they grow and they then eat some more</div><div align="center">I'm known by first name at our grocery store</div><div align="center">That store.</div><div align="center">They wrestle, they tumble, they tug and they fight</div><div align="center">Competitive critters, from morning 'til night</div><div align="center">Kicking at balls and swinging foam swords</div><div align="center">They grunt and they laugh and they growl and they roar</div><div align="center">All the while watching to see that I see</div><div align="center">Their young macho conquests performing for me</div><div align="center">Just me.</div><div align="center">'Cause they love their momma, they all tell me so</div><div align="center">(I hope this is something they never outgrow)</div><div align="center">They're learning their manners, their math and their chores</div><div align="center">To stick up for each other, to follow the Lord</div><div align="center">Courageous and true men their wives all will find</div><div align="center">Someday far from now, but today they're just mine</div><div align="center">All mine.</div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-87322146410067721892010-07-13T08:08:00.000-07:002010-07-13T09:11:50.294-07:00Pull Ups and Pacifiers<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mt_Z0HuOfHS7iH-d-DeSSmXlITlUJf5Ym2E0hXY1y0290Hf1xX0BwqUeTddbjy0kfh8gpwbC_-aIG7914_R4DaFj8OHJUM6AuUKrshuchqNAcBLhK_IEgZ7twV_MqbdDl6TgzY3IwEo/s1600/IMG_1277+(2).jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493422481321881602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mt_Z0HuOfHS7iH-d-DeSSmXlITlUJf5Ym2E0hXY1y0290Hf1xX0BwqUeTddbjy0kfh8gpwbC_-aIG7914_R4DaFj8OHJUM6AuUKrshuchqNAcBLhK_IEgZ7twV_MqbdDl6TgzY3IwEo/s320/IMG_1277+(2).jpg" /></a> <div>Our youngest little Golden boy is now three years old, but he's having trouble giving up the last vestiges of babyhood: diapers and pacifiers. Technically, he's wearing Pull Ups and only has his "pappie" at nght, but he is not at all convinced that he's ready to give up either one.</div><br /><div></div><div>When his daddy tucked him into bed last night he told him that "big boys don't have pacifiers." His chubby fist clamped over his mouth and from behind the pacifier he proclaimed "But I the baby." Ha!</div><br /><div></div><div>Since he is the caboose of the clan, I tend to agree with him. I love to snuggle with babies and hold them and sniff their little baby heads. (Don't judge. You moms know exactly what I'm talking about. ) Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to the day when there are no more babies in our house. Or has that day already come and I just haven't acknowledged it yet? He does run around like his big brothers. And talk like his big brothers. And *sigh* smell like his big brothers. </div><br /><div></div><div>To be honest, I don't want for his development to be delayed in any way. Just yesterday we started bribing him with stickers to use the potty. Whatever works. While I would love to keep him in my arms forever, I love him too much to allow him to stay at this stage. Growth is hard sometimes. It takes work. But I know that he can do it - even if he doesn't.</div><br /><div></div><div>And isn't that just the way the Father treats me too? Over my protests that I'm still a baby, He lovingly requires of me what He knows I can do. I can't teach that class - yes you can. Get a more mature Christian to disciple that person - I want you to do it. I just don't have the strength to move again, find a new home, in a new town, with a new church and new friends - I'll be with you every step of the way.</div><br /><div></div><div>While I'm not getting stickers on a chart, the rewards of His presence, His strength, His joy, and just...HIM are enough to make me want to put away my pacifier.</div><br /><div></div><div>Hebrews 5:13-14</div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-55737595685888292712010-07-05T20:34:00.000-07:002010-07-05T21:01:25.408-07:00Family, Fireworks, and QuestionsWhat a wonderful weekend! We spent time with my in-laws. At church, I was reminded of the high price that has been paid for my freedom - both spiritual and physical. And my heart swelled with pride in our country as I listened to a live band playing patriotic songs while my family (and a few thousand other Texans) watched the fireworks over Kingwood.<br /><br />All in all, a good weekend.<br /><br />So today we loaded the boys back into our car and made the trek back home. What would take us four hours to drive without kids, takes us five hours to drive with them. But they were good boys, didn't fight (too much), didn't sleep (oh well), and didn't require us to pull over and use the side of the highway as a urinal (this time).<br /><br />Like I said, this weekend rocked!<br /><br />And then, when we were about 45 minutes from home, sweet home, we hit a WALL of traffic. This was not the normal, early afternoon, weekday traffic. This was construction, major accident, lanes closed down kind of traffic. Ugh. So much for the boys not fighting...<br /><br />As we ooched forward, we saw an electronic sign telling us that a nearby road was closed due to an accident. Generally, in the metroplex roads don't CLOSE for accidents. Lanes close for accidents. So we knew this must be a doozie. Probably a fatality. And that helped us be a little more patient with the traffic. <br /><br />But when we got up to the road that was closed, we could see the problem...and it wasn't an accident...not yet anyway. On the bridge crossing near the road where we were driving, there was a person sitting on the railing with one leg hanging over the traffic below. Officers were on the scene atop the bridge. I assume they were desperately trying to talk him out of ending his life.<br /><br />I have no idea what he decided. Did he make the leap into eternity, or is he in custody? Did he decide to face his problems or his Maker?<br /><br />And is there a believer who knows him? Have they shared their faith? Has he ever heard of the One who willingly gave His life for him? And - is there someone in my life who needs to hear about Jesus? These are the questions with which I'm ending my weekend.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-40842494392345570452010-06-30T08:44:00.000-07:002010-06-30T09:12:22.491-07:00My Grocery List<p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLWv4ZMY6hGk9joH1GCVP-rYul8TqHcIZ2pAUg1xxWLfdzHlgdk6JBkjVbQkWT8BsEP8f764W6gbm8EWZyqX2pyY_ZIKiRybiEaba77mVnN072hIXSlR7avH0hgfYiJKMDbbIBLWNdwc/s1600/IMG_1235+(2).jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 313px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 317px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488599113523506866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLWv4ZMY6hGk9joH1GCVP-rYul8TqHcIZ2pAUg1xxWLfdzHlgdk6JBkjVbQkWT8BsEP8f764W6gbm8EWZyqX2pyY_ZIKiRybiEaba77mVnN072hIXSlR7avH0hgfYiJKMDbbIBLWNdwc/s200/IMG_1235+(2).jpg" /></a></p><br /><br />My grocery list is a work in progress. It lives on my counter and is updated often. I used the last scoop of coffee. Write it down. We're out of bread. Put it on the list. Mom, I need some batteries. Can you bring me the grocery list? I need... I want... I can't find any... Do we have some more... Just. Write. It. Down.<br /><br />But when I get to the store, this list acts more as a guideline than a rule book. While my husband can walk into Wal Mart and buy ONLY the things that have made it to the list, I am incapable of such discipline. I need a bleach pen. But there's no bleach pen on your list. So? I need a bleach pen.<br /><br />Maybe this is why Prince Charming is convinced that there is a $100 entry fee for me to even enter the door of our grocery store. But I digress.<br /><br />I think that God would approve of my "off the list" shopping. I came to this conclusion because when I allow Him to develop the things on <span style="color:#993399;"><strong>His list</strong></span> in my life, I get so much more! As He is teaching me love, I'm also learning graciousness. With joy, I'm also learning to appreciate the little things. Peace? I'm finding a calm home is a bonus. Patience (when it happens) also brings a greater understanding of His plan. And the rewards with kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness and self control are all good stuff. Really good stuff.<br /><br />So today I'm thanking the Father for his "off the list" blessings in my life. And I'm treating a stain with my shiny new bleach pen.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-48900272936021452912010-06-27T13:11:00.000-07:002010-06-27T14:02:07.566-07:00So Much More Than Folding Laundry<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmDG1je_50OaVjN302BNmFWvhkmv4g5dIOJG9EdowdkdBJOzSqztPoHO0dytNCW5OxU6AgyBVtQtrQv25bItdg5w-vLu3k31JzfPKKtNHFV3SAvayFEp0CY8W1mbGveR-vBpXUuiR8ec/s1600/wedding.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487559054129822722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmDG1je_50OaVjN302BNmFWvhkmv4g5dIOJG9EdowdkdBJOzSqztPoHO0dytNCW5OxU6AgyBVtQtrQv25bItdg5w-vLu3k31JzfPKKtNHFV3SAvayFEp0CY8W1mbGveR-vBpXUuiR8ec/s320/wedding.jpg" /></a> Do you remember your first year of marriage? I mean...<em>really</em> remember it? It was such bliss being able to spend as much time as I wanted to with Mr. Wonderful. And taking trips. And sleeping late. And discovering so many things about my man that I didn't know before we said "I do." <div><div></div><br /><div>But that first year was also a time of BIG adjustment. We each came into our marriage with preconceived <span style="color:#ff0000;">ideas</span> about how our household would work. And it is these<span style="color:#ff0000;"> ideas</span> that have had me thinking lately. Remember?? </div><br /><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We had to work out: How are we going to divide housework? Where will our holidays be celebrated? Who buys groceries? What about the checkbook? Arrrrgh, the checkbook. And dishes. And laundry. And toilets. And floors. Who goes to the dry cleaner? Who washes the car? Who mows the lawn? Or do we even care if the lawn gets mowed? Where will we worship? How will we fight? And make up?!?</div><div></div><br /><div>And where did we even come up with our opinions on all of those things anyway?!?</div><div></div><br /><div>Ahhh, our history. Dishes should be washed - and dried - in this way because that's how my mom did it. Our finances should be handled in a certain way because that's how my spouse's parents did it. From the division of chores to the way we raise our boys, my husband and I each drew from our experiences to determine how we should proceed. Our experiences. Our stories. Our history determined how our household would operate.</div><div></div><br /><div>So here's my point - if my boys see our home as "the norm", then I want it to be the best it can be! I'm not just folding laundry, I'm raising boys! I'm not just balancing the checkbook, I'm making (their) history! I'm not just loving their daddy, I'm writing the story of their family!</div><br /><div></div><div>And one day, when my boys are creating households of their own, I hope that the work that I'm doing now will contribute to their "happily ever after."</div></div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-83412054780716840722010-06-10T06:51:00.001-07:002010-06-27T15:52:05.630-07:00When You Can't See the Tree for the Forest<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkfDHmn-kOs0InK3ey1ESCg1N-r3Hp5rWCmXJ-VxhfK2DijwHDHCd6bKNOyYkOf5iQoe2cV50aMpkHbpE3l3kjKfeCty7n23Xt4-RRblZ6RmkjfQveMfDDFnUrvkZN0cK9NpzSAqhT6s/s1600/IMG_0409+(2).jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487589917527002002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkfDHmn-kOs0InK3ey1ESCg1N-r3Hp5rWCmXJ-VxhfK2DijwHDHCd6bKNOyYkOf5iQoe2cV50aMpkHbpE3l3kjKfeCty7n23Xt4-RRblZ6RmkjfQveMfDDFnUrvkZN0cK9NpzSAqhT6s/s320/IMG_0409+(2).jpg" /></a><br /><div>So there's this giant tree in my parent's backyard. In years gone by, its strong limbs held a swing where my boys and their cousins spent hours playing. It towers above the yard and has been there for who-knows-how-long.<br /><br />But my Dad told me something about it recently that surprised me. "It's dead." "What? Really?" "Yep. See? It doesn't have any leaves at all. In fact, don't let the kids play under it. The limbs have started falling off. It could be dangerous."<br /><br />I had looked at it many, many times throughout the winter and never noticed anything wrong. All of the trees were barren at that time of year. It blended right in. But now that the trees behind it are in full bloom, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Its lack of life is painfully apparent. It can't hide. I wonder if its uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable.<br /><br />I'm pondering this tree-predicament because we are searching for a new church home. After moving recently, we are ready to find a fellowship of believers of like faith and share our lives with them. But the search is a little tiring.<br /><br />It would be easy for us to choose one of the hundreds of churches in our new location and become back row pew sitters, showing up for service and going home. We could get dressed up, put our boys in their respective classes, smile, and check the box beside "attended church" for the week.<br /><br />But my spirit rages against that type of existence! I don't want to become a dead tree, perfectly at home in a winter forest. I desire for my life to be vibrant, alive in Christ, and surrounded by believers who challenge and encourage me.<br /><br />And I don't want my little "sprouts" to grow up thinking that Christianity is lifeless. So our search continues. That old, dead tree reminds me once again that "the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself up for me." And I've never felt more alive.</div>raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-45928075948168365302010-03-28T16:21:00.000-07:002010-03-28T20:51:15.864-07:00A Sweet SmellHas a scent ever taken you to another time, another place? It happened to me today as I was shopping for groceries. I was pushing my cart and a sweet elderly passed by me. And little did she know it, but the "White Shoulders" perfume that she was wearing transported me far away.<br /><br />My Grandma wore that same fragrance and just the scent of her took me back to the farm where she and Grandpa lived. I was eating pastel-colored marshmallows from her cupboard and learning to recognize the song of the "Bob White" birds. I was watching cars go past on the dirt road while sitting in metal chairs on the front porch. I shelled peas. I gathered eggs. I fished with a cane pole and a bobber and rode on a board on the back of Grandpa's tractor. I patiently waited while Grandma turned the television antennae that was mounted on a pole outside so I could watch a fuzzy game show. I colored. I sang. I got told a million times not to put my fingers in the box fan. And I fell asleep tucked under cool, scratchy, line-dried sheets that smelled like sunshine.<br /><br />And then...I pulled my cart into the checkout line. That dear lady had no idea that her scent would have such a great impact on me today. She was being who she was. She was going about her day, taking care of her business.<br /><br />So what things fragrance my life? As I go about my day, do my actions remind people of Jesus? Does the aroma of my choices draw people to the Savior? Or does the stench of hypocrisy surround me? When my husband, my boys, and my friends catch my scent, will it bring memories of faithfulness and joy or of wasted potential or a critical spirit?<br /><br />Here's the thing: my scent (both figuratively and literally) is my choice. And I choose to become a sweet fragrance to my Lord.<br /><br />2 Corinthians 2:15-16raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-44748282484896589622009-12-21T08:55:00.000-08:002010-01-05T11:32:41.917-08:00What I've Learned From My Boys - A Work in ProgressI've only been a mom for 6 years (6 and a half, as my oldest son would point out) but I've found the experience to be a perspective adjuster; life changing to say the least. Here are a few of the things my boys have taught me:<br /><br />1. There is no such thing as a toy that is too loud, too messy or too obnoxious. When playing, the rule is, the louder the better. The messier the more fun. I tend to approach life cautiously, quietly. But sometimes reckless abandon is super fun.<br /><br />2. Brothers are for wrestling. It is apparently impossible be near another young boy and not take him down. My husband assures me that this is normal little boy behavior. I'm hoping they outgrow this one.<br /><br />3. Listening requires not just your ears, but your eyes as well. "Momma, momma, momma, momma, momma..." I can reply "yes, I hear you, uh huh, what do you want, yes son" but until I look up and <em>WHOLE-FACE</em> listen, they don't think I can hear them at all. Hmmm. Think there might be some wisdom there...<br /><br />4. Bodily functions are funny. There's no deep application here, it's just part of being a little boy - or a big boy as it turns out.<br /><br />5. There are adventures to be had every day, you just have to know where to look. A stick is a perfect sword. A pile of pine needles is a giant nest. And the possibilities with a box, blanket or flashlight are innumerable. I think I could take a cue from them on this one. Maybe the dust on my furniture came from fairy wings. Or the toilet, ummmm never mind.<br /><br />6. Anything, and I mean ANYTHING can be turned into a competition. Brushing teeth: who's the fastest? Stacking blocks: whose tower is highest, or who can knock it down? Whose arms are longer? Who can jump higher? Who's got the most toe jam? And don't get me started (again) on bodily functions. I think this one closely relates to #2 above.<br /><br />7. Low tech is still awesome. After unwrapping a pile of gifts at Christmas, they wanted to go outside and blow bubbles...the bubbles from their stockings that Santa purchased at the Dollar Tree. I really need to remember this one next Christmas.<br /><br />8. Kissing a boo-boo really does make it feel better. The kiss, the snuggle, the sympathy, and the assurance that the scratch is not life threatening are all it takes to send my little warriors back into the fray. I know some grown-up warriors that would appreciate my sympathy and assurances too. (But the kisses are reserved for the daddy-warrior at our house!)<br /><br />9. The best things in life truly are free. (Yes, I know it's not original to this list, but bear with me.) Lying on your back finding cloud shapes, picking flowers to give to mom, digging in the dirt, collecting sticks or bugs or leaves, riding your bike, laughing, eating ice cream, splashing in the bathtub, hearing a bedtime story and then praying to Jesus about the things that are on your heart - these are the makings of a perfect day for my boys. Sounds pretty good to me too.<br /><br />10. And perhaps the biggest lesson that I have learned from parenting three little boys is to what extent I would go to protect them from any hurt. I would have a very hard time purposely allowing them to get a splinter or a paper cut for you, dear reader. To allow them to be tortured, mutilated, and nailed to a cross to die for someone else is unthinkable. My boys are teaching me of God's great love for me, His unthinkable sacrifice, His level of commitment to my salvation.<br /><br />I am blessed to be their mommy and overwhelmed by the responsibility that comes with that title. So what little gems have your little (or big) ones taught you, oh parent? Silly, serious, thoughtful, frivolous - what lessons have you learned?raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-41090357226395407822009-10-22T07:41:00.000-07:002009-10-22T08:50:30.223-07:00When I Was a KidWhen I was a kid, I was the remote control <u>and</u> the rabbit ears adjuster <u>and</u> the foil on the ends of the rabbit ears adjuster. If there was nothing fit to see on our five stations, we went outside to play, or to our rooms, or to the kitchen to see what mom was making.<br /><br />When I was a kid, gaming involved a board, some dice, and play money...or little cars with plastic stick people, or cards. And the entire family.<br /><br />When I was a kid, the phone was attached to the wall, with a cord, in the kitchen, where mom and dad could hear everything that was said.<br /><br />When I was a kid, a computer was a luxury, a bulky slow luxury. My school had some. My bank had some. My home did not.<br /><br />When I was a kid, my jambox sat on my desk in my room - and it took up half of the space on the desk. And yes, it had an antennae. My music was not a secret. My cassette tapes were approved (and usually purchased) by my parents.<br /><br />When I was a kid, dinners were around the table, not in the drive-thru. Everyone was present. The phone was taken off the hook and tucked into the dish towel drawer for that hour.<br /><br />When I was a kid if I wanted to talk to someone, I had to TALK to them - either in person, or on the phone in the kitchen where, yep, my parents were listening.<br /><br />Now, in my flat screen, high definition, surround sound, instant messaging, satellite empowered, hands free, fast food, texting, online life, what will my boys have for their "when I was a kid" memories? I think I'll unplug and have a picnic, outside, with my boys. And just talk and play. And make a memory while they're <em>still </em>kids.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-87075579497674227762009-10-13T20:32:00.000-07:002009-10-13T21:04:07.917-07:00My most important jobMy boys amaze me. No, really. They're amazing. Our oldest is six years old and has the heart of a lion. He wants to be in charge. He must be in charge. He knows the rules and wants to enforce them. Oh, and he follows them too...to the letter. He's not fond of change, but thrives in order. Getting information out of him is akin to pulling teeth - firmly imbedded teeth.<br /><br />Our second son, on the other hand, is his own little man. While he's only four years old, he has his own personality, his own look, his own opinions. He can deliver a joke and incorporates Spanish into his speech on his own. (Thanks, Dora the Explorer.) He can also quote all of the books of the New Testamant. He paints exhuberantly, talks loudly, and runs at full speed. Where big brother is controlled, middle brother is enthusiastic.<br /><br />And just as amazing is our littlest Golden boy. He's the "bonus round" blessing straight from the hand of God. At two years old, he's finding his voice. He's perfecting his fit-pitching wail and train whistle noise. He loves to imitate his big brothers and cousins. He also knows that he's the baby and uses it to his advantage at bedtime - "wanna rock...peeees?" (Who could say no to that??) He's a snuggler, loving and generous with hugs. And if I could bottle his giggle, I'd make a million.<br /><br />The job of being their mom is far too important for me to fail. <br /><br />Lord, please teach me to be the mom that these three <em>very different</em> boys need me to be. Help me to treasure each of them for the person that you created him to be. And help me to point them to You.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-33494439804876242032009-02-12T07:16:00.000-08:002009-02-12T07:43:24.262-08:00Just a blobSo I'm thinking today of the potter's wheel, but not so much about the wheel, but about the clay. What must the lump of clay be feeling when it is plucked from the mass and plopped on the wheel? "Oh no! Not me!", or maybe "What's happening to me?", or how about "I don't like this. I want to stay just the way I am."<br /><br />The analogy, taken straight from scripture, is exactly where I am right now. I'm the lump, the blob. I'm freeform clay and not so excited about changing. I don't know what the end product will be...I'm not privileged to that information. I don't know why the work began, or more interesting to me right now, when it will STOP.<br /><br />It just feels that I'm being spun around and around, with pieces of me being molded and smoothed. It's uncomfortable, dizzying. I'm not able to focus on the big picture, but just on the changes going on in me. I'm not in control.<br /><br />But I do know a few things. If I harden right now, I will break. If I refuse to be molded, I will never become what I was intended to be. And if I hop off of the wheel, I will fall helplessly to the floor, in control again, but without help, hope.<br /><br />So although much is out of my control at this time, I will continue to stay on the wheel, stay moldable, and wait with great expectation to see what happens. Why???<br /><br />I know the Potter.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6356563362970827664.post-48578866509742737592009-01-21T19:38:00.000-08:002009-01-21T20:07:49.456-08:00He spokeSo I was wide awake in the middle of the night and was praying. Well, it was actually more of a one-sided conversation. My part went something like "When?" (silence) "Why?" (silence) "Where?" (silence) "Who?" (silence) "How much?" (more silence). And since that didn't seem to be getting me anywhere, I asked "What are You waiting for?" Then the answer came. It was not what I was expecting, certainly not what I wanted to hear. In the stillness of my soul He spoke...<br /><br /><em>Surrender</em>.<br /><br />Ick. OK, so what else can I surrender? I've moved away from my home state. Given up my career. Left my extended family. Don't have friends here. I feel emotionally, socially, and often spiritually exiled. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT???<br /><br /><em>Control</em>.<br /><br />Double ick. Triple humility. Quadruple shame. Huge apology. Magnanamous forgiveness. Sweet freedom.<br /><br />As you see, the struggle continues. Wish I had this Chist-follower thing figured out, but I think that would exclude faith...and thus miss the entire point.<br /><br />So, once again, I face tomorrow with questions still bouncing around in my head about our future. And we will need answers soon. But I am thankful that the answers are not up to me. Control rests once again in my Savior's capable hands.raisinggoldenboyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05741202439053079801noreply@blogger.com1