For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.
-Romans 15:4
This is going to be a story.
I'll try to be brief.
Or not. As the whim (and Little Brother's nap) takes me.
As you know, I've been selecting and posting my scripture memory verses this year. I've memorized two verses per month for the last two years, along with the Living Proof Ministries "Siesta" community. This has been huge for me.
The last time I faithfully memorized scripture was for the two-year period when my husband and I were dating. When we first started dating, he asked me to memorize John 15 with him. We did 1 verse per week, then started on Psalm 91. For some reason, we got out of the habit of scripture memory as soon as we got married. (Don't allow that to happen to you. The Older, Wiser Amy of now shakes her head at the Younger, Newly-Married Amy of 2005.)
The Hubs knows about my scripture memory, and he has been doing some on his own with an accountability partner for a while now. However, two weeks ago, he asked me if we could start memorizing together again.
Um, YES. {I hope you can see all of the little hearts floating above my head at this point, just like Sally from the Peanuts.}
So, we are going to take turns selecting a verse every week and memorize them together. Ergo, the verse above was his choice and I don't have a whole lot to say about why it was chosen. I don't think you can go wrong memorizing ANY verse, though, because at some point it will be relevant if it isn't today.
I will continue to do My Sword posts, though, especially for the verses that I select!
Thursday, June 20, 2013
My Sword, V11
He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the spirit as a guarantee.
-II Corinthians 5:5
I don't know about anyone else, but I like the thought of a guarantee! Woot!
Over the last six months (or more!) my beloved pastor has been preaching/teaching out of 2 Corinthians. These sermons have been a lifeline for me in more ways that one. (You can listen to sermon audio here. Be prepared to be blessed beyond measure!) When we were homebound for so many months, I listened to the sermons online. Now that we're back at church, I still listen to the sermons online most of the time because I end up taking a baby out of the service. Praise the Lord for technology!
-II Corinthians 5:5
I don't know about anyone else, but I like the thought of a guarantee! Woot!
Over the last six months (or more!) my beloved pastor has been preaching/teaching out of 2 Corinthians. These sermons have been a lifeline for me in more ways that one. (You can listen to sermon audio here. Be prepared to be blessed beyond measure!) When we were homebound for so many months, I listened to the sermons online. Now that we're back at church, I still listen to the sermons online most of the time because I end up taking a baby out of the service. Praise the Lord for technology!
My Sword, V10
Teach me your way, Lord, that I may rely on your faithfulness; give me an undivided heart that I may fear your name.
-Psalm 86:11
The words "rely on your faithfulness" echo endlessly in my ears. Oh, that I would actually, visibly, truly, wholly, ALWAYS rely on His faithfulness! No more of this unconsciously relying on my silly self, but recognizing immediately when I am attempting to take over! I'm reminded of the Gnarls Barkley song "Crazy" whenever I start to deceive myself into thinking I'm in control:
Hahaha, bless your soul!
You really think you're in control?
Well.
I think you're crazy.
I enjoy the song because it reminds me of my brother Aaron (I can just hear him singing the tune and envision the way he would bob his head as he sang), but also because it reminds me that I am NOT in control.
Teach me your way, Oh, Lord!!!
-Psalm 86:11
The words "rely on your faithfulness" echo endlessly in my ears. Oh, that I would actually, visibly, truly, wholly, ALWAYS rely on His faithfulness! No more of this unconsciously relying on my silly self, but recognizing immediately when I am attempting to take over! I'm reminded of the Gnarls Barkley song "Crazy" whenever I start to deceive myself into thinking I'm in control:
Hahaha, bless your soul!
You really think you're in control?
Well.
I think you're crazy.
I enjoy the song because it reminds me of my brother Aaron (I can just hear him singing the tune and envision the way he would bob his head as he sang), but also because it reminds me that I am NOT in control.
Teach me your way, Oh, Lord!!!
My Sword, V9
For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the spirit is life and peace.
- Romans 8:6
I chose this verse because it is so easy (as I've written here) to get lost in the days and to start grumbling when I'm tired or have a headache or have to clean up the same.mess.for.the.fifth.time.today.
I need constant reminding that what we have here is only for a little while. I don't know about anyone else, but I also need me some PEACE. If setting my mind on the things of the Lord brings peace, then I need to be doing that every moment of every day, world without end, Amen!
- Romans 8:6
I chose this verse because it is so easy (as I've written here) to get lost in the days and to start grumbling when I'm tired or have a headache or have to clean up the same.mess.for.the.fifth.time.today.
I need constant reminding that what we have here is only for a little while. I don't know about anyone else, but I also need me some PEACE. If setting my mind on the things of the Lord brings peace, then I need to be doing that every moment of every day, world without end, Amen!
Confession
Confession: I write blog posts and don’t publish them.
A lot.
Most people would call this “journaling.”
So would I.
However, I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to try
blogging every day for one month and see how it goes. The reason for this
experiment is that I’ve got all these thoughts whirling about my head and I
think it would help me get them out if I write them down. Plus, my friend Tammy’s
blog is so sweet that I can’t help but want to be just like her. Seriously, if you want to see someone who is
the epitome of classy, read her blog. Also, I've been reading Randi's blog for about eight months and she is going to blog every day in July, so I thought I'd do a variation on that idea.
There you have it. I’m succumbing to peer pressure, and
using you readers (all three of you!) as therapy! Ha!
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
This is love...
These are the moments that I hope I never forget.
Tonight, Big Brother was outside playing while Daddy mowed the yard. From the kitchen (where I was doing dinner dishes), I heard a ker-THUMP outside and knew Big Brother had taken a tumble. I poked my head out the back door and he was getting up from the ground, grinning.
"I felled," he told me cheerfully. He didn't seem hurt, so I admonished him to be more careful and went about my business.
Moments later, the door opened and he tromped in, announcing, "I have to poop." These announcements never fail to bring a smile to my face (potty humor isn't really my thing, but when a darling three-year-old with a cherubic voice is the one who makes the declaration, it is nothing if not hilarious).
"Okay," I told him, wiping my sudsy hands in preparation to assist in any way necessary. "You need to take off your shoes."
He bent down to comply and suddenly noticed that one of his fingers had a little bit of a dried blood smear on it, presumably from the tumble he had taken moments before. It is one of the idiosyncrasies of toddlerhood that blood MUST equal pain, despite the fact that he hadn't noticed anything hurting until he saw it. Of course, he immediately started sobbing.
"I have a owie!" he wailed, holding it up for me to see.
At this particular juncture, I had several thoughts swirling around my head. Being a normally level-headed individual when it comes to crises (however irrational and emotional I can be otherwise), I was able to quickly surmise that A.) the shoes must come off if I didn't want to sweep the floor again, B.) the bottom needed to be hanging over the edge of the potty if I didn't want to be cleaning his underwear, and C.) the tiny bit of dried blood was last on my list of priorities.
So, I did what any sane mother would do; I frantically pulled off his shoes, carried him (wailing about his owie all the while - did I mention that Little Brother was asleep and I had been hoping to get the dishes done before he woke up?) into the bathroom, whisked off his pants and plunked him on the toilet seat. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he held out the only thing that was of ANY concern to him at the moment... a slightly bloody fingertip. Now that A. and B. had been taken care of, I felt free to push my compassion button and found myself saying, "It will be okay, I will put a bandaid on it. Push out the poop, okay?"As I said this, I wrapped my arms around his little body and hugged him, as he sat on the pot. The thought occurred to me that perhaps this was one of the more ridiculous moments of motherhood... loving on a crying boy as his bowels moved. I gently took his hand and inspected the offending owie. Honestly, it looked like a paper cut, less than half an inch long. Since his hand was dirty, it was hard to tell if there was a splinter in the finger or not.
Just then, Daddy walked in, concerned because he hadn't seen Big Brother come inside. To his credit, he didn't laugh at the scene upon which he entered. I asked for his opinion on whether or not there was a splinter (please note that the wailing had not lessened to this point). He didn't think so and instructed peroxide and a bandaid be applied, then went back out to finish the mowing.
As the wailing continued and I tried to be soothing with my "It will be okay, I will make it better" monologue, I fumbled with the cap of the peroxide bottle and the packaging of the bandaid. Finally, I was able to splash the wound with peroxide. The foaming action quieted him a little; I have to admit that he wore a horrified expression on his face, and I know that if the peroxide had burned he would have thrown a fit. Apparently, however, it didn't hurt and I explained that the foaming meant that it was getting clean. I then applied the bandaid over the wound, and a miracle occurred: the crying stopped!
With tears streaming down his cheeks and a quiver in his voice, he said, oh-so-sweetly, "Oh, thank you, mommy, for the bandaid!"
"You're welcome, lovie," I replied, enraptured at his sweetness. In that moment, I was reminded why I am head-over-heels for this child, and why I will always love being his mommy.
As he sat on the potty, staring at the bandaid, he calmed himself down, in awe of my mad nursing skillz. And from that small, everyday occurrence, we both felt loved --- he, because his mommy put a bandaid on his owie, and I, because he had thanked me so sweetly and through his pain for so trivial a thing.
Tonight, Big Brother was outside playing while Daddy mowed the yard. From the kitchen (where I was doing dinner dishes), I heard a ker-THUMP outside and knew Big Brother had taken a tumble. I poked my head out the back door and he was getting up from the ground, grinning.
"I felled," he told me cheerfully. He didn't seem hurt, so I admonished him to be more careful and went about my business.
Moments later, the door opened and he tromped in, announcing, "I have to poop." These announcements never fail to bring a smile to my face (potty humor isn't really my thing, but when a darling three-year-old with a cherubic voice is the one who makes the declaration, it is nothing if not hilarious).
"Okay," I told him, wiping my sudsy hands in preparation to assist in any way necessary. "You need to take off your shoes."
He bent down to comply and suddenly noticed that one of his fingers had a little bit of a dried blood smear on it, presumably from the tumble he had taken moments before. It is one of the idiosyncrasies of toddlerhood that blood MUST equal pain, despite the fact that he hadn't noticed anything hurting until he saw it. Of course, he immediately started sobbing.
"I have a owie!" he wailed, holding it up for me to see.
At this particular juncture, I had several thoughts swirling around my head. Being a normally level-headed individual when it comes to crises (however irrational and emotional I can be otherwise), I was able to quickly surmise that A.) the shoes must come off if I didn't want to sweep the floor again, B.) the bottom needed to be hanging over the edge of the potty if I didn't want to be cleaning his underwear, and C.) the tiny bit of dried blood was last on my list of priorities.
So, I did what any sane mother would do; I frantically pulled off his shoes, carried him (wailing about his owie all the while - did I mention that Little Brother was asleep and I had been hoping to get the dishes done before he woke up?) into the bathroom, whisked off his pants and plunked him on the toilet seat. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he held out the only thing that was of ANY concern to him at the moment... a slightly bloody fingertip. Now that A. and B. had been taken care of, I felt free to push my compassion button and found myself saying, "It will be okay, I will put a bandaid on it. Push out the poop, okay?"As I said this, I wrapped my arms around his little body and hugged him, as he sat on the pot. The thought occurred to me that perhaps this was one of the more ridiculous moments of motherhood... loving on a crying boy as his bowels moved. I gently took his hand and inspected the offending owie. Honestly, it looked like a paper cut, less than half an inch long. Since his hand was dirty, it was hard to tell if there was a splinter in the finger or not.
Just then, Daddy walked in, concerned because he hadn't seen Big Brother come inside. To his credit, he didn't laugh at the scene upon which he entered. I asked for his opinion on whether or not there was a splinter (please note that the wailing had not lessened to this point). He didn't think so and instructed peroxide and a bandaid be applied, then went back out to finish the mowing.
As the wailing continued and I tried to be soothing with my "It will be okay, I will make it better" monologue, I fumbled with the cap of the peroxide bottle and the packaging of the bandaid. Finally, I was able to splash the wound with peroxide. The foaming action quieted him a little; I have to admit that he wore a horrified expression on his face, and I know that if the peroxide had burned he would have thrown a fit. Apparently, however, it didn't hurt and I explained that the foaming meant that it was getting clean. I then applied the bandaid over the wound, and a miracle occurred: the crying stopped!
With tears streaming down his cheeks and a quiver in his voice, he said, oh-so-sweetly, "Oh, thank you, mommy, for the bandaid!"
"You're welcome, lovie," I replied, enraptured at his sweetness. In that moment, I was reminded why I am head-over-heels for this child, and why I will always love being his mommy.
As he sat on the potty, staring at the bandaid, he calmed himself down, in awe of my mad nursing skillz. And from that small, everyday occurrence, we both felt loved --- he, because his mommy put a bandaid on his owie, and I, because he had thanked me so sweetly and through his pain for so trivial a thing.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Excruciating Motherhood
Motherhood = Pain
That is not a complaint. It is a statement of fact. Love is painful because it is sacrificial. Just because something is painful, doesn't mean that it isn't also beautiful.
I've been pondering the pain of parenthood lately because I want so much to do right in the lives of my sons, but I know that I often make mistakes. There will be something that I do or say that will "scar them for life" because every child carries some scars into adulthood.
There is also a lot of pressure on parents, and the pressure grows into guilt on every single level. Every decision you make as a parent is closely scrutinized by others. No matter what you decide, there will be a group who thinks your decision is wrong. Not just the "big" issues, like discipline or education, but even the minute decisions, like the first taste of solids your baby takes (oh, yes, you think I exaggerate, but I promise you there are people who feel STRONGLY about that!). Breast or bottle? There are haters on both sides. To vaccinate or not? Haters. Tummy sleep or back to sleep? (There will be a law against sleeping your baby on its tummy before too long. Mark my words.) Is it okay to feed my child chicken nuggets? Am I a bad parent because I give tylenol to my child when he has a fever? Am I a bad parent if I don't? No matter what you choose, you will be judged by someone out there as ill-equipped to be a parent.
Not that anyone is fully equipped to be a wonderful parent... you aren't "born to be a good parent." Good parents are made. You learn by trial and error! Whew! That's not scary!
Mistakes in parenting are painful. The guilt associated with parenting decisions is painful. I have noticed (my husband says it's not the same for him, though, so maybe it's a motherly thing, or maybe I'm just weird) a phantom pain when my child is or appears to be in physical danger. Has anyone experienced this phenomenon but me? For example, if he is running and I can see that he is going to fall and scrape his knee, as he is falling, I feel pain in my joints (specifically, in my hip joints, oddly enough). It's almost as if time stops briefly, allowing me to feel his pain before he does. Sometimes, he falls and I've predicted his pain. Other times, he doesn't fall after all, and I feel sheepishly overprotective because of the sharp gasp I've involuntarily made.
Then - oh, then! - there is the emotional pain of watching these beautiful creatures grow and change and experience pain for themselves! I've not yet fully realized this heartache, but I've tasted it and even the small drops I've experienced thus far have sent me to my knees, thanking God for allowing His Son to die on the cross for my sins... for choosing the full extent of the pain of parenthood for my sake.
Yes, motherhood is excruciating, and I am convinced that the only way to make it through is on my knees!
That is not a complaint. It is a statement of fact. Love is painful because it is sacrificial. Just because something is painful, doesn't mean that it isn't also beautiful.
I've been pondering the pain of parenthood lately because I want so much to do right in the lives of my sons, but I know that I often make mistakes. There will be something that I do or say that will "scar them for life" because every child carries some scars into adulthood.
There is also a lot of pressure on parents, and the pressure grows into guilt on every single level. Every decision you make as a parent is closely scrutinized by others. No matter what you decide, there will be a group who thinks your decision is wrong. Not just the "big" issues, like discipline or education, but even the minute decisions, like the first taste of solids your baby takes (oh, yes, you think I exaggerate, but I promise you there are people who feel STRONGLY about that!). Breast or bottle? There are haters on both sides. To vaccinate or not? Haters. Tummy sleep or back to sleep? (There will be a law against sleeping your baby on its tummy before too long. Mark my words.) Is it okay to feed my child chicken nuggets? Am I a bad parent because I give tylenol to my child when he has a fever? Am I a bad parent if I don't? No matter what you choose, you will be judged by someone out there as ill-equipped to be a parent.
Not that anyone is fully equipped to be a wonderful parent... you aren't "born to be a good parent." Good parents are made. You learn by trial and error! Whew! That's not scary!
Mistakes in parenting are painful. The guilt associated with parenting decisions is painful. I have noticed (my husband says it's not the same for him, though, so maybe it's a motherly thing, or maybe I'm just weird) a phantom pain when my child is or appears to be in physical danger. Has anyone experienced this phenomenon but me? For example, if he is running and I can see that he is going to fall and scrape his knee, as he is falling, I feel pain in my joints (specifically, in my hip joints, oddly enough). It's almost as if time stops briefly, allowing me to feel his pain before he does. Sometimes, he falls and I've predicted his pain. Other times, he doesn't fall after all, and I feel sheepishly overprotective because of the sharp gasp I've involuntarily made.
Then - oh, then! - there is the emotional pain of watching these beautiful creatures grow and change and experience pain for themselves! I've not yet fully realized this heartache, but I've tasted it and even the small drops I've experienced thus far have sent me to my knees, thanking God for allowing His Son to die on the cross for my sins... for choosing the full extent of the pain of parenthood for my sake.
Yes, motherhood is excruciating, and I am convinced that the only way to make it through is on my knees!
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