Of Jesus, Gems, and Double Chocolate Cookies

Today I went to visit one of my "gems."  Through the years I have been blessed with an undeserved abundance of amazing friends: these are my gems.  They are the truly priceless treasures that have made and continue to make my life so rich and delightful.

When it comes to precious stones, Rhoda is a pearl.

Rhoda and I are connected in a variety of different ways, and today we reminisced about most of them.  She is, to begin with, a cousin . . . distant, but blood nonetheless.  (Half of North Scituate is a cousin in one way or another . . . that's why I married a guy from Cumberland!) 

Her cousinhood is never the first thing I think of, though.  In my mind, she is one of my spiritual grandmothers.  We attended the same church throughout my childhood, and she has left an indelible print on me.

For one thing, she is truly the kindest woman I have ever known.  I have never heard her raise her voice or say a harsh . . . not even a remotely critical . . . word about anyone.  She has an amazing ability to see the good in everyone, no matter how little good there is to find.

Combined with this is her love for everyone, and I personally have always felt surrounded by it.  When trying to describe her to people I have often said, "As a child, I always felt she could walk in on my brother, my sister, and me setting fire to the sanctuary and somehow find a reason why it wasn't our fault."  (Disclaimer: None of my family would ever consider setting fire to the sanctuary!  We all loved our church!)

Now with most people, it would be hard to stomach so much sweetness.  I don't know about you, but I don't usually trust people who are perpetually happy . . . kind . . . gentle . . . good.  Chalk it up to my own wickedness, but I tend to think they're hiding something.  Rhoda is different.  After knowing her nearly forty years, I can vouch for her authenticity.

If she were to read this--which she won't unless someone prints it and sends it to her because she doesn't have internet--she would put up her hand as if to deflect the compliment and say, "That is the work of Jesus!"  And again, she would be completely sincere.

For Rhoda loves Jesus.

Rhoda, whose grandson is my age, still leads 5 Bible studies a week, often using a study she and I compiled with others from our church decades ago.  Rhoda doesn't just believe in telling others about Jesus, she believes in growing others into Jesus.  She is the true definition of a disciple-maker.

And Rhoda prays.  In fact, while I was sitting at her table sipping peppermint tea and munching on the best double chocolate cookies I have ever tasted, she received a call from the prayer chain, took the message, and then called the next person on the chain.

Now, I know Rhoda is not perfect.  I have not personally seen any of her flaws, but because she is human I know she must have them.  She, like us all, faces problems that challenge her trust that God can provide.  Yet trust she does.  Like the man who asked Jesus for help, she (and I!) sometimes cry, "I believe!  Help me in my unbelief!"

I think I am compelled to write about her today because I would like to be more like her.  I would like to be more generous in my assessments of people . . . of myself, even.  I would like to be more unselfish, unstintingly giving of my time and resources, even when there is no hope of reciprocation.  I would like to spend more time in what really matters . . . sharing Jesus with a world that so desperately needs him (and doing a better job of living like someone who has been saved by His grace).

I don't think I will ever attain that, but spending time with her sure gives me motivation to try.  If nothing else, maybe I can get her to share her cookie recipe with me . . . !

The Work-Life See-Saw

There are a lot of things I like about being self-employed . . . and even more about working from home.  I make my own hours, wear whatever I want, choose my own priorities, and never have to pack a lunch.  On the other hand, I find it hard to strike a good work-life balance. 

When I worked a "regular" job, I always knew when I was working and when I wasn't.  Working from home is a bit different.  There is no physical space that distinguishes between "work" and "life," particularly because my living room is my home office, my couch my desk chair, and my entertainment system my work computer.  Very easy for lines to get blurred in such a setting. 

Add to that two children, and the result is work-life chaos.  My kids are young enough that it is very difficult to work while they're awake.  I have tried little chores with them around . . . sending an email, for example.  They're climbing into my lap, pressing keys on the keyboard (accidentally turning off the computer), and simultaneously yelling at me to "Stop doing that, Mommy!!!" 

I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it. 

Even worse is when you have to make a business call.  Have you ever been on the phone with two children underfoot?  Most professionals are not accustomed to doing so, and while they always assure me my children are delightful, I am pretty confident they do not appreciate my daughter screaming in their ear because her brother hit her with a drumstick. 

In addition to the noise level (which makes a telemarketing center sound like a library on Sunday afternoon), the presence of children results in a disconcerting discontinuity of discourse.  

My sister and I have perfected the art of what I call "punctuated conversations."  We can successfully discuss the meaning of life, biblical feminism, the price of chicken at the supermarket, and the relative effectiveness of different shampoos while periodically interrupting ourselves (and each other) with "Stop chasing the cat!," "Don't sit on your sister's head!," and "We do not throw hard blocks in this house!" 

As much as life interrupts work in a "home office" environment, I also find the opposite to be true.  I am embarrassed to admit how many meals I have spent at the table with my adorable story-tellers prattling on about their imaginary trips without hearing a word.  My mind was stuck on a book idea or a cover letter I needed to write, or an article I just couldn't seem to sink my teeth into. 

It is a dreadful moment when you realize you have been viewing the most important people in your life as interruptions, as something that is keeping you from doing something "really important." 

So I am trying to draw some work-life boundaries.  When I am with my kids, I am trying to be conscious of them.  Their thoughts, their feelings, their desires are important to me.  They need to know it. 

This time is fleeting.  This year my son starts pre-school.  Next year he'll be in kindergarten.  Soon he'll be off to college.  I don't want to look back on these days only to find out I never lived them in the first place. 

I'm trying to keep work for nap time and after bedtime.  That's not natural for an early-to-bed girl like me, but right now it's working.  (You may notice I generally post around 11pm . . . )

I know many of you work from home, too.  I'd like to hear some of the ways you keep your work, work and your life, life.  (I also want to make sure the comment section works . . . !) 

Flawless Imperfection

I was raised in a New England farm family with a strong "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" mentality.  We were taught that our success or failure was our responsibility, and we did not expect things to be handed to us.  "The world does not owe you anything," we were taught.

There is value and truth to those sentiments.  The world does not owe us a thing.  God, in fact, does not owe us a thing.  It is, indeed, our responsibility to work hard for whatever it is we want. 

I am afraid, however, that I have internalized this a bit too much and have become what has been called a "John Wayne Christian."  My head and my mouth acknowledge that I am dependent upon God's mercy and grace for everything in my life, but my heart stubbornly feels the need to do it all myself.

I can think of a couple times in my life when God has gently tried correcting my heresy.  The first was one summer at Honey Rock Camp, Wheaton's Northwoods Campus.  I had a horseback riding accident (silly Billy Bob!) and suffered some bruised ribs just before we were to head out on a camping trip.  I was not supposed to carry a pack or paddle a canoe.  That meant that everyone else had to divvy up my stuff between their packs . . . literally carrying my burden.  It was humiliating, and I felt like dead weight.  But my friends didn't view it that way.  They saw it as a way to minister to me.  A little crack opened in my self-sufficient facade.

A bigger time was when I left college for a teaching job half a continent away from my family.  My meager teaching salary didn't cover my expenses, so I worked additional part-time jobs to pay the bills.  But a few times, even that wasn't enough.  So I would pray, "Lord, You brought me here.  I'm doing all I can.  You pay my bills."  And He did.  One day it was a check from my great-aunt.  Another it was a check from my college roommate's parents!  (God bless the Dees!)  And I wrote thank-you notes, telling them they had been Jesus' hands and feet to me.  I thought my dependence on God, my trust in God, was complete.

Ahhh, hubris!!!

In actuality, I am only beginning to learn, to live, this truth.  I find it relatively easy to trust God with my finances.  Even when I get a little scared, my history with his provision keeps me steady.  In fact, just today I got a call from my aunt asking if I wanted a job coordinating her church's VBS.  It pays real money!  And I love VBS.  Only God! 

Where I find it difficult to trust is with me.  I fear I am not godly enough.  I fear I'm not a good enough mom--not patient enough or calm enough or loving enough or consistent enough or . . . anything enough.  And I am afraid that my kids will be in counseling by age 12, explaining how their mom was a complete failure.

But I am beginning to see that, too, as hubris.  It is the height of pride to think that my mistakes, my flaws, my sins are so big that God is not bigger still.  I am talking about the God who spoke the universe into being, who conquered death to forgive my sins, who is coming again in victory.  And I think He's thwarted by little old me?

My God has promised to show mercy to the thousandth generation of those who fear Him, and fear Him I do.  I can trust Him.  I can trust Him with my income.  I can trust Him with my health care.  I can trust Him with my precious children.  And I can trust Him with myself, that He will not abandon the good work He has begun until it is completed . . . even if it takes my entire lifetime.

So tonight, in full awareness of all the ways that I fall short, I can go to sleep in peace, knowing that in Christ, I am flawless before the Father . . . and that He will indeed work all things together for good.  For my son.  For my daughter.  For me. 

Take Them to the Park

I have worked some hard jobs.  I've mucked horse stalls, been a weekend closer at McDonald's (after teaching English all week), and spent five summers standing on my head picking strawberries, zucchini, and green beans.

None of them compares with being a mom.

It doesn't seem like that much on the outside.  You cook a few meals, run your Dyson once in a while, throw in a couple loads of laundry, read a few books, color a few pictures, and splash in the bathtub.  What's so hard about that?

Now don't get me wrong: I LOVE being a mom.  I love being my kids' Mom. 

But there are days when the very perpetuity of it is draining, exhausting, numbing. Today was such a day . . . almost.

My son is in that delightful independent stage in which the only response when Mom asks him to do something is to do . . . nothing.  I call his name.  No answer.  No footsteps.  No break in the conversation he is having with "Sharptooth" (thanks to The Land Before Time!).  Nada.

So after the umpteenth time saying, "Please get your clothes on," I follow with, "If you don't get your clothes on, we're not going to Story Hour."  (He loves Story Hour at our library!)  No response.  "Ok, no Story Hour."

Now there's a reaction . . . a fit.  He gets put in time out.  I'm sitting there thinking, "What am I doing wrong?" as the tears push against my eyeballs. 

Then, divine inspiration.  The park.  We live on three acres.  I never take the kids to the park.   I think, "They don't really deserve to go to the park.  They have not done one thing I've asked today."

Then a voice says, "No, they don't deserve it.  But they need it.  And so do you."

So we go to the park.  The kids tear around the jungle gym like they're on holiday.  My little boy tackles the high bars with me nervously spotting every second.  My daughter attacks the slides like a girl possessed.

And I make the decision to spend the time being present with them.  I put the mortgage and the bills and the writing assignments and the blog and the social media in a closet and close the door.

I watch my kids.  I play with my kids.  I enjoy my kids.  We sing "Higher, higher, much, much higher!" as I push them on the swings.  I swing on the swings!  We run around the infield of the baseball field. We admire the two ospreys nesting on one of the light poles. 

On the way home, we pass LicketySplits.  I think, "We should get ice cream . . . .no we shouldn't . . ."  I turn the car around.  It's lunchtime, we've only had a granola bar at the park, and I buy us each a cup of cookie dough ice cream with sugar cones on top for the kids.  (Mine was chocolate peanut butter cookie dough, by the way . . . AMAZING!!!)

When we get back home, I wipe the drips from their ice cream lunches off their car seats and my daughter says in her sweetest voice, "Thank you for the ice cream, Mommy."

And it happens.  For a brief, shining moment my son, my daughter, myself, this day, all our days are bathed in Grace.  And it is good. 

The Bank Brouhaha

It was supposed to be a quick trip to the bank.  My new banking guru at Washington Trust had called to tell me:
1.  The hold is off my new accounts (YAY!)
2.  The accounts for my kids were all established (Double YAY!)
3.  I could come in any time to sign signature cards and fund the accounts.  Oh.

(Let me take a second to pause in this story and reiterate that my banker called me.  Personally.  On my cell phone.  Twice, actually.  The first was to get my kids' SS#'s because I had forgotten them when I went to open the account the first time.  "Don't come down again," she said, "I'll call you tomorrow morning and you can tell me then.  What time would work for you?"  I am REALLY liking my bank right now!)

But back to the task at hand.  This time I would have to physically take my two charming children into the bank and sign papers.  Have you ever banked with a four-year old and a two-year old?  I'm sure there are more exquisite forms of torture, but I personally have yet to encounter them.  

Today the fun begins before we even leave the house.  My sweet daughter, who generally likes to dress herself and show off what a big girl she is, for some reason decides she cannot stand her shoes and coat and will not be caught dead in them.

Splendid.

I manage to force her into her gear only to have her rip off her coat again.  She and I have already tussled a few times prior to this, so I do what every good Mom would do.  I check the thermostat, see it's in the upper 50's and say, "Fine.  Go without a coat."  (It's 8 minutes up the road . . . what can go wrong?)

By the time we get to the bank, it's starting to drizzle.  Great.  Now I'm taking a 2-yr. old into the rain without a coat.  Mother of the Year material right here.

Then we sit down with the banker.  As I'm signing papers, my son flips her desk calendar to a different date.  I scold him and tell him to apologize.  He won't.  He's embarrassed.  He's not the only one.  I put him in time out by my chair until he decides to apologize. 

By this time, my daughter wants to wander around the bank.  I hold her hand to keep her still.  She proceeds to throw herself on the floor and SCREAM non-stop for 5 minutes.  Oh yeah.  Right there in the middle of the bank.

Yippee.

The banker, who has probably quit her job and run as fast as she could to my old bank for a new job, keeps saying, "Just a couple minutes more," with a steady smile.
Finally, the papers are signed, my son has apologized, and my daughter stands up beaming a beautific grin.  The patrons who are just coming in comment on how delightful my children are.

And I stumble away feeling like Wesley after the Machine has sucked one year from his life. 

Show Me the Money!

There are lots of difficult things about getting divorced.  Keeping life "normal" and healthy for the little ones is, of course, the most important.  Next to that I'm finding the financial details to be a headache-generator. 

The court--or my lawyer, in this case--sits down 15 minutes before your court appointment, asks some questions, does some back-of-the-envelope math and voilà!  You have a child support amount.  (Three hundred dollars less than the amount quoted you three months ago, but what's $300?!)

At least there's a formula with child support.  Granted, it's based on what the receiving party assumes they can make, and not what they actually make, but that's okay.

As an aside--if you are ever in the position to receive child support, do yourself a favor and go with the guaranteed income you have at that very moment in time.  As a close friend said, "If you find you're getting too much, you can always write them a refund check!"

I wish I had taken this wise advice.  Since I didn't, I'm growing accustomed to feeling knots in my stomach, chest, and brain.  Thank goodness I can buy massive amounts of antacid and ibuprofen at BJ's--at least while I can afford the membership!

Then there's alimony.  There you really just draw a number out of thin air.  "How much do you think you'll need in alimony?" my lawyer asked.

What????  How in the world do I know?  I've never raised two children, paid a mortgage, managed a rental property, and kept up 4 buildings on my own!  Isn't that what I hired you for?  To the tune of $300 an hour?!  (No wonder the little child support discrepancy didn't bother her . . . it's only one billable hour!)

I'll tell you what I really don't like about that scenario, besides the fact that it happened to me.  Some women have a husband who cheated . . . abused them . . . abused the kids . . . all kinds of horrible situations I can only thank God I have not experienced.  I didn't.  My husband and I get along pretty darn well--even now.  He wants what's best for the kids.  He just can't stay married to me.  It's really as amicable a divorce as I could ask for.

So don't ask me to figure out what's a fair alimony.  I don't even like taking alimony.  And I'm a Christian--we're supposed to love, forgive, be self-sacrificing, and love God more than money.  How do I manage that while telling my soon-to-be-ex how much of his paycheck I want every month?  Maybe some of you ladies (or gents!) have figured that one out.  If so, the comment section below is for you!

I'll save refinancing the mortgage and finding health insurance for another day!!

I'd like to say I've gained perfect clarity on this issue, but I really haven't.  What I can tell you is what I wish I could do better or differently:

1. Get as much information as you can as soon as you can.  Ask for advice from people who've been through it, especially if they've been divorced for a year or so.  They will often have the best perspective.  DON'T trust just one professional!!  Talk to at least two on every issue.  Really.  
2. Don't assume your lawyer is preparing you thoroughly.  I think they sometimes forget how little we know (especially the first time around), how stressful and emotional it is for us, and how easy it is to not even know the questions to ask.  Question, question, question.  (You are paying them, after all--don't let them bully you!)
3. Make a budget on your own before talking to your lawyer.  Ask for a child support and alimony calculation in advance of your hearing, doing your best to make sure all the numbers add up to what you need to survive. Things can move fast after the hearing; you don't want to find yourself scrambling.  DO NOT add in the money you think you can earn; go with what is in hand. 
4. It is NOT selfish to take money from your ex, especially if there are children involved.  Rather, it is your responsibility to make sure they are provided for.  If you're asking too much, the court will let you know.  

Have other tips?  Share them!  

A Friend in the Darkness

Last night I attended the Rhode Island Raised Livestock Association's Annual Meeting.  When I left around 9pm, the world was covered in ice, snow, and sleet from our January-in-April snowstorm.  I de-iced my car, settled into my seat, and put on my wipers.  Or tried to.  One worked; the other tried valiantly and remained stuck under its partner.

Naturally it was the driver's side that didn't work.

At this point, I was experiencing two degrees of panic.  The first was the very pressing issue of how to get home without wipers.  The second was how I was going to pay for repairs to my car when my divorce is progressing, we are just starting to separate finances, and I don't yet have a steady income.

I decided to deal with the most immediate issue and stop at a gas station, hoping for someone who could help.  (I did mention it's 9pm during a snowstorm, right?)  I pulled in and saw this long, lanky, farmer-looking gentleman standing at the pumps beside a pickup truck with a snowplow.  (And no, I can't tell you what a farmer looks like . . . a farm kid just knows one when she sees one!)

I boldly walked up and asked, "Excuse me, do you know anything about windshield wipers?"

"A little."

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.  (His name was Mike . . . and I was right . . . he was a sheep farmer!)

He tried popping off the wiper to inspect it, but Cebu the Subaru (VeggieTales fans will know how she got her name!) refused to cooperate.  I thanked my would-be hero and decided to drive home without using the wipers . . . and praying heartily!

Thankfully, the ride home was precipitation-free, barring one encounter with a tractor trailer.  I was singing "This Little Light of Mine," I was so happy.

This morning, first thing, I called my trusty mechanic at Pierce Imports, saying I had a minor emergency with my wipers.  "Come on down," he said.

I did.  Envisioning a large bill.  Penury.  Hunger.  Financial ruin.  Praying for a miracle.

Ten minutes we sat in the waiting room.  My children didn't have time to grow bored with the box of Smurfs, kaleidoscopes, and leggy spider toys stashed under the coffee table before he said, "All set."

All set.  I bet.

"It was a loose nut.  Happens when it's icy like this."

The charge?  Not a cent.  He even told me how to fix it myself the next time it happened.

I thanked him profusely.  There's a reason I love my mechanic!

As I got the kids in the car, I thanked God profusely.  I thanked him that, in this time of my life, he is re-teaching me to cast all my burdens on Him.  He really does care for us.