Little Miss and The Fruits of the Spirit

I forgot how much material can be found in a child's interpretation of heaven, God and how it all works.  Little Miss, a walking bubble of questions, keeps us on our toes when it comes to bedtime Bible stories.

One day last week we started reading about John the Baptist.

"He had messy hair, wore animal skins and ate locusts.  Do you know what locusts are?" I asked.

Blank faces.

"Grasshoppers," answered Mr. Man.

"Eww!" came the cries.

I read, "John says, 'The axe is awaiting! If you do not bear a tree with good fruit it will be cut down and thrown into the fire!'"  Harsh words.

"What kind of fruit would you bear if you were a tree?" I asked, trying to keep their attention.

"An apple tree!"

"A Maple Tree! Oh, that doesn't have fruit."

"Maple syrup, I suppose."

"I would be an oak tree so I could grow nuts, " said someone extremely mature.  Snort, snort, snicker, snicker, hahaha...

"But I can't eat nuts!" cried the innocent, food-intolerant Little Miss.  More snorting, snickering and laughing.

This was getting out of hand.

"Well, the Bible says the fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace patience..." I pulled on the reigns, "Those are the fruit we need to grow."

I won't go into the questions on throwing trees into the fire.  I really had no answers for that...

The next night, we read about Jesus being tempted in the dessert, and how Satan would have us make bad decisions and lead us to sin.

"Remember the fruits of the spirit?" I asked, "he would like us to have bad fruit.  What are some bad fruit?"

"Locusts," said my son, remembering John the Baptist's choice of food. Snort, snort, snicker, snicker, bwahaha...

"Um, no... How about lying [eyeballing my daughter], or cheating, or picking on your sister [eyeballing my son]? Those are the bad fruits."

"And you get your tree chopped down!" Little Miss cried out, very seriously.

Ah, yes. Exactly. "Quick, let's pray."

There was a whole lot more discussion from Mr. Man about forgiveness, bible memorization (how can Jesus possibly know that when he doesn't have a Bible in his hand? Little Miss asked), and how sin is not actually a good thing (good grief), but we'll leave it at that.  We straightened out some ideas and helped confuse others.

Sigh.  Teaching the Bible is exhausting. I'd rather teach Math.

Little Miss on Divorce

One day Little Miss came home from school with homework that involved a discussion topic.  She was to find out what made her or her family special.

"My hair is red," she said.  The standard answer.

"Yes, but you are very smart and outgoing," I reminded her.

"Stop talking like that," she said, looking down.  She hates it when I call her smart.

"Well, what about your family.  What makes us special?"

"We have cake."

"I am sure other families' moms make cake, but yes, I suppose."

Then she says, "You and daddy live together," and I am left speechless.  "Toby's dad moved away to Toronto to a new home.  An apartment.  He's got a new job there so he's not going to be coming back.  For a long time.  Maybe never."  Her eyes were so big and serious, there was her usual "there's no way I've got it wrong" look about her, and her hands were chopping the air with every word.

"Well...I guess we are special then." I gulped.  I hate serious conversations. "But you know what else makes us special?  We believe in God and go to church.  Not many people do that, you know.  And daddy and I believe we should stay together no matter what....wait, are you listening?"

Little Miss is suddenly listening to something outside of the shop.  I can hear Mr. Man's voice giving our son a bit of trouble.

"Are you listening? What did I just say?"

Still she doesn't look at me. "Yeah, we believe in God and Toby's parents don't live together because they don't believe in God..."

"NO, THAT"S NOT WHAT I SAID!"

"What's daddy doing?" she asks, and wanders out the door.  You've got to be kidding.  She's like a dog distracted by a squirrel.

Anyway, to my readers: anything Little Miss says is generally out of her head.  I have nothing to do with it.  Well, most of it.

I'll just write down she has red hair and leave it at that.

It Could Be Worse

Recently, coffee with a friend reminded me of this blog post I never shared.  Written over a year ago, I was just starting to deal with my health in a new way, and was too vulnerable to post it.  But in speaking about processing and handling grief with my friend, today I will share it. 

"Have you ever started your day going in one direction and then have it swiftly changed for you? Was it your health? Career plans? Marriage? So often we ride through our days, just trying to get by, and the Lord can seem busy with someone else. Then other days His presence is so clear and real, and it doesn't matter if you don't get your daily list done: you know what is more important.

He comes in swoops and bounds at times: so evident in the air around us: a smiling face, a section of a novel, similar conversations within a few days. It is at these times that you "hold it in your heart" as Mary did while watching Jesus grow up.

It is when your direction gets swiftly changed that you grab onto the holy times spent with God, even though life comes crashing down.

Driving down the highway to a doctor's appointment this week, I was too overwhelmed to pray. I talked it out instead. Look at me talking to myself in the car. I was preparing myself for whatever God had in store. I've said before I worry, and I was worrying. What if? What if? What if? I imagined the worst case scenario and prepared myself for it.

But instead, I got news that I hadn't planned on. It shocked me. It turned me right around and sent me in the opposite direction. Like in the novel "Saturday Morning" by Lorraine Snelling, God spoke to me and asked, "Do you trust me?"

Even this morning I am second guessing the doctor - maybe I said the wrong thing that brought about her diagnosis? Maybe it was all in my head?

But I know He has me in his hand. He was so real to me leading up to this week. I could see Him everywhere. He was filling me up so I could count on Him within this trial.

And yet, it could be worse. There is always something worse. This is my mantra today. It could be worse.

Perhaps I am in the denial stage. We will see."

I have heard others with this same mantra "it could be worse" and yes, it's true, but lets not diminish the pain we are feeling. And the anger.  I ultimately got so angry I could see red, and I cried and cried, mourning over the loss of the freedom of being healthy.

The grieving process still circulates as symptoms arise and I am reminded of my epilepsy.  Doctor's appointments, EEGs, powerful, expensive drugs will forever be in my future.  But most days I am in acceptance.  If it doesn't get worse than this, I can handle it.  That is my mantra now.  Still not the best mantra, but it is my reality.

And still, I know He holds me in His hand.

Looking with Wonder

My right eyelid is twitching again and I am reminded why I started this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog.  It is so easy to fall off the horse that's holding you up.

Perhaps it is the third cup of coffee I chugged this morning, or that I am listening to James McDonald shout at me from the speakers of my tiny radio in the cake shop, but I am definitely jittery this morning.  Even my hands are shaking as I type this.

Time to breathe.
.
.
.
There.
.
.
.
Nope, still twitching.

Maybe my blood sugar is low and I need to eat a cupcake...

*****

All of the silly worries that build up to anxiety.  What do you do to bring it all back down?

This brings to mind a conversation I had with my eight-year-old son last night:

It was at bedtime after we prayed for what tomorrow would bring; he and his sister, playing and learning at school, and I, entertaining potential wedding clients through delightful conversation and delicious cake.

He leans over to me with a big, innocent smile on his face.

"Wouldn't it be nice, Mom, if you woke up tomorrow and God had made your store all perfect and pretty for your customers?"

Ah, yes, I think.  A surprise interior decorator.

"Decorating fairies," I said.

"No," he corrected me. "Angels."

Such sweetness, and loyalty to his Father. I swallowed up his words and held them in my heart.  He is such a gift to me.

It is in these moments that I realize no matter what worries are in this adult brain of mine, God sincerely wants me to enjoy the little things in life, and, like a child, look on it with wonder and the magic of all His world contains.

No amount of caffeine or sugar will bring that about.  In all the moments I waste on worry, God sighs and says, "Oh, Erin."

What about you?  Does He sigh and shake His head in love as you once again fret about the things you shouldn't?  Or have you learned to look around with wonder and take joy in the moment?

Mr. Man and His Jacket

My very first date with Mr. Man was at a wedding about 13 years ago.  I cannot remember what I wore, (beautiful, I'm sure) but I know he wore a dark suit jacket and a tie.  During the dinner, I stepped away to visit the ladies room and quickly looked back at him.  I think his head is a bit small, I said to myself, but in actual fact, his suit jacket was just too big.  He did not fit into the shoulders of his jacket.

Most of you know he flies around a lot, wearing a cape and saving people in distress.  Just this morning I saw him bend down to a lady half his height and give his best Mr. Man smile to make her day.  But on his off days, he wears a suit and tie and sells insurance.  (Hence the Mr. Incredible picture).

But I have to say, of all the days when I was most proud of him, one was a Sunday a few weeks back, when he got inducted as a councilman at our church.  We met there, you know.  We had our kids baptized there.  We both did profession-of-faith there (he wouldn't let me do it at the same time as him - but that's perhaps another blog post).  And now he was going to be an elder.

His mom sat close by and was busting with pride.  In her eyes, he might as well have been becoming a pastor.  And of course, our friends were there to support him, too.

He didn't have his cape on that day, but as I looked at him reciting the words we'd practiced on the drive there, I realized his shoulders looked very broad.

He had finally fit into his jacket.

Little Miss on Eternal Life

There has been a lot of discussion around me lately about introverts. If you're shy, are you an introvert?  If you are a "hermit", are you an introvert?  Can an introvert enjoy a party? A heavy discussion?  Do they open up?

I've been called an introvert, and even a recluse.  Especially after I quit teaching.  I snuggle up in my house with my books and laptop, and enjoy the solitude of quiet.  I do not necessarily like to be alone for long periods of time, but I certainly like my quiet.  In the movie, Date Night, Tina Fey's character, Mrs. Foster, explains that her fantasy would be to get a hotel room all to herself and just sit in the quiet.  That's what I am like.

So when Little Miss is home, the ultimate extrovert, I am stretched to the max with 'anti-introvertness', and am forced to engage in the most complicated, and deepest conversations I've ever had.

"Can God bring people back to life?" she asks from the back of the van.

"Yes." I say, uncertainly, wondering where this is going.  Easter was just last week.

"So when is Grandma coming back to life?"

Oh, dear.  "No, she's alive in heaven.  She won't come back here on earth."  My mind is racing as to the questions I am about to answer.

"Jesus came back to life 'cause he's God's son, right?"  She's looking out the window, deep in thought.

"Yes."

"So are we Jesus' daughters?  kids?"

"Uh, we're his friends..."

"But aren't we God's kids?"

"Um yes.  But God gives us life in heaven, not on earth after we die."  And I went into the Easter story again, the raising of Lazarus, anything that could possibly either make it easier to understand or so  complicated that I could possibly confuse myself.  I was sweating.

And just as I think I have a handle on it, Little Miss interrupts, and yells,

"COWS!"

Oh, good grief.  I look out the window at a herd of boring jersey cows and suddenly remember that I was riding with a five year old, with the attention span to match.  My blood pressure lowers back to normal and I am suddenly very tired.  Sigh.

Someone will someday explain eternal life to her better than I can, and for now, I will continue driving through Oak Hills to my home, where I will pull a hoodie over my head, sit in front of my laptop, and lather in my 'introvertness'.  Little Miss can go off and play, contemplating life and death with her barbies.

The Lamb of God

The first time I ever understood what the "Lamb of God" meant, I was entering our summer chapel at the Bible camp I attended each year.

The chapel itself was merely a shell of a building: windows, plywood, and visible rafters housing bats that swooped down during our singing.  But everyone knew this was where you had to behave and listen to important things.  In my last years at Bible Camp, I would be at the front, playing my guitar and leading campers in those same songs I sang on the donated pews.

So, this one particular week, as a counsellor, I walked into the chapel to see the guest speaker hanging homemade banners across the front.  Drawn on them with perfect cartoony strokes (he must've been quite the artist in his spare time) were pictures of lambs.  In black marker he'd outlined, in chronological order, various stories from the Bible in which a lamb was used to seek forgiveness of sins.

There was a lamb to represent the clothing Adam and Eve wore as they were cast out the garden.  There was the lamb Abraham sacrificed instead of his son Isaac.  There was the lamb that Jesus carried as the Good Shepherd, and so on...until the very end, the last lamb picture.  The ultimate lamb sacrifice:  Jesus as the Lamb of God.  He sacrificed himself for the forgiveness of our sins, and that morning in a dusty, bat-filled chapel, I fully understood.

Perhaps, like me, you feel uncomfortable with the idea that some living thing needed to be sacrificed for sins in our biblical history, or that it is still the description included in the Easter story.  But for one moment, it all made sense to me, and I relive it each Easter morning.

I pray, whether you are attending your home church with your parents, visiting a church with neighbours, or sitting at home with a bad cold (like me), that you would somehow be hit with the reality of what Easter really is, and that He is truly the Ultimate Lamb, sacrificed for you and your sins of the past, the present and the future.

Be blessed, for He is risen :)

The Beauty of Hands

Hands.  Five fingers, 14 knuckles, and five nails.  Some are tanned, some are fair, some have wrinkles, and some are soft and dimpled.  We wave with them, we greet with them.  Deal-making handshakes, secret handshakes, high fives, and fist pumps.

I hold my child's hand crossing the street, I pinky swear that I will bake her favourite cookies.  I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.

How many times have I created something beautiful with my hands?  We craft, draw, paint, cut, eat, and drink with them. We knead dough, form clay, sculpt and turn pottery.

You can tell a lot from someone's hands.

Worn hands from age, from weather and washing.  Mechanic's and welder's hands with permanent oil marks in their nails.  Wounds from tools under a workman's lazy eye.  Medics who wash away germs, dishwashers in steaming hot water each hour.  Housekeeps who sleep wearing gloves and hand lotion.

They are an extension of our looks.  Pretty nails, long and red, or trimmed nails, conservative and clean.  Nail biters, ingrown nails, and dry, chipped nails.
Rings galore, or one simple wedding band.  Or perhaps the remaining tan line of one.

Scolding finger, pointing finger, ring finger, pinky finger, swearing finger, sucking fingers (first 2 or one thumb).  We salut to our soldiers, hold our hearts during allegiance, and raise them to praise our Lord.

Shadow puppets, rabbit ears, talking hand, and an entire signing language.

Teeny tiny newborn hands, and large, grown man hands.

We rub them, snap with them, clap with them, wave them to the music.  We mitten them, carry with them, pet with them, and push and pull with them.

We love with them.  We fight with them.

Imagine yourself without hands.  Like the man on our street who will only nod to you when you wave hello.  His hands are replaced with metals clamps.  Yet he drives his van, he cares for his yard and home, and enjoys life with his family.  He is also a fantastic furniture refinisher.  His only worry, that I know of, is that he may scare the children.

Or the boy born with a defect in his fingers.  A sweet, sweet boy, who manages quite well in everything the other children do, without the freedom of all of his digits.  The other children hold his hands during circle games, and help him put his mittens on.  How long will it be before they won't hold his hands anymore?

Oh, the things we take for granted!  How I love my hands.  

In stories they are made of scissors and hooks, are seven-fingered, broken and mended, invisible, removed, and formed into a V.

And of course, in the Great Book, they were nailed.  The ultimate Potter.  He touched, mended, healed, lifted, praised, fed, nurtured, prayed and rebuked with his hands.  And then were wounded.

Hands.  They have to be one of the most used part of our bodies.  Except maybe the tongue - but that's another story.  How do you use yours?

Tougher'n Nails

This morning in church I was reminded of my later teen years, when I was "gung-ho" for Jesus.  The unabashed, blatant love for Christ that many church-going teenagers and young people can have.  In fact, my sister and I both had these gruesome, Good Friday-themed t-shirts with the saying "Jesus, tougher'n Nails" written on them.  They seriously grossed out my mother.  We have a picture of at least one of us donning it proudly.

After years of being raised in the United Church, dad let me venture out to other churches in search of young people and youth groups provided they were teaching about Jesus.  My mother, built of a mixture of worldly knowledge, girly knowledge, and incredible worry, sat me down and said, "You better know what information's coming at you, or you'll up in some cult like David Koresh."  Of course I rolled my eyes, but I never forgot it.

Over the years, I have met many wonderful caring people, in several different congregations.  I have also met several rather misguided, and perhaps scary, individuals who had "great" ideas in healing, and getting to know the Lord.  With my mother's words in my pocket, I managed to keep to the straight and narrow.  I surrounded myself with the Word, teachings of Christ, and the Apostle Paul, and books by Phillip Yancey, Kay Arthur and Max Lucado.

With years of real life chipping away at me, I confess that "gung-ho" attitude has been replaced with a more cautious and serious yet still sincere belief in Christ.  I have many more wounds on my armour than I did back then, but I still believe He is tougher'n nails.

So this morning when our pastor spoke of cults, their leaders, and misguided faith, I thought about the big "doomsday" billboards in the U.S. that proclaimed the end of the world.  Sure, they were wrong, and misguided, and a good laugh, but shouldn't we believe every day is going to be the end of the world?  Shouldn't we live our hours as if He is coming to meet us tomorrow morning?

Now, in hindsight, I do not mean spend all of your money, skip work, or don't have a shower.  I mean spiritually, folks, let get ourselves in gear!  How do we do that? I am probably not the best one to ask, but I know it starts with the little things: saying sorry to your kids for freaking out about something ridiculous; smiling at your neighbour whom you've never really enjoyed; or listening instead of talking.

Think about this: when you meet Christ, and He asks you, "What did you do yesterday?" what will be your answer?

Cookie Puzzles

Last night was the first night a long while that I woke up unable to sleep because of work.  In my dreams I was trying very hard to fit heart cookies of assorted sizes perfectly into a box.  They weren't shift around, and if the box tilted, they were not to disentangle themselves and break.  No matter how I tried I could not fit them in.  There was still too much space in the box.

Sometimes when my mind goes like this, nothing can stop it but to go down to the shop and solve the problem in reality.  As dreams go, it stemmed from reality:  the boxes had arrived the previous day, in the wrong size, and the cookies I had already painstakingly baked.

In church on Sunday, I was volunteering in the age 3-4 room where puzzles are big deal.  They don't like it when you put the puzzle together for them so you watch their precious little hands move pieces around and around until they fit just right.  Some give up, but some work at it, even if it takes awhile.  And I sit beside them, ready to help.

Nicely, there is a set pattern for each cardboard puzzle; a picture to follow and only one way to complete it.  Unfortunately, this makes it very disappointing when, after all of your work, a piece is missing.  At least with cookies, there are different sizes to work with - at least in my batch.

I realized while laying their looking at all the possible mathematical arrangements of cookies on my bedroom ceiling, that there are several things in life that involve putting pieces together to fit.  And I do not mean linen closets.  People tend to fill in those missing places in our puzzles, sometimes surprisingly.

In running a business, I know where I am gifted and where I am terrible.  An employee or two, may be gifted at those places in which you are lacking.  Voila! Puzzle pieces put together.

Marriage is a huge example.  Two people from different ways of life, come together, and with hard work, they make it fit.  When it's working, it feels like a well-oiled machine.  When one is down, the other is up (and can pick their partner up!)  When one is tired of the kids (and this never happens to me), the other can step in.  And when it comes to extended families, sometimes it's the grandmother who steps in take up the extra piece, or an aunt or a really great babysitter (or wow! even a housecleaner)!

But I know the biggest piece of the puzzle in everything is our Heavenly Father who is watching over us and divinely guiding us to the right people for the right needs.  He wisely designed us with unique gifts and talents, whether to help run a business, sit in Sunday School, or be a part of a family.

And since it is He who made my never-sleeping brain, I put it to you:  Who is the biggest cookie in your box?

Does God or Santa Bring the Gifts?

This morning after the church service, an older couple wanted to ask our children if Santa had come. They quietly questioned me beforehand on whether Santa was taboo in our house. Many parents in our church do not focus on Santa, as Jesus is, of course, the real reason for the season.

At our house, we love the Santa game, but the celebration of Jesus' birthday, and subsequently, the power of God, is even more real. Little Miss has it all figured out:

She rips open her stocking. With a sharp intake of breath, she cried out, "I got what I wanted!" and held up a small toy. "God must've told Santa! He must know him!"

"Oh, yeah." I said, "God knows everybody. How do you think he told him? A burning bush? An angel?"

"An angel," her older brother said, and looked down, focusing on his toys again.

But Little Miss exclaimed, "He knows his number!" and made the telephone hand gesture against her face.

******

So Little Miss knows who to ask for things, whether a small toy or big need. He will always provide, and will use any means necessary....even Santa!

Be blessed this Christmas - I know we are!

God Shuts the Door, or Not.

Even though we are a God-fearing household, there are times when any one of us has doubts. My five-year-old has had several recently, and despite singing Sunday School songs throughout her playtime, she insists that God is not real.

She is very different from me, as I simply accepted my mother's explanations of God's love, and never questioned it until later in life. Little Miss, however, throws out statements like "God is not here," and, "He didn't make everything," all of which are direct opposites of what we've been teaching her.

You have to understand that through all of this I see a little inquisitiveness, a little childish rebellion, and quite a lot of humour.

We have watched the movie "Evan Almighty" together as a family, and have explained that although it is not entirely correct, the movie represents the story of Noah's Ark in the bible. So when we actually read the story from the bible, we pointed out the differences:

One difference is that God himself shuts the door of the ark, not Noah or his family. My daughter looked up as I read this, with interested eyes.

So the next day she was helping me unpack the groceries from the van, and I could hear her talking aloud. As I stepped into the kitchen she turned to me, with her arms full of groceries, and said, "I told you God is not real! I asked Him to shut the door for me and he didn't!"

"You can't boss God around," I said, "but if you want Him to show himself, he's going to do it the way He wants. You sincerely ask Him to, and He'll do it."

She looks up at the ceiling, says, "Show yourself, God," shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. In a five-year-old world you get about 3 seconds to prove yourself, or all deals are off.

I am sure God can handle it, though, and is smiling at her, as I am.